Sewing up the Pandemic

I had a reliable source, and the news was alarming.  I heard that Bunny and Giraffie were trying to share the same set of slipper jammies.  And it wasn’t going well.

It started with making Grammy Jammies for my grandchildren each Christmas, their numbers now climbing to six.  My oldest grandson, Ben, talked me into making jammies for his Bear.  And it took off from there.  Next was Mya’s Puppy.  Last Christmas Isabel’s Bunny joined the jammie parade, and Maren’s baby doll.

Grandkids in Grammy JammiesPuppy Bunny Bear in Grammy Jammies

“Jammies for Giraffie might be a good birthday present for Isabel,” my daughter advised.  But what better project to tackle during my coronavirus sheltering time?  The key was that both “friends” were JellyCat animals and shared the same shape – soft pear-shaped bodies, scrawny arms and big fluffy feet.  It took several tries to get it right for Bunny, but I finally perfected the pattern.  After 10 years of making slipper jammies, I had bags full of fleece scraps and I even scrounged up a few unused zippers.  I was in business.

With extra time on my hands, it felt good to pull out my sewing machine, thread it up and make something from nothing.  Sewing opens so many creative opportunities – designing the garment, choosing the fabric, picking coordinating ribbing, placing the print on each pattern piece.  As my machine hummed, so did I.

Giraffie in jammies

My thoughts turned to the book I recently finished reading.  I picked up The Murmur of Bees quite by accident in the early days of the invasion of COVID-19.  When the spread of the virus was still news, I was surprised and fascinated to find that the book was set in Mexico in 1918, in the heart of the devastation wrought by the Spanish flu.  It was history I did not know well, but it had an eerily familiar strain.

The family in the book fled from their home near town and relocated to another hacienda further away, where they rode out the worst of the pandemic. Mom couldn’t settle herself, and it was her young son who figured out why she was so distraught.  He convinced his dad to return to their home, pack up her sewing machine, material and tools and bring them to her.  She was puzzled and angry at their curious actions.  Until she threaded her machine and began sewing.  With each garment she sewed, a sliver of peace was restored.  She was grounded at last, in the productive and creative endeavor of sewing.

I felt the same way.  When Giraffie’s jammies were done, I needed another project.  I decided little brother Michael needed a stuffed animal friend.  Obsessed with the idea, I scoured the internet for a free pattern for a fleece animal.  More scraps to cut up, excess stuffing that needed a home, and a load of fun later I had a soft little puppy for Michael.  It was such a hit, that I couldn’t stop there.  Five grandchildren later, I had a whole litter of pups and kitties!

Stuffed puppies Stuffed puppies and kitties

There’s something inherently rewarding about using only what I have on hand.  Taking bits and pieces and ending up with a little critter that will delight a child.  There are many ways this pandemic has forced us to simplify life.  To do without.  To make do with what we have and forego what now feels like frivolous shopping.

Sewing returns me to my roots.  My mom taught me to sew long before I took Home Ec classes in junior high.  She made all my clothes until I took over, then sewed for my own children.  By now when I sit down in front of my machine, innate skills take over.  My hands know how to guide the fabric, my eyes gauge the seam, my foot regulates the speed. I reap the rewards of familiarity, of falling back on something soothing and rewarding.  I feel Mom’s presence as I follow in her footsteps.  I imagine she too would sew her way through this pandemic.

I hear that Bunny and Giraffie are friends again.  And my daughter’s whispers, “Michael has taken to a Jellycat puppy recently.”  I can already hear the whir of my sewing machine.

Isabel with Bunny and Giraffie

A Wake-up Call

It’s not easy being the wife of a birder.

I am snug in bed thinking about getting up but not actually doing so quite yet.  From the other room, I hear my phone ring.  At 6am it can only be one person – either that or something terrible has happened.  Sure enough, it’s Rich.

“Get dressed right away!  You have to come over here and see this!  One of the owlets is on the ground!”  Even in my groggy state I know right where he is, and exactly what he is talking about.

