Tag Archives: Family

Channeling my Mom

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“Maren has asked for an American Girl doll for Christmas.” 

The words immediately transported me back to when the coveted dolls were new, and we bought the Molly doll for our daughter, Karen. She came with her own book Meet Molly, wore glasses, had long dark braids, and a World War II background. The dolls had extensive accessories and wardrobes you could buy, but being a frugal parent I zeroed in on the sewing patterns they also offered.

“Mom, do you think you could make an outfit for Molly?” She was an excellent seamstress, and I knew she’d take up the challenge, but I didn’t anticipate the extent to which she would go. She made not only one, but all six outfits included in the package.

I was pretty sure I had those patterns. When we cleared out Mom’s house after she died, I collected many of her sewing tools. Sure enough, I found the packet squirreled away in my sewing cupboard – a treasured prize. These patterns were not for the faint of heart. They included elaborate instructions for tailored clothes, but that didn’t phase me. I already had my own designs in mind for Maren’s doll, but needed a guide to size and fit.

For further assistance, I asked Karen if I might borrow Molly to use as a model. So Molly came for a visit at Thanksgiving to help me in my task.

My vision was to start with fabric scraps from outfits that I had made for Maren and other grandchildren. I chose a knit dress and the summer jammies I made for all of them. I spent hours measuring Molly, cobbling pattern pieces together, drawing my own patterns, sewing sample pieces and trying them on her. I could feel Mom at my side, handling the same paper pattern pieces she had used, reading the same instructions and translating them into completed outfits. Like hers, it was a labor of love.

In time I got the hang of it, and completed two outfits, pleased with my first attempts.

But what is Christmas without Grammy Jammies? You guessed it, it was time to make the 21st pair of Jammies this year.

It turns out that a doll is a lot less forgiving than children or stuffies. American Girl dolls are amazingly flexible, but that only goes so far. Getting the proportions right was trickier than I expected, but after some trial and error I had a credible pair of jammies for Maren’s doll. Perhaps you spotted her in my last Jammie post, where she snuck into the pictures from Christmas.

But that wasn’t the end of the story. Maren’s birthday falls right after Christmas, so I had one more project up my sleeve. Resurrecting and modifying the girl’s dress pattern I’d used before I fashioned matching outfits for Maren and her doll. Once again, I felt Mom looking over my shoulder, approving of going above and beyond. Of making the most of my sewing skills and the satisfaction of seeing them delight a little girl.

Maren and her doll had the good fortune to attend a tea party at the American Girl doll store in Chicago with her other grandma, as well as her Mom and Aunt with their own American Girl dolls. It filled my heart to see Maren and her doll wearing their matching outfits for that big outing.

Mom would have loved it.

Life Interrupted

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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.

Grammy Jammies Times 21

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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!)

Orcas Island by Bicycle

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“It’s not that hilly, Mom.” I should have known better. In all the years of bike touring I did with Rich, we learned to never trust a motorist to give us directions. “Just down the road” may be hours of cycling for us. They don’t feel a headwind, and hills just mean pressing the accelerator a bit harder.

Erik and I had both been to Orcas Island in the San Juan Islands before, but only by car. When I arrived in Seattle to visit him and Katie, he was keen for an adventure. “Let’s bike Orcas Island!” My memory included hills, but I willingly quashed the image.

That just left the weather. In typical Seattle fashion, there was plenty of rain in the forecast. Comparing different weather apps only proved it was a complete unknown, so we caved to our inner explorers and set our plan in motion. Rising at 4:30am to reach the ferry in time for a 7:30 crossing, we sped through the dark in eager anticipation. The sun was just clearing the trees as we boarded the ferry in Anacortes, which we took to be a good omen for the day ahead.

As if to reinforce my premonitions, the road rose steeply from the ferry landing. I had borrowed Katie’s bike, shoes, pedals and helmet for this outing. Normally not a big deal, but this was a road bike – drop handlebars and all, which I’d never ridden in my life. Struggling to clip into the unfamiliar pedals, find the gear shifters and figure out which was which, I floundered immediately and ground to a halt. Relieved that I didn’t fall, I walked the bike a short distance to the first flatish spot to begin again. I took off from there, and never looked back.

