Time out for Waterfalls

Posted on September 2, 2020 by Molly

With my manuscript ready for the Post Office, I am free. There is no point in laboring over minutia, tweaking the words, or re-crafting my dialog. While my writing coach spends the next month pouring over my draft and developing a plan to guide my next steps, I am absolved from working on it.

I promised myself this respite. After hunkering down and writing all spring and summer, limiting my excursions to the cabin and family visits, it’s time to venture further afield. Rich and I have decided that the safe way to do that is to stay self-contained, driving and renting AirBnBs that have kitchen facilities. Sheltering in another place.

Our first foray is up to Grand Marais, returning to a gem of a rental, Tre Søstre in the heart of town. These three mini-tower dwellings bear the Scandinavian sleek design of architect David Salmela. With huge windows overlooking the harbor, a deck on each floor and within walking distance from everything in town, it’s an upscale haven. Since we are in the middle unit this time with two bedrooms, we invited our son Erik and his wife Katie – as well as pooch Finley – along.

We dedicated a whole day to journeying up the shore, hiking in state parks along the way. The common theme was waterfalls. It didn’t require rigorous effort, as each site was a mile and a half or less from the car. Half the fun was just lingering, not caring how long it took, and drinking up the sunshine. Escapism at its best.

Our first stop was at Tettegouche, where we hiked up to High Falls. Katie braved the rocks and water to throw sticks for Finley who boldly swam below the falls, while the rest of us perched on rocks.

On the way back down, we took a side trail to see Two Step Falls – requiring 200 steps down. And back up again.

Temperance River has always been a favorite of mine, with its deep gorge, rushing water and potholes scoured out by swirling water, sand and gravel. Despite the almost-fall season, there was still plenty of waterflow accompanied by lots of oohs and aahs.

Temperance River 3

We followed the trail up to Upper Falls. This view took a bit of maneuvering down a steep rocky unmarked path that we missed the first time we passed by. But it was worth the climb down.Happy Hour on the deck while Erik and Katie prepared shrimp scampi was pretty sweet. I’m starting to get into this time out.

Here I go again

Posted on August 29, 2020 by Molly

My forever project. That’s what I’m now calling the work that has consumed the last four years of my life. What was I thinking when I started out to write a book, expecting that it was The Year of my Book? Naive as I was, I poured my heart and soul into the stories I wrote for the next year. And the year after that. Tales derived from the thousands of miles that Rich and I covered on our bicycle tours, along with the joys and the conflicts that accompanied them.

I supplemented my work with taking writing classes, reading books about craft, joining Lake Superior Writers, and networking with other writers. I grew as a writer, but knew it wasn’t enough. I decided to engage a writing coach, to get first-hand personal input on my efforts to write a book. Even as I packaged up my work to send to Mary Carroll Moore, I knew what I had was just a “pile of content.” I relied on her to steer me through shaping it into a book. I spent the next six months working with her, and she delivered.

Molly writing

It has taken me another two years to put those learnings into practice. To whittle down my stories and turn them into a cohesive tale. One that goes well beyond pushing the pedals of my bike, and explores the inner me that journeys through life. I’ve learned that the bicycle is the vehicle, not the real focus.

Less than half of what I first wrote remains in this new version. But so much more is woven in between those pages. I’ve delved into my past, dug into my innermost desires, scrutinized my motives and exposed my biggest failure. There were times when writing felt like therapy sessions. But I could see how it all began to weave together. I could feel it working. Maybe.

I feel as though I’ve taken it as far as I can on my own. I could spend months tweaking and fine tuning, but it would all be for naught if I’m not on the right track. I’m yearning for that professional guidance and tutoring specific to my writing, to my project. I’m ready for another check-in with my coach.

As I prepared for the October start to our next engagement, I looked back on the notes I sent her the first time around. Specifically, I read through an exercise focused on Why am I Writing this Book? I was amazed to find that my original reasons no longer hold true. My purpose has changed. The themes have shifted. The points I want to make are vastly different. I think it’s progress. I hope she thinks so too.

Yesterday I took my document to the printer, and came home with 320 double-spaced pages. Nearly the same size as last time, but not at all the same inside. This time I’m willing to call it a manuscript.

I’m both eager and nervous to get Mary’s reaction to the transformation. I already know she will be encouraging no matter what. But I have no illusions that I’m close to done. I trust her to guide me from here, and teach me the techniques and nuances that will take this to the next level.

Mary is still the only other person who has read this volume. I’ll keep it that way until I’m good and ready, until it’s good and ready. I know I still have plenty of work to do. So here I go again. Coaching round 2.

Loon Swimming Companions

Posted on August 7, 2020 by Molly

For three years running I had a feud with the loons. We battled one another for my swimming space in front of the cabin, and invariably the loons won. With their fancy dances and alarmist yodeling, they drove me away. Away from swimming my laps. Away from their young chicks. Unseen but undoubtedly nearby in their nest.

