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Susan Laninga, Writing Portfolio, LMWP ISI, 2012June 28…Slater’s Bogie Lake (OR Apostrophes Have Meaning)

With purposeful stride, Susan and her friends, Donnie and Karen, walked up the gravel road to the Slater’s house at the corner of Beryl Drive and Sugden Lake Road. They knew they had to report the crime and this was the place to do it. The large painted sign on the fence stated “The Slater’s Bogie Lake” and therefore meant that the Slaters were in charge. It was their lake and they made the rules. After all, nobody else had such an impressive, declarative sign.

The children knew about rules. Susan’s dad and Donnie and Karen’s dad, George, were partners on the police force. The kids knew firsthand about right and wrong. Their dads were clear on that. Rules were to be followed to the letter and mistakes were not tolerated. So, they pushed open the Slater’s gate, their feet crunching on the gravel as they continued up the short drive to report the incident they had witnessed.

Bogie Lake was a ‘no-motor’ lake. It was safe to swim out as far from shore as you liked without being afraid of a speedboat buzzing by at full speed. Donnie and Karen’s brother, Rick, even swam across the whole lake once. The families could fish at any hour and the fish would be there, undaunted by the noise and churning of motors overhead. Turtles poked their heads out as they navigated across and frogs safely sat croaking all day and night on the beds of lily pads. Susan and Donnie liked to tip the canoe over in the very middle of the lake and play around and under it, swimming deep into the dark water to touch the weeds below without fear or danger of faster boats above. That ‘no-motor’ rule had been broken.

It was the hottest day of the summer. The flies buzzed around in lazy spirals and didn’t have the energy to bother anyone. The doves cooed soothingly in the trees around the cottage and lulled the two families into lazing around and relaxing. After eating toast and cereal inside the screen porch, the children were content to play cards and talk quietly instead of racing pell-mell into the field to play badminton or croquet, climb to the tree fort, or ride their bikes around the lake. They didn’t even have energy to brave the hot-tarred gravel road to the beach to swim.

Into this still, quiet day came an unfamiliar, unwelcome sound. Because it was so unusual, the children were not quite sure of its origin, but as it came closer to the cottage, down the canal, it became clear that there was a boat with a loud gasoline motor traveling the canal that led out to the lake. Exchanging shocked looks, the children dropped their cards and raced out the back door onto the dock in time to feel the wake of the boat buffet its

sides and splash onto the shoreline. This was not good. This was wrong. The rules were being broken.

They held a short discussion about what to do. Susan, who knew the lake well because the cottage belonged to her family, said the Slaters would want to know about this. They would do something to stop the motorized boat from breaking the silent peace of the neighborhood. This is how they ended up on the Slater’s porch later that morning.

Mrs. Slater came to the door at their insistent knocking. She didn’t know the children who stood there because there were plenty of cottages and homes between theirs at one end of Beryl Drive and her own at the other end. She looked quizzically at the small group on her doorstep, her blue eyes gazing at them with interest. They looked back with indignation and purpose.

“Yes?” she queried. “What can I do for you?”

Susan spoke up. “We wanted you to know that there is a motor boat going up and down the canal to the lake. We thought you should know so you can have them arrested for breaking the law.”

Mrs. Slater’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “What law? Why are you telling me this?”

Susan, a little less confident, looked confused, too. “Well, aren’t you in charge of the lake? And didn’t you make the rule that we aren’t allowed to use motors on Bogie Lake?”

Mrs. Slater replied, “Where would you get that idea?”

Without hesitation, Susan stated, “Your sign says ‘The Slater’s Bogie Lake.’ That means Bogie Lake belongs to you.”

Mrs. Slater, a teacher at a local elementary school, smiled with dawning understanding. While she struggled to hold her face still, her merry eyes laughed in silent mirth. “I sure can see why you might think that from our sign!” she stated in a kind voice, “but we don’t own the whole lake. Our sign is about our home on the lake! That’s the only thing we own!”

As the little group trudged away from the Slater’s with slow steps, embarrassed, but a little wiser for the experience, they listened to Mrs. Slater’s suppressed laughter burst out and follow them down the long drive.

June 26Pigeon holes(leads to a part of the From Greece series: Assumptions)

Do you have kids?Two daughters – here they are.Oh! They’re beautiful!Are they married?Do you have grandchildren?No – One’s an ex-pat, a traveler, a teacher. One’s a student, a writer, gay. Other things on their minds - - -And hearts.Oh. (I’m sorry?!)(You didn’t know – I don’t fit in a place you recognize.)Oh! (What do I say?)I love them both – not the same.One’s easier than the other - - -Not the one you’d think.You must be open-minded?A liberal.A perfect parent for a gay child.(Huh?! What is that?To love my child?How dare you!) Actually, no I’m not.Just the opposite. She loves me, too.