Our plan was to bike the island – all of it. We’d cover all the paved roads we could before the 5:15 return ferry. Our first priority was to bike out to the far end of the sound and down to the tip on the far side of the inverted U-shaped island. Full of ambition and energy we tackled the hilly terrain.

Away from town, the countryside was quiet and rural, varying from farms and pastureland to forested byways. Pausing briefly in Eastsound Village to take in the view, we pushed on to the opposite side, eager to get more miles under our belts.

At Obstruction Pass near the tip we took time to venture out the long pier, soaking up the calm surroundings and serene view. Little was stirring – some children in a kayak, a fisherman docking his boat. It felt far removed from the season of high tourism, reclaimed by the locals.

Retracing the road north, we ventured off to follow smaller roads to the east. With each turn we left behind more cars and population, eventually reaching a quiet harbor at Kangaroo Point. Breakfast was a distant memory so we dropped our bikes on the grass and perched on a huge tree stump to pull out our sandwiches. Time easily slipped away as we refueled and relished the sunshine and undisturbed view.

Determined to explore it all, on our way back to Eastsound we made a short detour to the top of the island to peer out toward the water on that side. Then a long-anticipated stop at Brown Bear Baking for lattes and a blueberry tart to energize us for our final leg.

With clouds gathering overhead, we forged on toward Deer Harbor on the west arm. Just as the raindrops began to fall, a large parking lot materialized and we quickly stopped to don our rain jackets. Undeterred, we pushed on, determined to complete our tour. The road followed the shoreline, both flattening out slightly and giving us wet views of West Sound and a marina populated with sailboats. When we reached the Deer Harbor Inn just short of town, we did a time check. “I’m not sure there’s a later ferry,” Erik admitted. Calling it good enough, we turned around and pushed our pedals back toward the ferry landing. Sailing down that final steep hill, we could see the ferry chugging up to the dock.

I can now say with confidence that Orcas Island is indeed VERY hilly. Each downhill came with the guarantee of an uphill to follow, and visa versa. But I wouldn’t have changed a thing. It was worth every ounce of effort to spend the day with Erik, to share the unrelenting ups and downs, to brave the not-so-bad rainfall, to sit side by side munching on sandwiches.

Now we’re eyeing the other islands…

Christmas in July

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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.

It was so hard to wait…

But indeed, we have Christmas in July!

Sharing Adventures

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We met at the same time our kids did.  Erik and Katie were on their high school Nordic ski team, Betsy and I were team moms – baking brownies, holding out warming capes for the kids in their spandex racing suits, riding the team bus and cheering at the meets.  As the spark grew between our young skiers, so did the friendship between the two parent couples.  Sharing a wedding ceremony between our children cemented the bonds for all of us.

When Amazon lured Erik and Katie out to Seattle two years ago, I wondered how they would feel about living in a temperate climate, leaving behind Minnesota winters and skiing.  Little did I know that it would only be the beginning of mountain adventures for them, including skiing, snowshoeing, ski mountaineering and (gulp!) avalanche training.  Enticed by the stunning snowy mountain photos, I spent a week with them last winter including a picture-perfect day snowshoeing on Mt. Rainier.  I was hooked – I had to do it again.  And I knew the perfect companion.

“Say Betsy, how about Moms trip to Seattle?”  That’s all it took.

The plan was to hike or snowshoe together during the week while Erik and Katie worked.  For the weekend, the kids had something special arranged – three days skiing in The Methow, the largest cross-country ski trail system in North America, in the Cascade Mountains.  Not only that, but they had snagged a cancellation for one of the highly sought-after ski-in huts for our first night. 

We left in the dark, bleary-eyed but excited at 5am.  By 10am we were at the trailhead, and loaded our overnight gear in a sled for the snowmobile tow service.  Mountains of sleeping bags, food, water and clothing zoomed off as we – accompanied by pooch Finley – skied up the trail.  I looked up at the surrounding peaks, snow laden and glistening in the sun as my skis slid over the snow.  It just didn’t feel real!

That first day was magical.  The grooming was impeccable and we skied companionably in a group taking it all in.  Our hut was at the top end of our portion of the trail system, dictating we climb most of the way to get there.  Our original plan had been to ski up to the hut, relax over some lunch then venture out again.  But it was far too enticing to just continue skiing and cover more of the trails.  We didn’t have a morsel of food with us, but our hunger for the trails was stronger.  Onward we went.