I never did figure out where that nest was. But in loon logic it was too close for comfort. Too close to let a swimming human any closer.

By now I have been well trained. Starting each July, I scan the water for loons before pushing off from the dock. I double check the area as I near the widening in the reeds. The loon parents have radar and will speed in from the middle of the lake to fend off my advances. But not this year.

So far I have yet to encounter a single loon while swimming. Sadly, I know it means they have no chicks. Or perhaps they have moved their nest further afield. I hope it is the latter.

This morning a loon pair float into my space as I begin my swim. Hesitantly I breaststroke, keeping my head above water, my eyes trained on the loons. They remain calm. Floating, dipping their heads in the water, looking for fish. I try shouting to drive them away, but they ignore my silly cries, only giving a mild yodel to acknowledge my presence. So I swim on.

This is nothing like the protective threats of yore, which instilled a healthy fear and retreat. I know not to cross that line. But this feels different. I engage full lap swimming mode, crossing from one side of the reeds to the other and back again in a strong front crawl. Without the line in the bottom of a swimming pool, my laps tend to stray off course, so I steal looks now and again to make sure I am not veering closer to the loons. Still they float nonchalantly, willing to share the space.

Underneath my minor victory lies a good dose of discomfort. They are still wild birds, after all, and unpredictable. I head for shore while I’m still ahead on this round. I send my loon friends a silent thanks for their company and forbearance. For letting me swim with them.

Next year the feud may resume. I do want their chicks to survive. Just not near my swimming spot. I would miss my loon swimming companions.

All photos by Rich Hoeg, 365DaysOfBirds.com

Note: The telephoto lens makes the loons appear closer to me than they really were – they were about 5 yards away.

Reliving History

Posted on August 5, 2020 by Molly

The year was 1985. It was our first year back in Minnesota, and with one child in tow we eagerly headed Up North for our first family vacation on Lake Wabana. We rented the same little cabin Rich had frequented as a little boy, and I instantly fell in love with it as well. It became our summer getaway for the next five years.

The cabin came with a small rowboat, and we brought our prized motor to power it – a full 1.5 hp, with a rope on top that Rich would wind around and around then pull to start the motor. It was our locomotion for the week.

That year we took our first long boat excursion. Wabana is part of a chain of lakes, and our goal was to reach the Joyce Estate on Trout Lake, two lakes and two streams away. It required starting early in the morning on a day with little wind and no chance of rain. At our speed, it was an all-day adventure.

We pulled off the trip successfully, and it became an annual pilgrimage. Even when we bought our own cabin where we had a much bigger boat and motor and a family of five, we would trailer our boat over to Wabana and repeat the trip. Still a favorite cabin activity.

Today Rich and I rise with the sun and set out to relive history. The big boat has been replaced by a grandchild friendly pontoon boat, so we hitch up our little 12’ boat and a 3 hp motor. Arriving at the boat launch on Wabana, I strain to find the lake. The lingering overnight chill is robbing the lake of its warmth, and a thick fog lies over the still water. I am bundled in three layers and a jacket and I pull up my hood to ward off the light wind. This is not how I remember setting out.

As we motor away from the landing, a tall figure materializes in the mist. A lone paddle boarder is plying the waters, ghost-like as he crosses the bay then silently disappears. We struggle to find the opening to the first stream. Not daring to lose sight of the shoreline, we cling to the water’s edge until a bright sign jumps out at us. “Slow No Wake” it warns. That wasn’t there before, but we are thankful for the gaudy entry post.

Motoring up the narrow stream is easy with our tiny boat and motor. A merganser mom approaches with her brood of five chicks. Rich, ever the bird photographer pulls over and stops. Only when she is opposite us does mom see us, and she quickly prods her family into a frenzied sprint to get by. We laugh as we watch their heads wobble with the rhythm of their rapid strokes. No time to get that photo. The mental image was enough.

Little Trout Lake is shrouded in fog. Despite its small size, we cannot see across. But we’re not looking there yet – a mama loon with her well grown chick distract us and we follow. Just beyond, a splash reveals three otters. That mama hisses as us and leads her two young away. They dunk and reappear trying to get away. The little ones imitate mom with baby hisses. Always looking behind, swimming to safety.

Despite grousing about the fog, and how we could have had a nice sunny day if we’d waited a few hours before setting out, I had to admit these were special moments we would have missed.

Another No Wake sign leads us to the next stream and on into Trout Lake. The fog refuses to lift, and the Joyce Estate lies on the far shore – somewhere out there. Relying on distant memories and dead reckoning, Rich leaves the comfort of the barely visible coastline and strikes out across the lake. One small boat plowing through deep mist. When a small point with tall pines gradually emerges from the fog Rich exclaims, “That’s it! It’s the peninsula with the sauna!” Sure enough, it’s where we were meant to be. Finding the beach where we used to swim with the kids, we secure the boat and start down the trail. Hiking back in time.