June 30 - This piece was written over about a week. I woke up on a Saturday with it already in my head, hopped out of bed and wrote it. I ran it by my writing group that next week, and they suggested several changes, such as making it clear that there were two families here, with younger children, defined by the nature of their play during the day, and that the main characters were also young adolescents of those two families. They suggested I put back the name of the girl, rather than ‘sweetie,’ which is what I had initially. Her hair became wondrous, rather than glorious.

First touchHis fingers gently twined through the strands of her hair. Again and yet again, they tangled, untangled, slowly stroking his affection for her. Lying on the living room floor of his grandfather’s house on the faded wool rug, their siblings surrounding them, snoring softly like a litter of puppies, he touched her softly, warmly, his hand never leaving her glorious hair.

Finally, his voice whispered huskily, bravely, through the darkness, “Sweetie?”

She longed to respond with the desire of the woman she would become. But now she had no words for this, no knowledge of this kind of coming together. She was afraid – not of him - she knew she loved his hand in her hair – it was so comforting, so loving, so warm. He was her best friend. Her twelve-year-old self stayed quiet, holding herself apart - breathless, pretending to be asleep, obviously not. He didn’t speak again.

Nighttime entered thickly, blanketing the room, quietly covering them. They slept.

Years later – a funeral luncheon – standing next to their spouses drinking glasses of fruit punch, their eyes met in the middle of that room, over that sacred space.

They remembered.

July 10, 2012First touch2His fingers gently twined through the strands of her hair. Again and yet again, they tangled, untangled, slowly stroking his affection for her. Lying on the faded wool rug on his grandfather’s living room floor, he touched her softly, warmly, his hand never leaving her wondrous hair. Their siblings, strewn about them in sleeping bags and quilts, snored softly like a litter of puppies, exhausted from the day of riding the old Cushman scooter around the yard, running and laughing through the trees, catching fireflies in the dusk.

Finally, his voice whispered huskily, bravely, through the darkness, “Susie?”

With the desire of the woman she would become, she longed to respond. Now she had no words for this, no knowledge of this behavior. She was afraid – not of him. His hand in her hair – so comforting, so loving, so warm. He was her best friend. She stayed quiet, holding herself apart - breathless, pretending to be asleep, obviously not. His bravery fleeting, he didn’t speak again.

Nighttime entered thickly, blanketing the room, quietly covering them. They slept.

Years later – a funeral luncheon – standing next to their spouses drinking glasses of sweet fruit punch, their eyes met in the middle of that room, over that sacred space.

They remembered.

July 6 2012What did you do this summer?A room full of teachers,Mostly women,Mostly white,Mostly married? Maybe not.Median age? 42? 36?Middle class? Most likely.Upper middle…?Mostly right-handed. “Good” teachers,“Caring” teachers,“Hard-working” teachers.Striving to be better…Writers all,Summering at LMWP!

Intelligence and Enthusiasm (July 8, 2012)This is a prayer written to go with the lesson “Intelligence and Enthusiasm” at Rockford United Methodist Church on July 8, 2012Written July 7, 2012Please pray with me:

“Thou that hast given so much to me, Give one thing more – a grateful heart: Not thankful when it pleaseth me, As if thy blessings had spare days;But such a heart whose Pulse may be Thy praise.”

George HerbertEngland 1593 – 1633*

This simple grace reminds us that this very place in which we dwell is your gift to us. The sweet songs of the birds, the gentle breeze in the trees, the heat of the sun, the cool water, the talents we display, the awesome wonder of our beautiful world – ALL are ours to enjoy as your creations, even as we ourselves are yours. Every breath we take, every scene we view, every song we sing is yours, and given to us so we may praise your glory. We DO thank you, God, for your son who taught us to love him and love you, and love one another. We thank you for the daily opportunities to tell your story and to make choices using the wisdom you’ve given to us. We appreciate the

families we have and the company we keep who teach us lessons in living - helping us become kinder, gentler, wiser, and more patient.

We sometimes have trouble with these lessons. We ask that you give us strength and new ideas, help us to tell new stories about ourselves and the people we care for so we can know ourselves, know our purpose, and improve our relationships with others. Help us to live as Jesus taught us to live so others may see us as messengers of your word.

See our prayer list, know our friends and families and guide us to be the strength for those who walk along a dark path, who may need healing, compassion, safety, hope, or patience. A simple loving gesture or word from one of us may be just the thing another needs to dry their tears, to heal, to go on searching for a new job, to make a life-changing decision, to work on a relationship gone sour, to solve a sticky problem. You know the needs – let us tell your story, bringing your light to them by our deeds and words. Hold us up as examples of your love and care.

