This post is not about the 21st set of Grammy Jammies. It was supposed to be, and I promise to get back to that story. But life has taken a sudden turn, and I need to take a short time-out.
I might as well get right to the bottom line. Ten days ago I had surgery that revealed I have stage-3 ovarian cancer that has spread to the lymph nodes. In addition to healing from that extensive ordeal, I am preparing to begin chemotherapy in a few weeks. The good news is that I am healing well at home now and making good progress. And I have felt the warmth and support flooding in from family and friends. It’s a new journey for me, but I feel ready to take it on.
I gave CaringBridge only a passing thought initially. That couldn’t really be for me. Those are really serious cases. Well, maybe that does describe me. But as time went by I began to experience the strong desire to keep those loyal friends and family informed. My brain swirled trying to keep track. Who did I tell what? When did I last update them? Did I send them that photo? I felt a shift. I could keep everyone updated at once. Send them to the single source of information. I’m in!
So I encourage you to visit my CaringBridge site here. I have posted several journal entries to catch folks up on the journey, so be sure to click on the Journal icon to get the full story (or follow this link) and scroll down. Note: You will need a CaringBridge account to access the site.
Meanwhile, I will work on getting back to that Grammy Jammie post.
I’m now in my 14th year of creating Grammy Jammies. The grandkids wait with eager expectation at Thanksgiving time, knowing I will bring out the fabric bags that contain the newest iteration of Christmas fleece and footies. ”What color do you think they will be?” they wondered this year, inventorying all the past colors and designs. I never give away my secrets.
It’s a joyful mayhem, untying the bags, pulling out the contents and rushing off to don the new soft Jammies and present us with a style show. Karen’s kids were at our house for the festivities. Ben and Mya have self-selected out of the footies by now, but still willingly sport matching jammy pants.
Unwilling to miss the fun at Carl’s house, I made a special trip to Milwaukee for the presentation. I barely got in the door before they clamored for the bags. There’s nothing like hugging wiggly laughing grandkids in fleece.
That brought the tally to 7.
Not one to shirk my duties, I continued on to outfit the furry friends as usual. Many of them are the same shape and size, and thankfully they do not grow or change from year to year! I can dash off at least two of those in a day.
Now I was up to 14.
But this year there was more. After at least a year of not so subtle hints from the parents, I took on the challenge to outfit them as well. Even though jammy pants are naturally loose and baggy, I found that fitting adults was trickier than the forgiving slipper jammies on the kids. Especially when compounded by a rather outdated pattern that assumed we still wore pants up to our natural waistline! So I took a graduated approach, making two pair at a time, altering them after try-on sessions, and learning as I went.
Karen and Matt were my first guinea pigs, and thankfully they took my outlandish productions with a great deal of humor and good sportsmanship.
For the record, I managed to tame their pants down to more reasonable proportions.
I arrived at Carl and Chelsea’s house equipped with sewing machine and measuring tools. Fortunately, my latest revisions served me well, and their jammy pants required just minor adjustments.
By the time I got to Erik and Katie, I had the process down to a system and quickly modified theirs to fit.
The good news is that I now have six individualized patterns that should suit everyone for future years!
So that brings the total to 20 pairs of jammies this year. A credible effort, and weeks of fun in the process. But wait, the title says 21!
Ah yes. Stay tuned for the next blog post to reveal the finale. (And no, I’d never get Rich to wear jammy pants!)
There’s no doubt, the pandemic has left its imprint on me. After several years of hibernating and withdrawing from contact, with my social life shrinkingdown to the confines of my house and on-screen human connection only, it’s hard to re-engage.
I grew accustomed to an empty calendar. To unlimited personal time to pursue my hobbies. To the simplicity of life focused on the outdoors where I could mingle safely with friends while running, walking or snowshoeing in the woods. I admit that it has been hard to reinstate entertaining at home, to schedule events in advance and find myriad obligations staring at me on Google Calendar.
So I don’t know what got into me early this summer when I saw the banner atop the DECC announcing “The Doobie Brothers in Concert!” I immediately flashed back to my college days – well in advance of that pesky pandemic – and I blurted out “Look! Let’s go see the Doobie Brothers!” I was out with my running buddies on our usual route through Canal Park and back to Dunn Bros where we would hang out longer over coffee. I’m usually pretty oblivious to the show offerings in town, and it was pure happenstance that I even saw the sign. But the idea caught on, and soon we had six tickets in hand, dragging our husbands into it with us.
