Category Archives: Family Footprints

Skiing – A Christmas Eve Tradition

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First SkisI grew up in a family of downhill skiers. My parents spent their honeymoon skiing at the King’s Gateway in the UP. I learned to ski at the age of five, going up the hill between my dad’s legs as he rode the T-bar. Skiing was a family affair, rising early to drive to the ski hill, eating the lunch that Mom packed in the leather travel case, and skiing until the slopes closed. My best birthday present was the pair of Head skis my parents gave me – I felt like I’d reached the big league.

From an early age, I remember spending Christmas Eve skiing. All the excitement of Christmas seemed to crescendo, reaching its peak on that day. The anticipation of all the presents and the holiday made the day endless. We probably drove our parents crazy, snooping under the tree and getting under foot while they made the final preparations. So they instituted the tradition of going skiing. We’d ski all day and get home tired and happy, just in time for dinner and a hot bath.

In the early years, the whole family spent the day skiing. As we got older and my siblings got their driver’s licenses, they would drive us to the ski hill while Mom and Dad stayed home. I didn’t realize it then, but it must have been a welcome opportunity to prepare for Christmas undisturbed.

Brule trailsI’m still a skier, but I’ve long since traded downhill for cross-country skiing.  I love the quiet, the trails, the constant motion and the challenge of the uphills. So this Christmas Eve found me out in the woods instead of out on the slopes, but still skiing. It seemed so right. And just like in years past, it helped stem the tide of my anticipation. It’s not the presents under the tree that fuel my excitement these days, it’s the arrival of my IMG_9427 trimmedchildren and their children. The cooking and baking are nearly complete for the holiday meals, the house and tree are decorated, and the presents are all wrapped.  I’m ready to trade empty nesting for a house full of family, noise, and togetherness.  The new house will be overflowing, putting airbeds into use and slipping grandkids into small corners to sleep.  But that’s what memories are made of.  Bring it on – it’s Christmas Eve!

Singing The Messiah with Mabel

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I’ve always wanted to do a Messiah Sing.  It sounded like great fun – the audience and the performers are one and the same.  An orchestra is provided, and singers come together to sit in the auditorium and sing Handel’s Messiah from beginning to end.  So when I saw that St. Scholastica had a Messiah Sing, I decided I’d go.

I’d sung a number of pieces from The Messiah in my high school and college choirs, so I knew some of the sections would be very familiar to me.  In fact, I doubted I needed the music for “For Unto Us” and of course the “Hallelujah Chorus.”  Something that monumental sticks with you for life.  I knew there would be pieces of music I’d never seen before, but I was counting on my rusty sight reading skills and the more experienced singers around me to carry me through.  I recruited a friend to go with me, and I was ready for the challenge.

But I had another reason for going.  Back last summer when we were cleaning out Mom’s house, we went through all her old music.  I found a score for The Messiah that had belonged to her mother, Mabel, with her name hand written on the cover.  It felt like a treasure and I claimed it for my own, hoping for this very opportunity.

Mabel was a music teacher and the first music supervisor for the Iron River, Michigan public schools in the first quarter of the 1900s.  She was known for loving “show business” and the musicals she put on, both in the schools and in the community.  She also greatly enriched the music program to serve all students in the schools.  We found a tribute written about her for the town’s centennial celebration.  One phrase jumped out at me, “Surely no one belonging to the mixed chorus could ever forget rehearsing ‘The Hallelujah Chorus’ from Handel’s famous oratorio, ‘The Messiah.'”

The score sat on my bookshelf until last night.  So as we progressed through the music singing, I found Mabel’s notations for the first time.  It felt so deeply personal to see her markings for expression, for breathing, for dynamics.  I loved turning the brittle yellowed pages, knowing she had turned them, probably directing that school choir.  It made the evening special, bringing back my musical roots and reminding me of my own musical training starting from a young age.

I never knew my grandmother, Mabel.  She died when my mother was 16.  But she left behind a musical legacy that lived on through my mom and on down through me and my own children.  I am so very thankful to her for that.  And I look forward to next year, when I will again bring her score to sing The Messiah.

We thought she was a goner

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It didn’t look good.  Spot’s accidents in the house turned out to be more than a nuisance – she was sick.  Blood in her urine and losing control of her bladder could not be a good sign.  At 15+ years old, we knew her time was limited and we had pledged not to resort to any heroics to prolong her life.  It was with heavy hearts that we acknowledged we could be facing the end.