In our hearts and minds, we hold our own needs. We sometimes speak them aloud, but sometimes we do not. In the quiet safety of this sanctuary, please hear our silent, personal prayers.

Silent prayer time (Emily and Dolly, Mom and Dad, Katie and Brian, Sheri, Sarah, Steve)

And now let’s pray together the Lord’s Prayer:Our Father, Who art in heavenHallowed be they nameThy kingdom come,Thy will be doneOn earth as it is in HeavenGive us this day our daily bread And forgive us our trespassesAs we forgive those who trespass against us.And lead us not into temptationFor thine is the kingdom and the power and the gloryForever.Amen.

Our Words of Promise come today from I Peter, 1:13-16 (NLT)

*Stoddard, Sandol. Prayers, Praises, and Thanksgivings. New York: Dial Books, 1992. 99. Print.

The following work started with two journal entries written during sacred writing time, written long hand. They became this poem. I worked on this one a lot during the institute, but only shared it with my group and with Kirstin. “Assumptions” was written after that first sharing with my group and is based on comments made by one in the group. This life experience is something I’m working through and I’m not sure I’ll share it with my daughter – I’d like to, but I’m not sure it is ready for here. I did figure out during the writing that it was about grief, so looked up Elizabeth Kubler Ross’s five stages of grief and patterned some of the poem after that, although I took liberties with my presentation and the order.I. From Greece (with love)“So there it is”In the subject lineFlat, hard, coldWithout care, concernHarsh words, foreign words

What?! What IS this?How could it be?Didn’t see it comingCan’t be trueNo warning, no clue,No past.How did we miss this?

We know her. Who IS she?We love her. The easy one no more.How will we BE?WHO will we be?

DenialMy beautiful girl,Where are you?Who are you?Laughing as you swingTirelessly back and forth

Don’t fall, don’t fall!My arms can’t recognize you!

SorrowI caught you once Before you even fellOut of the bedAnd hit the floor.How did I know then thatYou needed me?And I was there!How did I not know later that You still did? And I wasn’t there!I’m so sorry.

I Still See YouYou’re still the same.And then again – not.I see your beautiful faceAny time I want. It’s in me for my own conjuring,My baby-girl, my dolly…You smile wryly nowI always long for you to singOut loud.And then when you did,You gave me griefFrom your secret side. I’m crying Out loud!Do you hear me?Do you see me?

AdjustingMaking sense of the nonsensicalReconciling the irreconcilableImagining the unimaginableTalking about silenceProtecting those who would be protected(As if they could)Revising past to fitEditing speech to fit inConsidering possibilitiesTrashing old opportunities, old dreamsCherishing familiar

Loving anew

AssumptionsDo you have kids?

Two daughters – here they are.Oh! They’re beautiful!Are they married?Do you have grandchildren?

No – One’s an ex-pat, a traveler, a teacher. One’s a student, a writer, gay. Other things on their minds - - -And hearts.

Oh. (I’m sorry?!)

(You didn’t know – no problem…I don’t fit in a place you recognize.)

Oh! (What do I say?)

I love them both – not the same.One’s easier than the other - - -Not the one you’d think.

You must be so open-minded?A liberal.A perfect parent for a gay child.

(Huh?! What is that?To love my child?How dare you!) Actually, no I’m not liberal.Just the opposite. She loves me, too.

II. (or III.) From Greece (with love)“So there it is”In the subject lineFlat, hard, coldFrom you?Without care, concernHarsh words, foreign words

What IS this?How?Didn’t see it comingCan’t be trueNo warnings,

No clues.How did we miss this?

We know - her. Who IS she?We love - her. Easy no more.How to BE?WHO to be?

DenialMy beautiful girl,Laughing as you swingTirelessly back and forthDon’t fall, don’t fall!My arms can’t recognize you!




Oh. (I’m sorry?!)




You must be so open-minded?A liberal. Progressive…A perfect parent for a gay child.

(Huh?! What is that?There’s a mold I fitTo love my child?How dare you!) Actually, no I’m not.

Liberal, I mean,Just the opposite. She loves me, too.(It’s not about politics!)It’s about family.

I Still See YouYou’re still the same.And then again – not.I see your beautiful faceAny time I want. Conjured in my minds-eye,My baby-girl, my dolly…Your smile, wry nowI long for you to singOut loud.Songs of your past,Songs of your dreams.Finally when you did,You gave me griefSinging from your secret side. I’m crying Out loud!Do you hear me?Do you see me?

SorrowI caught you once Before you even fellOut of the bedAnd hit the floor.How did I knowYou needed me?And I was there!How did I not knowYou still did? And I wasn’t there!I’m so sorry.