There are five ski-in huts in all and we made it a point to stop and explore the locale of several others.  The clear favorite was Rendezvous hut, with spectacular views.  It speaks for itself.

The trails are groomed for both classic and skate skiing.  The others classic skied, and Betsy skijored with Finley.  I chose to skate ski, vainly hoping it would help me keep up.  But speed was not of the essence on this trip.  It was all about the experience.

By the time we reached Heifer Hut, we had skied 27 kilometers and were ready to settle into our rustic quarters.  It was perched on the mountainside surrounded by stately pines.  Leaning our skis against the wood exterior, we eagerly went inside to explore.  A woodstove, bench and double bunks lined one side, and on the other was a kitchen area with a propane stove and a table with benches.  A ladder led to the loft where three more double mattresses awaited.  The propane lights reminded me of Coleman lanterns, and were supplemented with solar lights fueled by a tiny solar panel. With the woodshed and outhouse across the way it had everything we needed,

Getting the fire started was our first order of business, along with fixing some food.  Hot tea and snacks refueled us enough to unpack, claim bunks and stash our gear. Soon it was cozy inside, and we traded our ski wear for comfy cabin clothes.  The remainder of the afternoon and evening passed quickly, with hot wild rice soup and fixings followed by lively rounds of Hearts played around the table.

Erik and I were the first ones up in the morning, and donned snowshoes to explore the terrain behind the cabin with Finley.  We meandered in deep powder, sunshine and silence, the perfect start to the morning.  Katie and Betsy joined us, and Erik headed inside to prepare breakfast.  I think those were the best pancakes I’ve ever eaten!

If reaching the cabin was all uphill, it meant our second day was the opposite!  Erik and Finley took off down the black diamond trail back to meet the snowmobile at the car while Katie, Betsy and I skied to a distant trailhead where we would meet them.  Erik managed to ski up to us en route, and we sent him off to get in some good fast kilometers (in prep for the Birkie), and he still caught us again just before we finished.  We completed the day with a low key snowshoe on Patterson Lake before heading off to our hotel in Winthrop. 

For our final day, we chose the opposite end of the trail system near Mazama.  There we skied in the valley, on trails that more closely resembled Minnesota.  The gentler trails passed through woods and open fields, where we were reminded of our locale with mountain views once again.  While we had encountered few skiers the prior two days, the easy access and terrain of this area invited many more skiers including families.  We skied a number of different loops before our departure time drew near. 

While we were sad to see the skiing and weekend come to an end, talk quickly turned to next year.  Betsy and I were hooked.  Clearly we have more shared adventures already looming in the future.

A Matter of Degrees

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“You might not want to come home just yet.”

We heard this refrain from multiple people before flying home from Hawaii.  After basking in the sunshine and tropical near 80° temperatures for two weeks, we were returning to a severe Minnesota cold snap.  Double digits below zero at night, with days barely creeping above zero dominated that first week at home.

I used to think nothing of going out in that weather to cross-country ski or plunder the snow in some fashion, but age has weakened my tolerance.  I have set new limits for my outdoor excursions, willing to brave the cold but not the frigid.  The huge climate swing between Hawaii and Duluth heightened my aversion.

That first week back, just traveling from front door to garage was enough to strengthen my resolve.  I knew the blue sky and strong sunshine were false signals, enough to lift my spirits but not the temperature.  I sought refuge in the Y swimming pool, choosing laps over the ski trails.

I might have remained in my cocoon had it not been for my son, Carl.  “Mom, I’m in dire need of a winter adventure.  I’m thinking of taking our two oldest kids to the cabin for a weekend.  Are you interested?”

“I’m in!” came my speedy reply.  Rich was intrigued and the plan morphed into renting a cabin on Thousand Island Lake in the UP for a long weekend.

With over 30” of snow on the ground, it was the perfect winter playground, but -15° when we rose the first morning.  The kids begged and pleaded to go outside but Carl held firm until it the temp inched closer to zero.  By 10am even I was eager to get out there.  We all donned our heaviest jackets, snowpants and boots and bolted out the door.  For the next hour we went sledding, tromped on the frozen lake and unearthed the playground equipment from the heavy snow.  Exhilarating.