The difficult part was waiting.  It developed over a weekend, and we wanted to get her in to see her regular vet who had examined her just two months prior and knew her history.  So we kept her warm and as comfortable as possible and doted on her.  We had to keep her confined to the tiled area in the house, which meant she could not sleep beside our bed at night.  I awoke in the morning to find Rich missing from his spot beside me.  He had gotten up in the middle of the night, scrounged around for a sleeping bag and laid down with his beloved pet.

We called the kids to let them know and give them warning of what seemed to be a likely outcome.  We promised not to do anything until they could come over for their final good-byes, and planned a Skype session with our son in DC so he could “see” Spot one more time.  It was pretty grim around our house.

We were able to get in to see the vet first thing Monday morning.  Rich and I went together, but he could hardly speak, given his sorrow.  The upbeat attitude of the assistants in the office and the professionalism of the vet were somewhat calming, but I wondered if it was false hope.  It turns out not!  A urinary tract infection seemed the most likely cause of Spot’s woes, and could easily be treated with antibiotics.  That didn’t sound like heroics to us, so we agreed to give it a try and left with our bottle of pills.

Miracle medicine we called it.  Spot’s system rapidly responded to the treatment.  With the help of frequent trips outdoors, her accidents ceased. She lost that haunted look she had been wearing.  The appearance of the dog across the street initiated vigorous barking.  That’s our old Spot!  She also figured out that the additional pills meant more peanut butter – her favorite treat.

We’ve gradually given her greater range in the house, and she’s still enjoying pampered treatment.  We’re just glad she’s still with us.  Her time wasn’t up after all.

We have arrived!

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It’s only a mailbox.  Well, a super-duper mailbox.  But it represents so much more.  After building a house and several years of splitting time between the Twin Cities and Duluth, we have finally tipped the balance and are spending over 50% of our time in the Northland.  And we anticipate that growing.  So we decided it was time to make it official.  Yesterday Rich filled out the forms to make this our formal residence and started mail service.  Expecting government forms to fill out in triplicate for the mail, Rich was amused and gratified to find that all it took was writing the address on a post-it note.  Done deal – that’s all our mailman needs.  Today the mailbox went up.  We are Duluthians once more.  We both grew up here, and love being back by Lake Superior.

I have to admit that for me, there are still family members in the Twin Cities that tug on the heartstrings of this decision.  We are fortunate to have two of our three children settle in good jobs back in the Cities after college.  And one has produced two beautiful grandchildren for us.  Proximity to them is priceless, which is why I know that we haven’t seen the end of Highway 35 yet.  Not in a long shot.

On the flip side, the rest of our family loves Duluth and the North Shore.  I guess we brought them up right.  And we learned one unexpected lesson.  Once we began celebrating holidays in our Duluth home, having our children and grandkids here for the holiday meant having them stay.  If the little ones get cranky or need a nap, they don’t head home after the big meal.  And we get them for several days, not just one.  There is nothing like waking up in the morning and making fresh muffins for my grandson.  Or snuggling with my granddaughter as she has her morning bottle.  Or perhaps I can go for a run and out for coffee with one of my own kids.  The time is precious, and there is nothing like sharing space with them in our home.

My daughter reminded me of the times she and her brothers stayed with my parents in Duluth while Rich and I took time to go up to the Boundary Waters or other adult pursuit.  She remembered it fondly, calling it “Grandma and Grandpa Camp.”  It’s a term I don’t remember myself, but I’m ready to recreate the experience.

Tick Tock – A very special clock

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Grandfather has moved in with us.  The grandfather clock, that is.  I grew up with this clock, its slow audible tick and faithful dinging on the hour.  It inhabited the space in our front hallway and its tone was easily distinguishable from the other chiming clocks in the house – and we had a few.  Friends sleeping over were constantly awoken by the myriad bells going off on the quarter, half and full hour while family members easily slept through them all.

Sunday was the day for winding clocks.  Dad would make his rounds, getting out the unique key for each clock and methodically turning it until it was fully wound.  The grandfather clock kept impeccable time until his death.  After that, the clock just wasn’t the same.  They say a clock doesn’t run the same when someone else winds it.  This one was no exception.  No one else had Dad’s touch.

Even as a youngster, I was aware that this clock had a special history.  There were vague stories about its original lead weights being melted down for bullets during the Revolutionary War.  I was never sure if it was fact or just a good story.  But it was indeed born out by a history of the clock, written by my great uncle, and recently unearthed by a distant cousin.  He also related how the “new” canister weights, filled with sand and scrap iron were unable to travel a long enough distance to run the clock for a full 7 days.  So Uncle Henry cut holes in the base of the clock to allow them to travel right down to the floor.  I’m sure that the Antiques Roadshow folks would shudder at his ingenuity, but he reports that he achieved his desired result and the clock then ran for a full week.