AdjustingMaking sense of the nonsensicalReconciling the irreconcilableImagining the unimaginableTalking about silenceProtecting those whoWould be protected

(As if they could)Revising memory to fitEditing speech to fit inConsidering possibilitiesTrashing old opportunities, Old imaginingsCherishing familiarLoving anew

IV. (or V.) From Greece (with love)“So there it is”In the subject lineFlat, hard, coldFrom you?Without care, concernHarsh words, foreign words

What IS this?How?Didn’t realize, recognizeCan’t be trueNo warnings,No clues.How did we miss this?

We know - her. Who IS she?We love - her. Easy? No more.How to BE?WHO to be?


SorrowI caught you once Before you even fellFrom the bedAnd hit the floor.How did I KNOWYou needed me?

And I was there!How did I NOT knowYou still did? And I wasn’t there!I’m so sorry.




Oh. (I’m sorry?!)





(Huh?! What is that?There’s a mold I fitTo love my child?How dare you!) Actually, no I’m not.Liberal, I mean,Just the opposite. She loves me, too.(It’s not about politics!)It’s about family.

I Still See YouYou’re still the same.And then again – not.I see your beautiful faceAny time I want.

Conjured in my minds-eye,My baby-girl, my dolly…Your smile, wry nowI long for you to singOut loud.Songs of your past,Songs of your dreams.Finally when you did,You gave me griefSinging from your secret side. I’m crying Out loud!Do you hear me?Do you see me?

AdjustingMaking sense of the nonsensicalReconciling the irreconcilableImagining the unimaginableTalking about silenceProtecting those whoWould be protected(As if they could)Revising memory to fitEditing speech to fit inConsidering possibilitiesTrashing old opportunities, Old imaginingsCherishing familiarLoving anew

Do OverCan we go back and start over?How would we do things differently?What would we change?What could we change?Not a sustainable solution.What if we knew from the start?Did you hurt?Did you feel pain, sorrow?Were you confused?When did you know – what could I have done?How did you know?Who did you confide in?Others – outsiders.Why not me? Us?

Did you not trust?Probably your sister – sure of herself and you at all times. Right?Who holds you in her hand and won’t let you grow up.

VI. (at least!) From Greece (with love)“So there it is”In the subject lineFlat, hard, coldFrom you?Without care, concernHarsh words, foreign words

What IS this?How?Didn’t realize, recognizeCan’t be trueNo warnings,No clues.How did we miss this?

We know - her. Who IS she?We love - her. Easy? No more.How to BE?WHO to be?


SorrowI caught you once Before you even fellFrom the bedAnd hit the floor.How did I KNOWYou needed me?And I was there!How did I NOT knowYou still did? And I wasn’t there!I’m so sorry.

I Still See YouYou’re still the same.And then again – not.Your beautiful faceConjured in my minds-eye,My baby-girl, my dolly…I long for you to singOut loud.Songs of your past,Songs of your dreams.Finally when you did,You gave me griefSinging from your secret side. I’m crying Out loud!Do you hear me?I hear you,Do you see me?I see you, my sweet girl.

AdjustingMaking sense of the nonsensicalReconciling the irreconcilableImagining the unimaginableTalking about silenceProtecting those whoWould be protected(As if they could)Revising memory to fitEditing speech to fit inConsidering possibilitiesTrashing old opportunities, Old imaginingsCherishing familiarLoving anew

PerspectiveSheila:I’d tradeSchizophreniaFor gayYes, I see. I do.

Do OverCan we go back and start over?

Not a viable option. Obviously.What if we knew from the start?How would we do things differently?Did you hurt? What would we change?Did you feel pain, sorrow?What could we change?Were you confused?What should we have done?When did you know? How did you know?How would we know?Who were your muses?Others – outsiders.Why not me? Us?Did you not trust?We would have been there.We WERE there,Your parents.


Two daughters – here they are.

Oh! They’re beautiful!Are they married?Do you have grandchildren?


Oh. (I’m sorry?!)

(You didn’t know – no problem…I don’t fit in a place you recognize.Why does ‘gay’ even have to be a descriptor here? – because the poem is ABOUT that, isn’t it!)




(Huh?! What’s that?How dare you!It’s not about politics!) It’s about family.AndActually, no I’m not.Liberal, I mean,Just the opposite. She loves me, too.

July 11, 2012Highway trouble (First draft)I knew we were in trouble when Steve announced that he would take our old boat trailer and ‘adapt’ it for our kayaks. He wanted to have it ready to take them to Florida where we would paddle in the Gulf of Mexico near Cedar Key. He is a very smart person, always has creative and innovative ideas. Everyone listens to Steve – he has a photographic mind and a long-term memory for everything he has ever heard, read, or learned. Mostly. He doesn’t know engineering and he isn’t a builder. He takes things apart really well, but in the 40 years I’ve known him, his record on putting them back together is marginal at best. He would argue that, citing numerous successes. My ‘impressions’ are different and less precise. No less valid!