We started with dinner at Silos, which allowed us to walk over to the concert where we entered with the other gray hairs, and a few 70s clad groupies. We were just above floor level with a straight-on view of the stage. Right on time, the band strode out and struck up the music – just as I remembered it. I didn’t even own a stereo in college, but the Doobie Brothers were one of the few bands whose music I knew well.
This was a 50th Anniversary Tour, and I marveled at the number of original band members still up there playing and singing their hearts out. The lights and sound systems were modern but the tunes had not changed. They still had the fullness of sound and harmonies I loved way back when.
The music went on without a break for two and half hours, and we marveled at the stamina of the musicians, still out there doing it. The crowd went wild, bringing on an encore set that lasted at least 20 minutes, the best music yet. We were among them, cheering, relishing the familiar refrains and singing along. Carried away by the memories, the music and the momentum of the evening.
Attending a concert was everything the pandemic was not. And it sure felt good to be out there again, in public, in the moment, in attendance at an amazing performance. Experiencing it – live.
Fast forward to October. “So, are you going to the concert?” my sister, Susie, texted. “Concert?” I hadn’t a clue. “ABBA!” she replied. Now that struck a chord – Rich has been an avid ABBA fan forever. Rarely a day goes by that I don’t hear an ABBA music video emanating from his phone. How could we not have known? Quickly confirming the quality of Mania: The ABBA Tribune band, he soon pressed Purchase for the concert just over a week hence.
This time we were in Orchestra Hall, with aisle tickets on the main floor in a far more intimate setting. I was familiar with ABBA’s music, largely through seeing Mama Mia, although thanks to Rich’s CDs I’d heard all the rest as well. But I knew virtually nothing about the original band members. So I got my first glimpse of the players on this stage.
Agnetha, Frida, Bjorn and Benny paraded out along with their backup band members. It was clear that the women would dominate the show, as they quickly took center stage to sing, dance and encourage audience participation. Agnetha had a classic Swedish look in her first costume, and partnered seamlessly with Frida.
This group was first created in 1999 and put on their first show in 2000. They have since traveled the world, recreating the music and magic of ABBA. Throughout the show, Rich filled me in with trivia about all the original band members, fun tidbits that helped put the performance in perspective. It all sounded good to me, each song a close enough match to the recordings to draw me into the performance.
As the concert went on, revelers migrated into the side aisles to dance to the music. We made do with tapping our feet and swaying our arms in the air when prompted, equally engaged. Song after familiar song went by until we thought we’d heard them all. But there was one clear omission. Sure enough, for the encore the band paraded back out to perform “Dancing Queen” which brought the audience to their feet once again. Including us.
I left with my head full of music, energized by the experience. Once again, glad we’d grabbed the opportunity. Living life fully again.
There is life after Covid after all. It still takes some effort to overcome that withdrawal mentality. But sometimes we don’t hesitate. We already have tickets to Mannheim Steamroller for their upcoming Christmas Tour concert in December.
I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. I knew it would take a lot of ingenuity, time and patience but I just had to do it.
A year and a half ago we made reservations to rent out a whole resort on Lake Vermilion for a family vacation. It’s a small place, and although we only needed four cabins we rented all five so that we could have the place all to ourselves. Just coordinating the work schedules, family plans and kid activities to find a mutual week for ourselves, our three kids, spouses and seven grandkids was daunting, but we finally agreed on the week of the 4th of July, 2023. The idea that each family would have their own space appealed to everyone, and as the summer began the excitement ratcheted up.
Knowing those seven kids would all be together, mingling day in and out at the resort, images of them in matching jammies kept dancing through my head.
The trick lay in the fact that these had to be summer jammies. Fleecy Grammy Jammies would not do. I couldn’t rely on the proven sewing patterns I’ve been using for 13 years, that I can make in my sleep. But I did know exactly what they should look like. I made them for my own kids year after year. Little knit t-shirts and shorts, or versions with long sleeves and full pants with ribbing at the bottom. I still had those patterns, but times have changed and even kids styles have evolved. My kids sported loose comfy garments. Today kids favor slim versions hugging their bodies.