For the past three months, Rich has been visiting “his owls.”  It took him a dozen wintry searches for the mating Great Horned Owls, triangulating their hooting, and looking for them in the trees.  But it all paid off when he found their nest.  It is in the woods less than 10 minutes by foot from our house.  In late winter he watched Mom Owl on the nest and Dad Owl hunting for food.  When they produced three baby owlets, you’d think Rich had new grandkids!  He visited them on a regular basis, reporting back their progress and how fast they were growing.When the coronavirus hit and we took to sheltering in place, Rich’s vigil escalated.  What else was there to do?  He began checking on them multiple times a day.  Whenever things got dull, he’d head out into the woods again.  Or any time he heard a crow attack – a sure sign they were pestering the owls – he returned to the scene to make sure his owlets were still okay.  I kidded him that he spent more time with them than with me.

Learning their nocturnal habits, Rich began refining his timing.  Early morning when the owlets were being fed before sleeping, or evenings when they were becoming active again were the best time to see them.  He even lured me over one evening, and I succumbed to the cuteness factor, staying to watch the three sets of owl eyes peer down at me from their branches high in the tree.  They really were hard to resist.  I went back a few nights later.

This morning the urgency in his voice propels me out the door.  “It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity!” he claims.  I’m not a birder, but I know better than to disappoint one.  Trotting over to the nesting area, I spot Rich’s red jacket in the woods.  Creeping up next to him, he points out the owlet – just 40 yards away, perched on a broken tree branch just a couple feet off the ground.  It’s one thing seeing an owl up high in a tree.  It’s another to observe it at eye level.

“I found him on the path.  He was being hassled by the crows and was vulnerable in the open space, so I flushed him into the woods.  Mom and Dad are up in the trees trying to protect him.  I’m doing the same on the ground.”  We creep a little closer, all the while being watched by those gold rimmed eyes.

This owlet is not so little any more.  He’s over a foot tall, and has already mastered short flights between trees.  Silently I peer at this fluffy white wonder, little horns already forming atop his head, signature owl eyes staring back at me.  Even lacking any affinity for birding, I can’t help but be entranced.

The owlet clearly is not in any hurry to move.  He perches motionless except for his pivoting head and blinking eyes.  Rich hunkers down for the long haul, watching, protecting, his camera shutter pulsing rapidly.  But I eventually reach my limit and turn to go.  Alarmed, the owlet puffs up and flexes his wings, in defense against this blue jacketed stranger who suddenly feels threatening.  His display reveals brown and black feathers, and he lowers his head to glare at me.  As soon as he realizes I am retreating, he resumes his stationary pose.

I certainly didn’t expect to run out of the house at 6am this morning.  Nor would I have chosen to spend my first waking minutes “birding.”  But this is one of those times when it was worth heeding that wake-up call from my resident birder.  It was a hoot.

All photos by Rich Hoeg.  More photos, videos and details can be found on his blog, 365DaysOfBirds

Toddler Distancing

The plan was to meet up at Banning State Park for a social distancing hike.  I was already out of the car when the Kennedy clan – my daughter and her family – spilled out of their minivan. The older three children clustered near the back of the van, collecting hats and gloves for the hike.  They had been well versed in the rules.  Stay six feet apart.  No hugs.  Don’t touch.

But 2-year-old Michael looked up and saw me.  That’s all it took.  He put one foot in front of the other, then began to run – right to me.  Almost.  Two feet in front of me he stopped.  Looked up and waited with that big grin of his.  It took all my self-control not to scoop him up and give him a big squeeze and bury my face in his ticklish neck.  MichaelPoor Michael, he must have wondered what was up with his Grammy.  Poor Grammy, her heart ached.

Once on the trail, things improved.  The big kids ran ahead, fascinated by the old Quarry structures and the rock formations along the river.  There were plenty of side trails to explore, walking sticks to test, river banks to climb.  Little Michael kept up as fast as his little feet could carry him.  If I couldn’t get close to the kids, being able to watch them in the outdoors was nearly as good.Kennedys at Banning State Park
Ben and Mya Banning State park
Karen and Isabel Banning State ParkWe tried hard to keep our distance.  Dancing around one another on opposite sides of the trail, as kids ran back and forth.  I did my best to imagine it was just a normal family hike in the woods.  The roar of the water flowing over rapids, discovering a lingering frozen waterfall, the carpet of pine needles and the kids’ giggles helped me hold the illusion.  Breathing deeply, I took in the spring air, kicked up dead leaves and stood on big rocks.  Grounded by nature.Kennedy family Banning State ParkThese strange times call for creative solutions.  This was far better than our last in-person encounter, which consisted of waving through the window and leaving chocolate chip cookies on the doorstep.  And it was more successful than our attempt at 4-way virtual family charades when we had a lot of laughs but couldn’t get a word in edgewise.  We will keep trying, any way we can to be “with” family.