We had purchased the kayaks two years ago, at great expense. He is very tall and needs custom everything in life: shoes, clothing, sleeping accommodations, kayak. It adds to the expense of anything he does. His kayak is a ‘modified’ canoe with kayak trimmings and construct. It is meant to be a fishing kayak, but he uses it for pleasure paddling. It fits and works very well for him, as his height is mitigated by the double keel and length. Steve has a vague notion of paddling numerous and various bodies of water. He wants to go to the Les Cheneaux, up near the St. Mary’s River. He wanted to paddle the Gulf. He’s talking Upper Mississippi and Arcadia National Park in Maine. I like the Rogue River and short 1-2 hour jaunts. An issue for another time!

He worked on this boat trailer all winter, wanting to test it out around Rockford before driving to FL with two expensive kayaks in tow. He searched

the internet for ideas, drew diagrams on paper, using conduit for electrical wiring or plumbing pipe with elbows and threaded ends, learning the hard way that threading the ends compromises the strength of plumbing pipe. He went to Lowe’s and, measurements in hand, bought the materials he needed. He constructed this ‘rack,’ attaching it with radiator clips and other various connecting devices. Reaching out to test its sturdiness, I found it pretty strong. I was willing to give it a try, to trust his design with my precious boat.

We set out for Round Lake, where my parents live. Arriving with boats still safely aboard, we enjoyed a weekend of paddling and visiting. Coming home, we left the too-busy interstate and took a fairly bumpy back road. Fifteen minutes from our home, we noticed the big, red kayak bouncing more than normal and pulled off to find that the pipe had sheared off from the stress of that road. He unstrapped the ties, pulled it off the rack, attached it to the roof (leaving my sleek, lime-green kayak on the other side of the rack), and continued home without incident.

The next week was spent re-designing, re-thinking, re-building. Using heftier materials, we tested the next iteration taking the boats to the Rogue River, not as far away. Not as nerve-wracking. We did that a few times. No problems, no worries; we were ready to go. One of the pieces of his design did not come together. That was finding an older, boxier Sears car top carrier in which to pace the paddles, life preservers, and other boating gear. That was supposed to go on the bottom level of the rack, with the boats on the top. We also couldn’t see the boats very well from inside the car because of all of the gear in the back of our Mazda Tribute. We set out confidently and hopefully down I-75.

“Is my boat there? Is it there? Oh my God! Oh my God! It’s gone, isn’t it!!??” Steve quickly pulled off the side of the interstate just north of the Kentucky line. They both jumped out of the car, and to their horror, the beautiful, lime green Santee Hurricane kayak was not on the ramshackle trailer. “What if we killed someone?” Her mind raced to the worst possible scenario. She saw the green kayak tumbling end over end, crashing into the windshield of an unsuspecting driver, sending them careening into the ditch, killing everyone aboard. Her life as she knew it - - was over.

July 12, 2012Sacred Writing time – (trying out the electronic format for journal time)On the way in today, I heard someone mention the top 10 things people have said they remember exactly where they were when they heard about it or when it happened. I thought at the time that it would be a good topic for memoir or a series of memoirs.

Last night on a show we were watching – or maybe it was a commercial – I saw a picture of John-John Kennedy, saluting at his dad’s funeral procession and immediately remembered the first lines of a poem written at that time by a young high school student:“Six white horses came todayTo take my daddy far away…”

I was only 9 at the time, but that poem was printed in the Detroit News and I read it and read it over and over. 47 years later, the first two lines are there for the saying.

I could write about 911, which was the number one memory people mentioned. Others were the OJ Simpson verdict, the Challenger Explosion, Columbine, the funeral of Diana, the death of Whitney Houston. I could write about a few of those: 911 and the Challenger. Others I remember, of course, but this was about what you were doing when you first heard about it, and the others are not as impactful to me, I guess.

I have really focused in on memoir during this institute. The most helpful book I’ve read was the one my Marion Roach Smith on Memoir: A Non-Standardized Approach to Writing aned Text. No matter. Her book has all kinds of helpful ideas for getting started, finding ideas, developing interest, finding focus, working it through, finishing and publishing a memoir, whether it is a book or a short article.

So, the whole topic of memoir and writing in general has really sparked my interest and I want to continue. The very fact that I paid attention to that radio blurb on the top 10 list is that I can continue to be a writer if I continue to write. It takes me to an idea I read a long time ago in Impact Learning, by Roger Allen, called “reticular activation.” This is the phenomenon that once we begin to learn something, we see it all over and build firmer neural pathways. Like getting a new car – you see it everywhere you look.