Turning to the internet and the community of resourceful crafters out there, I found t-shirt patterns that not only suited today’s fashions but offered slim versions. For the shorts, I decided to alter my own patterns, taking tucks to narrow the flair. Whew, step one completed.
But what sizes to make? Pattern sizing is not uniform, so how was I going to translate the paper outlines to real kid sizes? The only answer was to be sneaky.
Both families with kids were due to visit in June. During each stay, stealth Grammy took action. When no one was looking, I swiped jammies lying in the hall. I snuck into their bedroom and rummaged through the pile of laundry. Suitcases held samples as well. I dashed into the laundry room with them, taking critical measurements and laying them on top of the patterns to match them to a size. Sometimes their clothes rendered different results. Waist measurements seemed to range all over the board. Were these well-fitting garments, or about to be discarded as too small?
My brain was spinning with the mental gymnastics and angst of trying to get the best fit. It was all a guessing game, but I ultimately had to commit to seven sets of patterns to use.
From there I was in familiar territory. I had already procured more than enough fabric. Now it was just a matter of cutting out the pieces and sewing them together. Soon I had seven little piles ready to go.
Three solid days of sewing later, the line-up was complete.
It was tempting to leave them out to admire, but I needed to package them up before I began to second-guess my work. That part was easy. The only fitting presentation was to use the same Christmas fabric wrapping bags that hold the Grammy Jammies every year.
After mourning the demise of the baby owl, Rich was greatly surprised to spy Fuzzball high up in a tree! Having just left the nest with Mama Owl and the sibling, he knew it had to be Fuzzball. But how could that be?
Two weeks ago, we were so certain that this circle of fuzz and feathers was all that was left of Fuzzball after a fox got to him. But now it appears this picture tells a different story.
Rich figures that instead this must have been a meal delivered to Fuzzball, who then hopped down into the ravine for Amity Creek. He survived on his own – with help from Mom and Dad, no doubt – and recently made his way up into this tree where Rich spotted him. Clever Fuzzball!
Imagine the euphoria that blanketed the household when Rich returned with the news! Fuzzball reigns again, and Rich’s forays into the woods to check on the owl family have at least doubled since that day. Although he figures that Fuzzball used his talons to scale that first tree, he has since confirmed that both Fuzzball and his sibling “Junior” have fledged. He now finds them across the creek high up in trees they could reach only by flying.
Mama owl and Junior in the nesting treeFuzzball in a white pine tree across the creek
It would appear that “the rescue” was a success after all. The dramatic turn of events put us on a roller coaster for a few weeks then a nosedive. But we’re thrilled with this happy ending. All because Fuzzball lives!
That’s all that is left. Poor Fuzzball, he so wanted to be free. But it cost him his life.
Last evening there was a knock on the door. “Your owlet is on the ground, right near the trail.” Apparently Fuzzball just didn’t care for his chair nest anymore. He wanted out. Rich hurried over and sure enough Fuzzball was out exploring. He figured the safest thing to do was to find a protected area for Fuzzball to spend the night, and deposited him in a deep thicket.
At 5:15 this morning, Fuzzball was out and about once again. Rich found him near the trail, relieved to know he made it through the night but concerned for his safety. Returning just half an hour later, all he found was a ring of fuzz and feathers. Nature had taken its cruel course. Rich surmises that a fox found Fuzzball and after a brief struggle carted him off to his den to feed his own hungry family.
It was 11 days ago that Fuzzball first entered our lives. In that short time, he brought a lot of joy to the many people who followed his story – in Rich’s blog and mine, out in the woods, watching from the road, and hearing it from friends. Rich did all he could for the little fella, but just could not curb his natural tendencies. Fuzzball couldn’t fly yet, but he could scurry around on the ground. He wasn’t good at holding on to branches yet, but he could scratch and bite whenever Rich re-rescued him. He was a fighter, and we hoped he would make it. But it was clear Rich could no longer protect the impetuous owlet who longed to roam. Rich did all he could, and we agree that helping Fuzzball survive in his home habitat was the right thing to do. Rich would do it all over again, despite the hole in his heart right now.
It’s worth reading Rich’s final blog post about Fuzzball, as he included many photos and videos he was unwilling to share before in order to protect Fuzzball from too much human exposure.