The truth is, I don’t really want to get good at this social distancing thing.  I totally believe in the value of doing it, the necessity of these awkward practices.  And I will do my part.  But the next time little Michael reaches up for a hug, I just might not be able to hold back.Molly and Rich Banning State Park

Easter Togetherness

We were supposed to be in Milwaukee today.  We’re not.  Our grandson Crosby was going to be baptized today.  It didn’t happen.  Our whole family planned to gather for the occasion.  We didn’t.  But it still IS Easter today.  We may all be distanced by the coronavirus, but it can’t stop our religious holidays nor our own way of observing them.

It was my son, Erik, who came up with the family brunch idea.  “Since we can’t all be together,” he texted (sent only to the cooks in the family, of which he is one), “what if we each contributed a favorite recipe and we all made the same brunch?  We can all have the same meal and think of one another.”  It sold instantly.

As Easter approached, the recipe choices solidified:

  • Slow Cooker Spinach Quiche (Molly)
  • Cheesy Hashbrowns (Chelsea)
  • Bread Machine Cinnamon Swirl Bread (Erik)
  • Fruit Salad (Karen)
  • Alternate egg dish – Sausage Egg Bake (Karen)

Soon questions and hints flew between cooks.  Many of the quandaries were over substitutions.  “I can’t get bread flour – can I use all-purpose instead?”  “It’s okay to leave out the mushrooms.”  “We’re using broccoli instead of spinach in the eggs.”  Anything goes.

It was a solid morning of cooking even with advance preparation.  I prepped all my ingredients ahead of time.  Some made their cinnamon bread the night before.  As the intensity of the cooking increased, so did the flow of texts and photos as each family cook documented their progress.  We might not all be in the same kitchen, but it sure felt like it.  We were all battling the same ingredients with similar timelines.

Easter Brunch prep

We all took time out for our virtual church services, relishing the extra music and special effort that went into this highest of holy days.  I hate to admit it, but I did sneak out to put the cinnamon bread in the oven during a musical interlude.

Soon the texts quieted down.  Final pictures of families gathered at the table were posted and we all sat down to enjoy our meal.  Apart, but together.  All enjoying the same dishes, savoring the flavors and thinking of one another.  Looking at each dish and remembering who contributed it to the feast.

Easter Brunch dishes

Molly Rich Easter BrunchKennedys Easter BrunchThe Carl Hoegs EasterErik Katie Easter

Easter came in all its glory.  Family “gathered” and we celebrated “together.”  As a final touch, son Carl alerted us to Andrea Bocelli’s Easter concert in the empty Duomo in Milan, which was our brunch music.  Listening to the notes that thrilled the air invoked hope.  That we will overcome, and be reunited.  Stronger than ever.

Covid Coping

Just you and me, baby.

As the Covid-19 reins tighten on social distancing, not only is our calendar devoid of events, but our circle of personal contacts has squeezed down to two.  Rich and I better be nice to one another.  We’re all we’ve got.Molly and Rich selfie

I have no illusions that this will last a couple of weeks or so.  I’ve read enough to know it’s going to take months for us to flatten out the curve of infection.  I’m mentally preparing for the long haul.

We’ve already been practicing the sheltering concept for over a week, so I have a taste of this new normal.  This uber-togetherness thing.  And I realize we have an advantage.  It’s called retirement.

I think back on those early days when we first left our jobs.  When we no longer spent all day at work and inflicted our personalities on our coworkers.  Suddenly we were at home full-time, playing in the same sandbox.  We had to learn to jockey around one another.  How to balance time doing things together and time doing our own thing.  I couldn’t help but feel like Rich was looking over my shoulder at times, judging how I spent my time.  It reminded me of when my dad retired.  Mom said the house was never so clean – she was afraid to sit down and look idle.  I admit to my own sideways glances when Rich lounged on the couch.  If nothing else, we learned to hold our tongues.  To loosen up.