July 12, 2012911 – First (vomit) draftMall Conference Room – what can we do at Kent ISD to support the initiatives of Grand Rapids Public Schools? Becky and I were talking seriously about the steps they were taking to improve student performance. I needed to know something from the Special Education Department and stepped into the hall to ask a question of Joan. I heard a snippet of conversation on my way to her desk.“Just like Pearl Harbor.” Hm! I wonder what is just like Pearl Harbor.I spoke to Joan, received my answer, and walked back into the small room with Becky. As we talked, several of my co-workers walked by with purpose to the lunchroom. It wasn’t close to lunchtime or even break time. We

finished our meeting and we parted at the glass doors leading to the front entrance.Going back to my desk, I noticed that nobody was at her desk. Where was everyone? Ruth? MaryNell? Cheryl? Steve? Nobody. My desk was heaped with work to be done, but something was not right. It was way too quiet for our busy office space. I left the desk area and walked down the hallway toward the Superintendent’s office.

Stepping into the break room, I saw the television set on and everyone’s back was facing the door. Several people had their hands to their mouths. On the screen was a sight I had not expected to see. I watched in disbelief as the first plane slammed into the tower of the World Trade Center in New York. My hand, too, flew to my mouth, covering it in quiet shock.

I looked at the others in the room. We all were stunned and the quiet pervaded the space. Nobody had a word to say about this unspeakable picture. And, as we continued to listen to the announcer go on and on, spewing his descriptions of times and places, we saw the second plane appear and go in. Oh my God! This is no mistake!

Later, when the President appeared, speaking calming words of confirmation and outrage and we witnessed the images of happy dancing people on the West Bank in Jordan assaulting our incredulous eyes, we heard of the third plane, supposedly headed toward our Congress or our White House in Washington D.C., that had been diverted by the brave, heroic passengers and crashed in Pennsylvania.

I needed family. Who could I call? My parents were in Europe – I couldn’t reach them. My kids were in school – I wanted them near me. My husband was at work – we could talk.

July 16, 2012Keeping the Faith – draft one, obviously – the vomit

How do you keep the faith when the going gets so tough that you have lost confidence? How do you remain a steadfast partner when your partner has not produced a living income in over a year, possibly four? I want to be the person who “stands by her man,” and I can handle the expenses with my own income and extra efforts at budgeting and skimping, but it gets old. We want to travel, to save more, to finish some maintenance work on the home front, but there is not enough money to do it all, or even some of it.

When Steve left for MN, we thought, “this is it! We have finally arrived – he will be the VP for sales and marketing at a prestigious movie theatre chain in Minneapolis.” He checked them out with the IMAX folks, he read about each of the principals in the company, they checked out well. They would pay for

moving expenses, his housing for a year, give him a car, and pay for him to travel home up to a generous amount. I would stay home to supervise the sale of our house, to pack, to wind up my career in MI so we could move to MN and be together. We could reinvent ourselves and our lives. It was to be an adventure. As our friend, Amiel, and Steve pulled out of the driveway in the yellow Ryder truck, Amiel turned the music up very loud – it was Frank Sinatra mightily singing, “The Best is Yet to Come!” I listened to it as they disappeared around the corner.

Eighteen months later, he came back to MI. Our house had not sold, the principals in the movie theatre he worked with lacked integrity, and that he could, rightfully, not abide, and we were tired of living apart. We had spoken on the phone daily, except for one day. We had visited each other once a month at the least for the entire 18 months. During the summer, I vacationed in Minneapolis so we could live together. We explored new neighborhoods, attended cultural events, went to the zoo, museums, and other historical attractions, shopped with new local vendors, and became familiar with the metropolitan feel of Minneapolis. While discovering a new place was fun, living apart was awful. When we separated each time, we questioned the wisdom of continuing the experiment.

So, he came back home. He had called me at about 15 months and said he wanted to bag this “opportunity.” I said I’d take the house off the market and as soon as he had a job in MI, he could quit that one. The moving expense money, the travel money from the theatre company, all was gone. We were now on our own. We had started using money we didn't have to make ends meet and keep ourselves afloat. I had paid off all of our debt except the house and we were now going back in.

At work, after saying I would be leaving, I now informed my ‘superiors’ that I’d be staying after all. While the response was a tepid friendly gladness, I’m sure they had already determined who would take my place, and it was just a matter of time before I felt unwelcome and pushed to leave when I really needed to keep working. Steve found a position at a business newspaper that was struggling to stay afloat. He made a very small amount of money, but it was enough to allow him to come back to MI. He would keep looking as he made contacts through this work.