This is one of my favorite photos from the whole journey. It was nice knowing you, Fuzzball. We will all remember you fondly.
It’s not easy being a foster parent. Especially to an owlet.
Fuzzball seems to have adapted to his new nest quite well. Rich calls it Lawn Chair Nest 2.0, and amazingly it has remained stable on its perch high in the tree. Fuzzball appears content to sleep on the seat by day and host Mom at night when she brings him treats to eat. Not much has changed since Fuzzball’s Rescue, but that is good news. The more time that passes, the closer Fuzzball comes to getting his flight feathers. We harbor hopes that one day he will be strong enough to fly up to his real nest. Until then, we wait and watch. Becoming complacent in our foster parenting.
This morning that changed when Rich returned from his visit with news. “When I got to Fuzzball’s nest, he wasn’t there!”
What?
“The seat was empty. But I looked up, and there he was, standing on the back of the chair!”
It would appear that Fuzzball was ready to try branching. Lacking tree limbs to walk on, he found the next closest thing. This I had to see. Sure enough, there he was, back against the tree, stretched up to his full height. Suddenly he looked really BIG! Even though the sun was already climbing in the sky, he was wide awake and turned to watch me as I approached.
Fuzzball seemed quite proud of his accomplishment, and I have to admit I was impressed. Something like parental pride blossomed as I left him and headed out for my run.
When I returned, a third ladder had joined the collection down by our garage. There was only one explanation – Fuzzball. Rich wasn’t home, and curiosity ate away at my psyche. I had to check on him.
Approaching the nest, Fuzzball looked at me from the seat of chair nest. I silently congratulated him on safely making it back down to his resting spot. I moved around to get a better look. All looked well.
But that was not the whole story.
“I found Fuzzball on the ground again this morning,” Rich reported. Apparently he wasn’t so savvy about getting down from his perch after all. But it didn’t end there.
Rich filled me in. Fuzzball fell on his own the first time, but he plunged two more times – with help. Rich had decided Fuzzball needed an opportunity to try real branching. So he carried him up to a branch and carefully set him down on the limb.
Fuzzball was unable to hang on with his toenails, had bad balance, or just lacked Mom’s training in how to navigate in trees. He tilted, scrambled, spread his wings then plummeted to the ground. Rich tried again. Fuzzball suffered a similar fate.
Rich just happened to capture one of the falls on video. (Note, this is a private video that Rich will delete in a few days, to prevent it from going viral and exposing the owlet.) Click here to view the action. Apart from Fuzzball’s unfortunate tumbles, what I found most interesting and reassuring was seeing the growing feathers on Fuzzball’s wings.
Three strikes and out. Rich conceded the failed experiment and returned Fuzzball to chair nest, where I found him, unaware of his recent drama.
Fuzzball must have been relieved to be back on a stable platform. It was bad enough causing his own fall. Now he has to worry about saviors who can be a threat!
We foster parents don’t always get things right. But our hearts are in the right place. Hang in there, Fuzzball!
The name originated when my husband, Rich, was in the hospital for open heart surgery. He was relegated to a hospital bed for nearly two weeks, and in that time numerous staff members came and went, attending to his needs. Rich was always polite, thanked them profusely and inevitably talked about owls. In particular “his owls.” Soon hospital folks would enter his room and say, “Oh, you’re the Owl Guy!”
For five years, Rich has been watching the same Great Horned Owl couple. Starting in February he stalks the snowy woods near our house in the dark, listening for their hoots, tracking them down until he finds their nest, which often moves from year to year. Once spotted, he haunts the site, watching and photographing the miracle of life. From eggs in the nest under Mama Owl to fully grown and forced out of the territory in the fall, he chronicles the lives of the owlets. From fuzzballs to independent owls. They have become “his owls.”
Rich’s owls first gained fame during the pandemic. Isolated by Covid, Rich spent more hours in the woods than ever, and the owls chose to nest in a spot with a perfect vantage point for photography. There were three owlets that year and Rich blogged about them almost daily, posting pictures of their development and progress. His readership boomed. Others, similarly isolated, followed the owlets – a cute and endearing diversion provided by nature during that period of seclusion. Over time, Rich created a children’s book with his best photographs of the beloved owlets and theirjourney to adulthood.