Eventually we worked our way into a routine.  We figured out how to co-exist in the same space, all day long, day in, day out.  Thankfully, we also developed our own distinct retirement hobbies – photography and writing.  Pursuits that keep us out of one another’s hair.  Now that we’re confined to the house, I feel grateful that we have that figured out.  But there’s still a hitch.

Our pattern is to exit the house by day, and reunite over dinner.  Rich roams the woods in search of birds to photograph, and I park myself at Amity Coffee pecking away at my keyboard, inching my book along.  While Rich’s outdoor wanderings are currently still a viable option, my daily perch and latte are now off-limits.  The solitude I seek among the cacophony of the busy espresso bar is no more.

Enter the home coffee shop.  With a card table installed in the Bunk Room, I can make my own coffee, pick up my laptop and “go to the coffee shop.”  I close the door and I’m off-site, in my own world, sequestered until I choose to re-emerge.  I think of it as working remotely in reverse.  And it works.

Molly home coffee shop

The final piece in our retirement puzzle is a commitment to getting outside for fresh air and exercise – each at our own time and pace, of course.  Rich calls me “obsessed.”  I don’t argue the fact.  But we’re both out there doing it.  Staying healthy and in shape.

We’re grateful that the powers that be recognize the importance of this.  We’re still out there running, biking and walking in the woods to lose the threat that looms over us, if only temporarily.  It’s enough to keep us sane.  It’s how we will cope in the weeks and months to come.  Just the two of us.

Laughter, the best medicine

I’ve been here before.  I know how silly this is going to make me feel, and it’s already outside my comfort zone.  So what is this TV camera doing here?

My sister, Susie, is a certified Laughter Yoga instructor.  Sure, I attend yoga sessions fairly regularly, but what’s this about laughing?  And how could it possibly have anything to do with yoga?  When she invited me to one of her classes last year, I just had to go.  To find out what it’s all about.

Standing in a circle of adults in the basement of her church, I prepared myself to feel foolish.  Susie and her co-teacher, Jessica, had already prepared us for that.  “The body doesn’t know the difference between real laughter and fake laughter,” they said.  “It has the same beneficial effects on the body.”  Apparently I was going to fake it through this class.

To start, they laid down the guidelines.  Among them, no talking.  (Except for the instructors, of course.)  So in order to introduce ourselves to our fellow participants, we were to turn to each one, stretch out a hand, shake theirs and, well, laugh.  Okay, this seemed pretty weird.  But there was no point in being there if I wasn’t going to buy into it, so I did as I was told.  And laughed.  Then laughed again.  As long as everyone was doing it, it really wasn’t so bad.  It almost began to feel real.

The class progressed, full of good sports willing to play along, follow instructions, and laugh.  We worked our way through warm-ups, laughing, breathing, laughing, chants, laughing, singing, laughing, cheers and laughing.  And it felt good.

So when she invited me back again, I took the bait.  Only I wasn’t counting on that TV camera.  I begin to get the picture when he interviews Susie and Jessica before class starts.  I can hear them touting the health benefits of laughing.  The mental boost it provides.  The origin of Laughter Yoga in India in the 1990s, and its founder Dr. Madan Kataria.

Once we gather in our circle, I try to screen out that cameraman.  I do my best to ignore him moving around behind us, capturing our silliness from all angles.  Blot out thoughts of who might see this on tonight’s evening news.

“Children laugh an average of 400 times a day,” Jessica tells us.  “For adults, it’s 4-7 times daily.”  I believe it.  I know my day often lacks levity.  The wrinkles around my mouth turn down, not up.  I think I need this laughter injection.  Soon I’m shaking hands with my fellow students once again, and laughing.

As we work our way through the progression this time, I finally get the yoga bit.  It’s all in the breathing, the foundation of yoga.  It’s not about poses, it’s about filling our lungs with good air, expelling the old.  Feeding the body with oxygen.  Finding positive energy.

As before, I draw my cues from my fellow participants.  We’re all in this together.  If they’re willing to do this, so am I.  Studiously ignoring that camera, I focus on them instead.  Look into their eyes and find joy in their laughter.  As their laughs escalate, so do mine.  We feed off one another.