And he did – another 18 months later – he went to work for another company, a digital products developer and distributor. He wasn’t making any more money, but shortly after he left, the little business news rag he’d left closed for good. He kept up his spirits, and I guess it would be unfair of me to say he didn’t work very hard at it. He has never let down on his work ethic or the time spent in building contacts, developing new relationships, working at selling the products for which he is responsible. He is not a slacker or lazy in any sense.

However, each place has its own requirements for keeping track of its business. This almost always means there is a form to be completed, records to be kept, reports to be made. The digital company also had protocols they wanted or needed followed so work could be completed on time and with all pieces in place. Steve has other talents. He is a creative person himself. He works with the big picture – he is an idea guy. Some of our biggest disagreements as young (and older) marrieds have been about him not keeping track of his expenses so we could get tax advantages. I’ve often felt that it has been unfair of him to make me be the bad guy when money is involved. It is only lately that I have even thought he finally gets the fact that we are not only a marriage but a business partnership and the goal of it is to be successful monetarily.

Now everyone knows that the economy in MI has been awful for the last 5-8 years or so. This is very true. Nobody is denying that reality. Steve was making practically minimum wage for that year with the digital company, trying to sell something. The management gave him multiple product lines to sell, changing his clientele just as he began to make the contacts that might purchase that line. He made very few sales in the time he worked there. So, after about a year at the digital production company, they had had enough of his lack of ability to work with their protocols as well as the reality of no sales and they let him go.

In the meantime, things had gone from ‘bad to worse’ for me in my position. It was obvious I was not welcome to work there anymore. This job, which had been such a blessing and had brought me such joy had become a burden, a hurtful situation. I could hardly bear to work there. My supervisor, new in the last two years, hated me and the feeling became mutual. Where I had always been a collaborator and part of a team, I was shoved to the side and my role was diminished. I had to work hard to smile, to keep my spirits up, and my work relationships were minimized to my office-mates and a few others who were my friends. I wasn’t allowed to go out and work with teachers in the districts anymore. I could barely keep my professional relationships outside the work place in the state. I felt like a failure and it was getting worse.

It was time to leave. Because I had purchased a few months in the retirement system when I thought I needed to move to MN, I was able to retire early. I left a place that I had loved deeply and had respected greatly with a sour taste in my mouth. I worked as an independent contractor for a year, trying to build relationships for a new career or place to work. Then, I was called by GV to become a professor and jumped at the opportunity. This has been a wonderful situation for me. I have the autonomy, mastery, and purpose I need to feel successful again.

When he left the digital company, Steve was able to collect unemployment. As it turned out, the money was about the same as the job he left and, without the commuting and expenses of clothing and meals, we were able to handle the situation. He had some time to ponder what he wanted to do. He had a non-compete clause with the digital company, so was not able to sell or market the tools of that trade, so he hunkered down and began to make contacts with friends and colleagues who might be able to help him establish himself again.

Thus, IronJib was born. In sailing, when the winds die and the sails flag, a sailor has the option of firing up the motor to continue forward motion. The motor is called the “Iron Jib.” He chose this name because his idea is that with his expertise in sales and marketing, he can help a business get moving again as this economy improves. He does have the expertise, garnered at the ages of 35 – 50, when we were raising our children, both of us working at lucrative jobs. The last ten years have been hard for him and for me. At age 60, Steve is re-inventing himself – again.

So, now, as the captain of his own ship, he’s sold the idea of sponsorships to others and has picked up many clients. He heard from an old client who wanted him to develop a web site for her company. He’s slowly but surely coming out from under a very black cloud. I continue to struggle to budget so we can make it monetarily. I have been patient, I think, but now that it looks like things are going to be ok eventually, I want it to happen faster. I’m tired of the struggle – I want to be able to book a hotel in St. Louis to see Dolly, go to a play or concert or even movie on the spur of the moment, to surprise Emily in Brazil, to buy a nice bottle of wine to take to a friend’s house. This is about me holding on – I’m proud of Steve for maintaining his positive attitude. I try, too, and am usually a positive thinker. My faith in him and in our future has been sorely tested.

July 17, 2012Kayak Adventures“Is my boat there? Is it there? Oh my God! Oh my God! It’s gone, isn’t it!!??” Susan cried piteously.Steve quickly pulled off the side of the interstate just north of the Kentucky line. They both jumped out of the car, and to their horror, the beautiful, lime green Santee Hurricane kayak was not on the ramshackle trailer. “What if we killed someone?” Susan’s mind raced to the worst possible scenario. She saw the green kayak tumbling end over end, crashing into the windshield of an unsuspecting driver, sending them careening into the ditch, killing everyone aboard. Her life as she knew it - - was over.