The clock was believed to have been purchased by Uncle Henry’s mother around 1872, and therefore was not considered a family heirloom.  But by this time I can’t help but consider it anything else.  It’s simple lines and lack of ornateness add to its appeal and are a testament to its ancient lineage.

On its travels from Mom’s house to mine, I had a local clockmaker take out the works and get the clock running again.  He did a fine job, and once more it is ticking, chiming on the hour and keeping good time.  It stands out as the only antique in a very modern house, but I rather like it that way.  And time will tell if it adapts to my own winding technique.

Halloween Costumes Revisited

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When we moved out of our family home of 26 years, we had a lot of paraphernalia to sort through and toss.  My voluminous collection of sewing patterns definitely needed pruning.  I had a good laugh at some of the styles I knew I would never revisit.  But some patterns are timeless.  Costumes included.

With Halloween approaching, and my daughter Karen’s desire to dress her kids as Winnie the Pooh and Piglet, I was eager to help.  For Pooh, I was relieved to find that I had indeed saved the costume pattern that I used years ago to fashion a bunny costume for Karen.  What better place to start for Pooh’s costume?  She was three at the time, and her son is nearly two and a half.  It was great fun to pull it out and recreate the suit for a second generation.  With different fabric the bunny became Pooh bear.  And the price on that pattern?  Just $1.75. They don’t make them like that any more!

Piglet was a joint effort.  Karen sought out the pink leggings and shirt, while I adapted a red onesie for Piglet’s body.  All that we lacked was the head and ears.  In step the internet.  With a quick search I was able to find a free downloadable pattern for an adorable cap.  Unfortunately, when finished it turned out to be too small.  No problem, using SnagIt (one of my favorite software tools), I was able to save the pattern as an image, expand it and reprint the larger size.  The second attempt was a perfect fit!  Ears for both Pooh and Piglet were one part sewing experience and two parts imagination.

We had great fun trailing Pooh and Piglet around their neighborhood on Halloween.  No tricks – just seeing them in their costumes was a treat.

Oh, sew much fun!

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I love to sew.  It’s so rewarding to create clothing or household items from scratch.  I have my mom to thank for teaching me her extensive skills, and my faithful Elna sewing machine that was my college graduation present and has served me well ever since.  When the kids were little, I added a serger and went to town creating sweatsuits, t-shirts, pajamas and Zubaz (remember those?) for just pennies.  As work became more demanding and our income rose, my sewing took a holiday while I focused on family time.  But retirement has given me the opportunity to resume, and grandchildren are the perfect excuse to dust off those sewing machines.

My first foray into this renewed sewing venture was pajamas.  Each year for Christmas I would make matching pajamas for our three children.  You’d be surprised at how old they were by the time that tradition was set aside!  This time I started with slipper-jammies.  You know, the soft fluffy kind that have feet and zip

up from one ankle to the neck.  And I’ve  now doubled the ante – one set with Christmas designs to wear leading up to Christmas (and beyond since their mom is as practical as I am) and another in a winter motif to find under the tree.  We’ll see if that keeps up as the number of grandchildren grows…

Next I need to fire up the serger again.  I’m sure I will need to re-educate myself on how to thread it and the intricacies of how to do the different stitches.  I have vivid memories of how tricky it is to get all four spools threaded properly and get good stitches going.  I’ll need patience, I know.  I was amazed, though, at the dearth of knit fabrics and ribbing available in the stores now.  Did women give up their sergers?  I used to have volumes of bolts to choose from, with all sorts of patterns and colors.  Whatever happened to sweatshirt material, or interlock?

Sewing in general seems on the downswing.  I will admit with some regret that I did not foster my daughter’s sewing skills to the same degree.  Fabric stores have closed by the dozens, particularly those that were dedicated to sewing alone.  How well I remember going down to Minneapolis from Duluth just to shop at Amluxen’s downtown.  They had at least two floors full of fabrics, and I always saved my money to buy my favorite fabric there – Pendleton wool.  There was no finer wool or more beautiful plaids.  But then again, we dressed differently in those days, and had more use for those formal fabrics.

I’ve never been big on following trends, so I’ll hang in there and keep sewing as long as I can find fabric.  And it’s time to get going on those PJs that go under the tree.