Our final exercise brings us onto the floor.  Atop a colorful Indian-looking tapestry with concentric circles, we form our own circle.  Heads in the middle, legs spreading out like spokes, we rest on our backs.  Then laugh.  Tentatively at first, then gaining momentum.  I hear others laughing, and they spur me on.  I hear Susie across the circle from me, her infectious laugh triggering mine.  Memories of her childhood laughter, our innocent youth, her happy giggles.  Me, the serious one, she the jokester.  I let go and a belly laugh ripples through my body.  Later I overhear Susie telling someone, “I was laughing, and then I could hear Molly, my sister, laughing across from me!”

This goes on for many long minutes.  Just as I think I’ve laughed my last, someone else starts up again and the cycle repeats.  By this time it all feels like the real thing.  I’m literally quite worn out by the time Jessica moves us on to the final relaxation phase.

I don’t know these people who have shared this Laughter Yoga hour with me, but we all embrace before parting. And yes, laugh.  At ourselves, at our newfound positive outlook, at life in general.

And sure enough, we’re all on the Fox21 evening news.  I’m proud of Susie, as I watch her speak eloquently in front of the camera, and lead our troupe through the paces.  I cringe only a little when I see myself.  But more importantly, I just may have reached my childhood 400 laughs that afternoon.  And indeed, it was good medicine.

Ski Medicine

It might not have been what the doctor ordered, but it was the best medicine I could take.  I was still coughing and dragging from a bout with the flu when Erik called.  “Would it be all right if I came up tomorrow night to ski the North Shore on Monday?  You’d be welcome to join me.”  Of course it was more than all right!

I tossed and turned all night long.  Was I crazy to spend a whole day skiing when I could barely get off the couch just days before?  I’ve never been one to hold back, nor necessarily listen to reason, so in the dark wee hours of the morning I rose and piled on layers of ski clothes.

As we drove the shoreline the sun rose in a cloudless sky, lifting over Lake Superior and bisecting the radiant band of orange hovering over the cold blue water.  By the time we reached the Sugarbush Trailhead above Tofte, it hung low in the sky sending long sinewy shadows across the trail but doing little to raise the zero degree temperature.  Pristine corduroy lay before my skate skis, crisp deep tracks for Erik’s classic version.  We entered the deep silence of the trail.Molly Sugarbush trails Erik Sugarbush trails

Erik had some serious skiing to do.  His goal was to complete the Picnic Loop and any other bits of trail he could find to ski 40 kilometers.  As a serious contender in the upcoming Birkie Classic race, he relished this extensive training opportunity.  So I waved him off, content to plod along at my own pace.

The cold snow squealed under my skis, glide eluding my fresh wax job, but the extra effort warmed my stiff chilled body.  I didn’t meet another sole for at least an hour and a half, skimming the snow, lost in thought.  Imperceptibly the sun gained strength, my fingers and toes rejoiced, and my skis slipped ever so slightly farther.  Weaving through the woods, uphill and down I lost track of time and distance.  Forgot my recent malady.

Through sheer luck, we finished at nearly the same time.  Flush with excitement over the fantastic conditions, Erik confirmed his 41k distance – to my 20k in the same amount of time!  Over lunch at the Coho Café we traded superlatives about our morning – the deep glistening snow in the woods, the distant lake views, the challenging but fun hills, the joy of skiing.

Erik Molly Coho Cafe

The Northwoods Ski Trail in Silver Bay gave us a leisurely afternoon ski.  Narrow single classic tracks wound through the woods, with snow laden pines slipping past our shoulders and towering overhead.  We skied together over the soft snow, sharing the views and even spotting a marten that scampered up a tree to peer down at us.  A steep uphill got our hearts pumping, and rewarded us with a long smooth downhill.  This wasn’t a workout, it was an experience.

Northwoods Ski Trails Erik Molly Northwoods Trails Molly Northwoods Trails

A full day, sharing a mutual love of skiing, chatting in the car, just being together.  One-on-one time with one of my adult children is a precious gift.  This one also delivered a hearty dose of healing.  Goodbye flu, I think I skied it out of my system.  And Erik?  He opted for another 15k on the Lester Trails when we returned, topping off his mileage above 60k.  We both got the medicine we needed.

Turning the Corner

“I’m not ready to declare victory, but I’m winning some battles.”