Steve walked away, down the highway, his tall frame getting smaller and smaller as he headed south to certain mayhem over the rise behind them. He faced his fear, and hers, too, as he walked. Her mind, as she watched

him go, full of anguish and uncertainty, was roiling with the fear. Susan had never had a panic attack, but as she watched him leave her, her palms began to sweat, her heart raced, and she began to cry. Cars whizzed by at 70 miles an hour, and even faster. The whoosh from the 18-wheelers buffeted the air as she stood there, distraught. He disappeared over the hill. Her heart went with him. She stood waiting, not knowing, uncertain.

A ramshackle truck slowly made its way along the side of the interstate toward her from where her husband had disappeared. She could see her kayak sticking out the back. Two people sat in the cab and the passenger waved at her out the side window. She could see that her husband was not with them. Far behind them, he reappeared over the crest of the hill, walking toward their car this time.“Are you alright?” she shouted, as the couple neared. The woman replied, “We didn’t want you to think we were taking your boat!”“Did it hit you?” she persisted.The man stopped the truck and they got out. “We saw this boat coming at us,” he stated as matter-of-factly as if he’d been talking about a spring rain. “It came off your trailer and just flew through the air. Hit our windshield, it did,” he continued.Both the man and the woman wrapped her in a bear hug, each in succession, trying to console her as she stood shaking. Traffic continued to buffet their cars. “Oh my God,” she cried. “I am so sorry! Did it break anything?”“Gosh, no!” said the woman. “We stopped and got it off the highway and then didn’t know what to do! We thought to bring it to you, but didn’t want you to think we were stealing your boat!”She was incredulous that their first thought was of them and what they would think. Her first thoughts had been for their safety. “Thank you so much!” she gushed. “I was so worried.”“Nothing to worry about now,” stated the man, glancing at the trailer on the back of their car. “That trailer rack ain’t much good, looks like,” he continued, “too flimsy.”“Tell me about it,” she said. “Nothing but troubles the whole trip.” Lightening the load, securely tying Steve’s big red kayak to the roof of the car itself, had solved an earlier problem with this rack. Steve arrived from his jaunt up the road. He and the man unloaded the kayak from the trailer. She studied it as they did, checking for scuffs and scratches, of which there were plenty, and cracks, thankfully none. “We can put the kayak back on the top rack of the structure and tie it down better,” said Steve. “Well, I think we should tie it to the trailer itself, the lower part,” she responded forcefully, with all of the emotion built up throughout the harrowing experience. It was her boat that had just flown down the highway and she wasn’t taking any chances. They tied it to the lower part of the structure, directly onto the trailer.

The couple began to climb into their truck. “Thank you for everything,” Susan said, with a catch in her voice. “We can’t thank you enough.”“No problem. We’re just glad we were able to help you get your boat back!” the woman said. They drove slowly away, picking up speed and merging with the traffic heading north.“Do you realize what a blessing we have just received?” Susan asked Steve. “Those people could have been killed, they could have died because of us! Thank you, God!”Later, driving north to their next destination, they began to relax and laugh nervously about the episode. “I’m so glad this boat didn’t hit a lawyer!” Susan quipped. “We were lucky that they were angels, instead!”

July 18, 2012Morning drinks

“Your coffee’s done. Do you want me to pour you a cup?” she asks.“Sure,” he grunts from the living room from behind the morning paper. “No, wait! I’ll do it myself. I have a ritual.”“Hmmm,” she thinks. “I’ll bet it is about how every morning he pours his coffee into his travel mug and into the Scrabble cup I bought in San Francisco for my desk at work. He starts pouring near the top of the cup and then raises and raises the pot, as the cascading coffee forms air bubbles on the surface.” Sure enough, he performs that ritual as he joins her in the kitchen. She turns to her own task, squeezing the hot water from the tea leaves so the tea, perfectly brewed, does not get bitter with the tannins, pouring her Darjeeling Estate tea from the round pot into her silver and orange travel mug, the one that does not leak, says Dolly, and noticing his movements. He loves his coffee. He is a coffee snob, one who buys it in the bean, develops and buys his own blends directly from the roaster in town. No nutty flavors, just dark roasted coffee. He makes no excuses for it. Nor should he. She is the same about her tea – no fruity blends for her. Just the real thing – black tea: Darjeeling, Earl Grey, English Breakfast. Brewed from the leaves at 195 degrees about 5 minutes. She, too, is a snob about tea. There must be a better word – fussy, no, connoisseur, maybe, aficionado, possibly. It needs to be less pejorative, the description of how they prepare and enjoy their morning drinks. After all, this time, this ritual, this taste, sets the tone for the whole day. How about “enthusiast”? A word that describes better the attitude with which they both approach this time of day and the drinks they enjoy. It is a word that does not make them better or worse than anyone else who drinks coffee or tea. It just describes who they are.

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