This year, there are two owlets. Due to the long, harsh winter Mama laid her eggs much later than usual, and the first fluffball did not appear until well into May, followed by a sibling a week later. Rich was elated, once again back on owlet watch. And then the unthinkable happened.
Fuzzball fell out of the nest.
Rich happened to be near the nest with two trusted photography buddies late one afternoon last week when one of them spotted Fuzzball huddled in a depression, 80 feet below the nest. Estimating the baby bird to be about four weeks old, Rich noted that it did not yet have any flight feathers. It had not even started “branching” yet (walking out on branches near the nest). With the nest at an unreachable height, the poor owlet had no means of survival. Rich donned his falcon gloves (he’s rescued owls before) and laid the frightened but seemingly unharmed bird in a towel-lined tub.
Rich contacted Wildwoods, the local animal rehabilitation center, but they were already closed for the day. As we had dinner with Fuzzball resting nearby, Rich’s brain was churning. Surely the bird would be better off near Mom and Dad than doomed to life in captivity? Was there a way he could create a new nest for Fuzzball, where he could be watched, protected and fed by his parents? Abandoning the unwashed dishes, Rich sprang into action.
I had no idea that a lawn chair could simulate a nest. But apparently Rich did. Covering it with a packing blanket for cushioning and to prevent the bird’s talons from catching in the mesh, he finished it off with bungee cords to hold it all in place. Next he hauled our longest ladder into the woods, and with the help of a family hiking past, he hauled the “nest” as high as he could and secured it with bungees stretching around the tree.
Getting the bird up into the nest was a tricky climb, but at last Fuzzball was installed in his new home.
We both heaved a sigh of relief with Fuzzball off the ground and in sight of his real nest. The question was whether Mom and Dad would find him and take care of him? Sleep was elusive that night.
Morning brought good news. Fuzzball was alert and active – he had survived the night! Rich talked to Wildwoods and convinced them that the owlet was better off in his new nest, and promptly secured the site with Caution tape and a warning sign to leave the little guy alone, and NOT post on social media. Humans were as much a threat to Fuzzball as his natural predators.
While pleased with the decision to leave Fuzzball in the woods, I also knew it would enhance our home life. Not only are they Rich’s owls, they are Rich’s owlets. My only role may have been iPhone photographer, but I couldn’t help but feel invested in these birds. Rich’s wellbeing and mine was secured as long as this experiment went well.
A few days later, Rich installed his trail-cam opposite Fuzzball. He was richly rewarded when he caught a nighttime feeding on video! Fuzzball sat upright, seemingly looking up in the direction of home. Soon Mom flew onto the chair seat alongside Fuzzball and immediately began tearing up bits of food which he rapidly devoured. It was working!
Rich still lives day by day, checking on Fuzzball morning, noon and evening, and spying on him with the webcam at night. I get detailed reports. Fuzzball’s rescue is our newest entertainment.
Snow storage. It’s a term I learned in Valdez, Alaska. I visited in the summer, but I couldn’t miss the extra wide streets with large medians down the middle. Yards had extra space near driveways. There were massive open lots. All designed to pile up excess snow to make room for more when an average of 300″ fall each winter.
Now I get it. In Duluth, this is the winter that just won’t quit. The snow keeps coming, the banks climb higher and our plow service had to bring in a special machine to make room around our driveway to clear the snow yet to come. With over 125″ of snowfall, it’s already the 6th snowiest winter on record, just 10″ from the top.
Rich and I have done our best to find respite from this relentless winter. Two weeks in Hawaii, a trip to visit my son in Seattle, and a week in Tucson were all welcome breaks from the snow and cold. And yet winter still reigns.
Don’t get me wrong. I love winter. And I love it most when it is snowy and keeps refreshing the ski trails and piles up for snowshoeing. So I’m all for this snow. But April is beckoning.
Perhaps this is my payback for checking out of winter this year. The weather gods were giving me a chance to catch up on what I missed. So who was I to argue? It was time I embraced it, even if it felt like the wrong season.
Thirteen inches of new snow just begged for snowshoeing. I’ve learned that I need to get out early in order to plunder untrampled trails, to sink into virgin powder and share the forest with only the birds and animal tracks. Snow still blanketed the trees and even though I ducked low beneath the branches overhanging the trail, snow still slithered down my neck now and then. But in the late season’s mild temperature, I didn’t care.