As rapidly as Rich declined into sightlessness, his ascent back into the world is a meteoric rise.  Thanks to modern medicine, each day brings progress.  Every venture outside breeds success.  The botox treatment that generally requires a week to take effect has been delivering mounting victories each successive day.

That magic formula is restoring a lot more than sight.

I feel like I am coming up from underground.  The past few months have been consumed by this drama, bringing isolation as well as despair.  Dealing with the realities of Rich’s condition was all consuming.  A single focus, particularly for him, but dribbling over into my existence.  Life on hold.

This week is like re-emerging in the spring and rediscovering the outside world.  As Rich begins to push his boundaries again, so do I.  He is able to go for walks in the woods.  I can return to my writing, believing he will be safe.  He takes the car keys and ventures over to Superior to spot two snowy owls with his own eyes.  I treat myself to a movie with a friend. He meets a fellow birder for a morning in the Bog.  I hunker down in the coffee shop with my laptop.  Every small step feels like liberty.

How well I remember my days in the hospital, after delivering each of our three babies.  The insulating environment of that sterile room, devoid of external influence, the absence of outside news.  All that mattered was the precious new life that lay in my arms.  The miracle that depended on me.  That slept, fed, cried and squirmed as I looked on.  The world beyond my room did not exist.

At times this fall, our house felt the same way.  Our lives – and our fears – were confined within its boundaries.

Hoeg HArbor winter

But we were never really alone.  The outpouring of support, the check-ins to see how we were doing, the offers for rides, and most of all the prayers for answers carried us through.  I am humbled by the show of love and comfort we have received.  The blessings of true friendship.  I thank each and every one of you for being there for us.

Rich may be cautious in his optimism, but the mood in that house has lifted.  In contrast to a few days ago, his spirit is soaring.  And I’m riding that high.  I just know we are turning the corner.

Life Rearranged

I’m off kilter. I’ve been thrown off balance. My norm is rapidly unwinding, and I don’t understand the new norm much less the future.

My strong, independent husband, Rich, has suddenly been robbed of his outdoor vision, and his world is dissolving with it.  He who lives for birding, photography and just tramping through the wilderness can no longer do any of this.  Driving is out of the question.  “I feel like a prisoner in my own house.”  The couch is his “happy place.”  There he can see, and feels safe.

Rich’s bird photography often takes him deep into the woods

I try to think back on the progression of this condition. It is astounding to realize that it manifested itself well over a year ago, in rapid blinking, more than normal. I didn’t see it. Rich didn’t feel it. But others noticed, and now comment on it.

Rich managed to cope with his degrading eyesight long enough for it to grow dire. Without knowing what it was or feeling (or perhaps acknowledging to himself) the progression of this condition, it continued, steadily curtailing his sight. His coping masked the advancement. Hid the impending decline. The suddenness came when nature tipped the balance. He could no longer compensate. He could no longer deny it.

Even so, it is hard to conceive of the gap in his capabilities between bicycle touring in Norway in August – which he managed, if with great difficulty – and today. The difference between being able to gut it out, and being paralyzed with fear. Shut down by sheer anxiety. Not being able to see at all.

The lightning speed of this life change is bewildering. If I am feeling ungrounded, what must Rich be experiencing? I can name many words. Depression. Frustration. Stress. Fear. Dread. Anxiety. A deep sense of loss. It is only slowly that I realize the depth of these feelings, and just how debilitating they are.

It’s just before Christmas and we walk down the block with Carl and Chelsea and their two children. A bagel walk, normally a fun outing. Rich walks ahead but seems to be faltering. I move up and grab his hand. His strong grip expresses his fear. He chokes back tears, confesses he is fighting off a panic attack. My fiercely self-reliant husband has been reduced to a dependent, sightless invalid I no longer recognize. Even though he did almost this same walk solo yesterday, today I wonder if he will make it. “It’s so much harder with people,” he says. “It shows me that I can’t interact with everyone. I have to concentrate 100% on staying on the sidewalk.” He manages the walk there and back. Says that holding my hand helped. That it enabled him to stave off the panic. On the way home, I can tell he’s reaching his limit. A simple walk does him in.