The Peanut Butter Dog

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Spot is a Bassamation.  She’s a stray that wandered onto the Texas farm of my brother’s fiance shortly before they were married, while they were preparing the grounds for their outdoor chuck-wagon wedding reception.  Try as they might to find her owner, she was still around when their wedding day came, so they tied a bandana around her neck and she mingled with the guests.  Our kids were enamored with the gentle dog but it was my husband, Rich, who surprised us all.  After years of resisting the kids’ persistent pleas for a dog, Rich looked at me and said “I could live with Spot.  Should I go tell the kids?”

Not too surprisingly, we were the hit of the reception – the family that was rescuing the black and white dog.  But getting her home to Minnesota was something else again.  Turns out that various shots and a health certificate were required – fortunately my niece volunteered at a vet’s office who obliged by seeing us on a weekend.  And then there were the flight restrictions.  Our airline didn’t take dogs.  Period.  And all the others would not fly dogs in the heat of the summer.  The idea of renting a car to drive her home was not appealing, but was slowly becoming our only option.  In step my mom and sisters and a wonderful breeder.  While out on a drive in the country, Mom and the others passed a breeder’s sign that said “We ship our dogs anywhere.”  Anywhere?  Not being shy, they trotted up the drive and relayed our predicament. Given her love of dogs, the breeder immediately offered to assist in our rescue of this stray.  Once we identified a flight that a) left before 7am, b) was heading north, c) was non-stop, and d) the temperature had not yet reached 70 degrees, Spot was winging her way to her new home.

At the time, the vet estimated she was 3-5 years old.  She has spent over 11 years as a beloved member of the family.  And although it was the kids who pleaded for a dog, it’s Rich that Spot adopted.  The two are inseparable.  They say that strays are devoted to the person who rescued them, and somehow Spot knows it was Rich.  She’s slowing down these days – at age 15 or so, she’s entitled.  And I finally found a way to worm my way into her heart.  Peanut butter.  The arthritis in her bones is evident in her stiffness and the way she moans.  The vet recommended a homeopathic tablet to help ease her pain, and it’s working.  The trick to getting her to take it three times a day is peanut butter.  I administer the doses, so she now follows me around the house looking at me with her big eyes and a look that says “more peanut butter now?”  I still may not be her favorite, but I’ll take it.

The Empty House

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They said the house had “good bones.”  In realtor speak that meant that despite the tired cosmetics and the updates that it needed, the house had an appealing structure and was basically sound.  Walking through the house after we’d emptied it of all the contents, I could finally see it.

Devoid of all Mom’s furniture and belongings, my footsteps echoed as I walked across the wooden floors.  Cupboards and doors creaked more loudly than usual as I peered inside to make sure nothing was left behind.  Rooms looked larger than before.  The character became more apparent.

It took on the look of a “new” house.  Rather than feeling nostalgic about the years Mom had spent there and the good family times we shared in that space, I felt like I was seeing it through the eyes of the buyer.  I understood how they could get excited about moving in.  I could see the potential it held, and the opportunities they had for transforming it into their own unique space.

It made me feel good about turning the house over to someone who will give it new life.  Transformations are fine with me, all the better if it renews the spirit of the house.

It’s time to move on.  My daughter texted me as I was leaving the house for the last time.  Pick a flower as you leave for a final memory, she said.  So I did.  I left the house empty, but brought a little bit of Mom home with me.   One final time.

Then and Now

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The picture caught my eye right away.  Dad’s old photo album had a photo that he labeled “New Road to the Porcupine Mountains” dated 1936.  We traveled that same road this summer on our cycling trip.  What was just being built in Dad’s day is a mature road in mine.

Soon my eyes were scanning other photos as I worked my way through the albums, looking for familiar sights.  It didn’t take long.  Dad went to college in Houghton, so I easily found another common location on the Keweenah Peninsula, the Eagle Harbor lighthouse.  He took his picture from the water, I took mine from land.

We both visited Copper Harbor, although Dad must have gone up Brockway Mountain Drive to get to the overlook for a broad sweeping view.  Since we were on bicycles, we declined the additional climb.  But I think it would have been worth it.

Another album brought a trip to the Canadian Rockies.  We too traveled there this summer.  Who can resist Lake Louise and the pretty hike along the lake to look back at the big chateau?  Apparently neither my dad nor I could.

We had more than travels in common.  Dad loved to ski, and I discovered that he skied the trails as well as the slopes as a young man.  I too took to the trails in the UP last winter.

 

Dad and Mom enjoyed canoeing.  I don’t think they ever went to the Boundary Waters, like I did with my son Carl.  I think they preferred more sedate day trips.  And fashion wear.

Some things are timeless.  It feels good to know that Dad and I chose the same places to visit.  We chose the same outdoor activities.  And we took the same pictures.  Lasting memories, then and now.