I got antsy to ski. I knew the groomer had not yet worked its magic, so I grabbed my classic skis and prepared to trudge. I was relieved to find that one or two intrepid skiers had already broken trail, and I slipped my skis into their tracks. It required more push than glide, but that wasn’t the point. The brilliant sunshine, peaceful shush of my skis and the smooth undulation of the snow filled my senses. Winter at its best, no matter what the calendar said.
By the next snowfall, I had succumbed to the draw of upscale snowshoes. Tired of trying to work resistant buckles with stiff frozen fingers, I salivated over some Tubbs with easy in-and-out bindings and extra features like heel lifts. I pressed Add to Cart and they came in time for the next six inch snowfall.
Since I wasn’t as quick to get out, the local trails were already groomed for fat tire bikes. I took to the banks as often as I could, finding soft snow atop an older crusty layer. The spikes gripped like a dream and I floated over the snow. Even on the packed trail, I had all the traction I needed. That short trial run only whetted my appetite for more.
Skiing in warmer conditions also has its own unique guidelines. I’m a morning person, but in the season of melt and refreeze I have to exercise my limited patience and wait until afternoon when the snow will begin to soften. Sure enough, the skate deck that was rock hard the day before was melting in the sun and had just enough give to provide my skis with the edge I needed. It was a delight to ski in minimal layers as I made my way around the Lester-Amity trail system.
I’ve only been home for two weeks, yet it feels like a winter’s quota of outdoor splendor. I think I have caught up on winter.
Friendship doesn’t come easily. It takes work to continue the bonds, to nurture the relationships and overcome time and distance. Especially when 49 years and thousands of miles stretch between us. But we’ve done it, three times now.
The six of us entered Knox College in the fall of 1973, all living in the same antiquated dorm with even more ancient rules and traditions. We swapped roommates over our four years, and as our finale we all lived in the same “suite” with a few more senior girls. Bonding over our shared experiences.
Nine years ago, we instituted our first mini-reunion, which we now dub our Knox ReUn. We gathered for a weekend in the Twin Cities where three of us lived at the time, sharing the hosting duties. We followed that four years later, renting a condo in Chicago where two more members lived. It resembled dorm life, sharing bedrooms, communal cooking and assigned clean-up duties.
That left one locale – New York state, where Barb lives and better yet has a cabin in the Adirondack Mountains where she spent her summers since she was six years old. Promises were made, plans set in motion, airline tickets purchased and dozens of emails flew back and forth. Despite being delayed by Covid, five of us finally convened on Long Lake for the week.
It felt different this time. Sequestered in a beautiful setting, surrounded by water and mountains and myriad options for outdoor adventure was liberating. We found ourselves mixing and matching in little groups for kayaking, swimming, hiking or just lounging in a hammock. There was an air of leisure, a lack of schedule and a shared feeling of relaxation. An ability to take life as it came – a far cry from our self-imposed rigid study regimes of yore.
For the first time, all of us are retired, save one. No one felt any pressure to make the most of every minute. It was enough to just be there. Together. Conversation flowed easily. We no longer had a need to talk work, to air the stress and pressure we felt or bemoan the challenges we navigated. Instead, we could savor this freedom and the ability to enjoy our retirement from the careers we earned with that college degree.
Silliness and fun was not only allowed but encouraged. Barb booked us on a Rail Biking adventure where we pedaled alongside the Hudson River. We floated in the water, buoyed by noodles. We slurped ice cream cones mid-afternoon. We roasted marshmallows and consumed s’mores by the campfire on the beach. We attempted stand-up paddle boarding, some with greater degrees of success than others! It was college antics all over again. Only better.
For me, the best part of the week was the true immersion. All that mattered was what was happening right around me. The rest of the world faded into the background, inconsequential for the moment. Responsibilities would wait, deadlines could be elastic, duties were avoided. Spending time with friends trumped all.
When I entered Knox and forged these friendships, I never foresaw the longevity of these ties. I never dreamed that 49 years later I would be sitting around a table sharing morning coffee, or piling into a speed boat together. It took a lot of dedication and persistence to make this happen. But we’re not done yet. We’ve already decided to reconvene in three years for a destination vacation. I can already see it happening. Because this group keeps its promises.
Superior Footprints 