We navigate the medical world, seeking answers.  Dry eye repeatedly comes up, but doesn’t explain enough.  Finally, a specialist in the Cities nails the diagnosis: Blepharospasm.  In short, there is a neurological miscommunication between Rich’s eyelids and his brain, causing impulses that tell his eyelids to slam shut.  He cannot will them open.  It is triggered by dry eye, light sensitivity, stress, cold and other factors rampant in our Duluth winter – hence his problems outdoors.  His corrected vision is perfect.  It’s just that he can’t open his eyes.  He’s not blind, but he can’t see.  Having answers is great relief, but due to the holidays and insurance requirements, treatment is weeks away.  The wait is excruciating.

I can’t help but feel survivor’s remorse – guilt as I trot out of the house to go skiing, a passion of his.  Guilt over being able to enjoy the Christmas lights he can’t see.  Extreme guilt over wanting to be able to control my own life, which is inextricably woven into his.

There are so many ways to trip up.  I can’t find something that is in plain sight, and thoughtlessly utter, “I must be blind.”  Complaints about the car only remind him that he can’t drive.  Even mentioning the weather is a trap.  He’s stuck indoors.

Our lives are both transformed.  Our collective future is unknown.  Plans become moot, what was once routine is fuzzy.  But we’ve also grown closer.  We are far more in tune with one another, more thoughtful, more appreciative.  Yesterday’s arguments and irritations melt into frivolous trifles.  We’ve had to throw aside selfish wants for life’s realities.  Compromise becomes easier, as does putting the other person first.  We touch more often, reach out for one another readily, hungry for connection.  A burning need to feel the love.

At long last, Rich has his first treatment – Botox injections along his eyebrows to deaden the nerves and stop the spasms.  It is typically effective in over 90% of such cases.  We are told it will be seven days before it takes effect.  So the waiting resumes, but this time with hope.  That makes a huge difference.  This could rearrange our lives yet again.

Rain and Shine

Four kids ages 1 to 9.  Two parents.  Two grandparents.  Three generations in one small retirement home.

What to do when it rains on your weekend plans?  Go out anyway!  The key is to work with the weather, not bemoan it.

Inspired by Anne Marie Gorham, of Lake Superior Beach Glass (who happens to be the daughter of my best friend in Jr and Sr High School), we headed out to Burlington Bay Beach in Two Harbors.  “The best time to find beach glass is when it’s raining,” grandson Ben informed me.  He’d seen enough of Anne’s videos in pelting rain to know.

And sure enough, he was right!  We forgot all about the raindrops while scouring the beach for those glistening shards.  It didn’t matter that most were tiny white specimens.  The mere fact that they were plentiful kept us peering, bending, picking and looking for more.  I admit to feeling giddy each time I plucked one from the rocks.  We scored some turquoise, green and one cobalt blue piece too.

Looking for beach glass 1 Looking for beach glass 2

We had visions of hiking on the North Shore in the brilliant fall foliage.  Instead, we decided to check out the raging torrents at Gooseberry Falls.  All that rainwater swelled the river beyond its banks, plummeting down to the lake with a thunderous roar.  Something tells me the kids found it more entertaining than fall colors.

Kennedys at Gooseberry Falls Ben at Gooseberry Falls

Passing the remainder of the day playing games, it was hard to imagine the rain would ever stop.  But Sunday morning dawned crisp and clear.  Seizing the moment, we started at The Deeps, where we inspected the new footbridge, then made our way to the Lester Park Playground.  There we stumbled on a Park and Rec “Pop-up” event.  The collection of lawn games and outdoor activities soon lured the kids away from the playground to try the offerings.

Mya and the Pop Up Park sign

Kennedy boys playing soccer in the Pop Up Park Mya tightrope walking in Pop Up park Mya playing Jenga in Pop Up Park

Karen was still intent on getting in that hike.  “I don’t want to go for a walk,” the kids wailed.  But as soon as we reached the COGGS Hawk Ridge Trail, the oldest two kids were off and running.  “This is so cool!”  They loved the advanced structures created for the most adventurous of mountain bikers, scrambling over the steep rock formations.  Lakeside spread out below us, a collage of yellows and greens, while leaves of every color carpeted the path.  Reining them in was impossible.  Their energy contagious.

Ben Mya on COGGS trailBen Mya on trailBen Mya overlooking cityIt’s hard to say which was better, playing in the rain or the sunshine.  I just know I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.