Back in 1915 David Gage Joyce gained ownership of 4,500 acres of land, almost completely surrounding Trout Lake. He began construction of the Joyce Estate on this spot two years later – a large private family resort with an expansive lodge, a number of guest cabins, butler and maid cabins, a two-story sauna, a 9-hole golf course, seaplane hangar, boat house and other amenities surrounded by beautiful gardens. In 1973, at the end of an era, the Joyce Estate was acquired by the Nature Conservancy and transferred to the U.S. Forest Service a year later.

On our first visit in 1985, nearly all the original buildings were still standing. Some were in disrepair, others still in quite good condition. The grounds were covered in brush and raspberry bushes, and we had to bushwhack our way into the old cabins to peer inside. It felt like a secret find, our own private fantasyland to explore.

Today, the Forest Service has torn down the crumbling buildings, stabilized the lodge, one guest cabin and the sauna, cleared out all the brush and mowed the grounds. It is preserved for visitors, accessibly only by hiking trail or boat, and includes a rustic campsite.

Once again, we peer into the buildings, walk gingerly inside where it looks safe and try to imagine the lifestyle of those who spent their summers here. I also see my children poking around, exclaiming over their finds, eager for a picnic on the beach. Waves of memories.

By the time we make our rounds and launch the little boat, the fog has finally lifted. As we reach the opposite shore, the clouds see fit to part and the sun comes out. It has turned into the warm sunny day that was promised. The return trip reveals all the sights we missed on the way over, and we putter along digging up visions of how it used to be 35 years ago.

Today, we’re back to just the two of us. And we have twice the horsepower. Times have changed. But not that much. We’re already planning to do this again next year.

A Welcome Retreat

Posted on July 18, 2020 by Molly

Northstar Sunset Rhythmically dipping my paddle into the water on alternate sides of my kayak, I slide away from the dock. No need to hurry, no interest in exerting myself, I slip out only a few hundred yards, lay my paddle across the kayak and just float. Drifting in the calm water I take a deep breath and watch the sunset play across the slight ripples from distant boats, rocking gently as they pass. There are no clouds to generate a spectacular sunset in the sky. Instead the show takes place on the lake, reflecting the oranges then pinks of the disappearing light.

Two nearby loons begin to call, each eerie cry echoing in the woods beyond the shore. More loons take up the song, taking turns calling and answering. Soon the rounds circle the lake, die out then start up again. Mesmerizing. Enchanting. I drink in the scene, freeing all outside thoughts from my crowded mind, just being.

Since the beginning of the coronavirus, this has been my get-away. My source of sanity in a world we no longer recognize. The quiet connections with nature soothe my soul, restore peace to my heart as I focus on what hasn’t changed. COVID-19 ceases to invade my thoughts here. And social distancing requires no effort in our remote little cabin. It’s life as usual up here.

We started coming in mid-May, our 30th spring opening since we bought the place. It brought a sense of normalcy to those early days of sheltering.

We are privileged to have this little haven. Our children grew up coming here, building family memories, escaping our busy suburban world back home, focusing on the simple joys of life and nature. This summer “escape” has a whole different meaning.

Even before opening up, we created an online Cabin Calendar. Each of our three children immediately signed up for one or more weeks at the cabin as well as long weekends for their families. We sandwiched our stays on weekdays between their visits, and before we knew it the cabin was fully booked. My heart was as full as that schedule. The cabin has never seen so much love and activity in one season.

In contrast to my placid sunset, the laughs, squabbles and squeals of delight fill the air as our grandchildren swim, learn to kayak, plead for another boat ride and sneak another s’more when Mom’s not looking. Our kids find time to read, ride bikes, go for hikes in the woods. I can’t resist the urge to make extra trips up to the cabin to join them, to relish time together – another silver lining of the virus.

Part of me relishes this slowing down. Staying local instead of taking far-flung vacations. Squeezing into the cabin with our growing family, or hiding away up there by ourselves. One day we will all travel again, seek adventure in new places, indulge ourselves in lavish resorts or wilderness camping. For me right now, it’s enough to float in the middle of the lake, feeling no urgency to move. Retreating from the world.

Sewing up the Pandemic

Posted on May 12, 2020 by Molly

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.

“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.

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!

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.

A Wake-up Call

Posted on May 4, 2020 by Molly

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

Posted on April 19, 2020 by Molly

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. Poor 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.

We 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.These 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.

Easter Togetherness

Posted on April 12, 2020 by Molly

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.

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 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

Posted on March 28, 2020 by Molly

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.

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.

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.

Superior Footprints

Life and the Outdoors in the Northland

Time out for Waterfalls

Here I go again

Loon Swimming Companions

Reliving History

A Welcome Retreat

Sewing up the Pandemic

A Wake-up Call

Toddler Distancing

Easter Togetherness

Covid Coping

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