By early afternoon I was ready to tackle the local ski trails. The Sylvania Outfitter trails in Watersmeet featured narrow classic tracks that wound through the woods.  I found myself enjoying the sun’s rays alternating with shadows across the trail and the ground undulating beneath my skis.  I had to smile when the double tracked bits split, leaving a patch of trees in the middle.  It wasn’t a system for speed, and I puttered along without haste.  Somehow the 6° temperature was immaterial.

Carl was eager to explore the Sylvania Wilderness Area which is like a mini-Boundary Waters.  After he took a long circle route through the frozen lakes and portages, I donned snowshoes for my turn.  With only a snapshot of an online map, I decided it was easier to follow his tracks than try to navigate on my own.  Once I left the popular ice fishing bay behind, I tromped out onto a sea of white, broken only by Carl’s backcountry HOK skis, flanked by forest.  I didn’t have to think, I could let my mind wander along with my feet.  My body warmed with the effort, and as my confidence grew I ventured from Carl’s path and managed to find the portage into a small untouched lake.  Winter wonderland indeed.

In between all that fresh air and activity we had plenty of time to enjoy cabin life with the kids.  It didn’t take long before cars and trucks competed for floor space with wild animals, and stuffed animal friends lay strewn everywhere.  We read books, snuggled on the couch by the too-warm fire, and worked Maren’s first jigsaw puzzle together.  Make-your-own pizza night was a hit with everyone.  Carl and I sweated in the steamy sauna each night.

A flashlight walk revealed how different everything looks in the dark!  And Carl caught the first rays of sunshine skiing on the lake in the early mornings.

It took the right incentive to get me outside, beyond my boundaries and back into winter mode.  The enthusiasm of Carl and the kids forced me back out of my comfort zone and reminded me how much I do love winter.  Cold or not.  I know now, it’s only a matter of degrees.

A Labor of Love

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It starts in September. I begin trolling the fabric stores looking for just the right fleece. The holiday prints start appearing then, and I know I have to act fast when I find the right one. Something cute and Christmasy, with small enough prints to be recognizable on a baby yet still appeal to an almost-teenager. This year, the perfect fabric jumps out at me – I just have to have it.

But first I have to do my homework. Grandkids grow each year, so I need to solicit the moms for current sizes. Then there are adjustments. Extra length in the legs for this one, slimmer through the body for most, feet or no feet. The almost-teen has aged out of the one-piece model, and wants fleece jammie pants. A new pattern is introduced.

Then the guessing begins. Seven Grammy Jammies adds up to 11.5 yards of fleece fabric. But combining all those pieces on the fabric means I can fit them on a smaller yardage – the question is how much less? My search turns up only small quantities in each store, so I take a leap of faith and go online to order a whole bolt of fabric, 10 yards.

Soon my kitchen island turns into a conveyor line. I roll the fabric across its massive length over and over again, laying out all the pattern pieces, breathing a sigh when they all fit with room to spare. Taking a deep breath, I dive in with weights, scissors and ruler, cutting and collecting the pieces child by child, designated by post-it note names.

The best part is yet to come. With the necessary logistics behind me, I can finally thread my machine and commence sewing. I start with the largest ones first, as they take the most time and I can finish each set in less time. This year adding my new serger into the mix lets me zip through those long seams, assembling and binding in one pass.

One by one, the jammies come together and join their partners on the couch. They are usually completed within a week, and already I visualize them snuggling the little bodies of my grandchildren.

Grammy Jammies are always presented around Thanksgiving so they can be worn during the lead up to Christmas. And it has to be in person. By now, the contents of my fabric gift bags are no secret, and the kids dive in to reveal the newest model.















As the calendar turns to December, I begin the second round. Each grandchild has a special Friend who also wears jammies, which are gifted for Christmas. It all started long ago, and in some ways is my favorite part of this whole project. The first two Friends were uniquely shaped, and required quite a bit of ingenuity to develop a pattern. But after standardizing on cuddly JellyCats, I was able to replicate the same size across the remaining Friends.

That is until Isabel had an urgent need to clothe “tiny bear” as well. Measuring under 6″ tall, it was an exercise in miniaturization, but I took on the challenge.

This year we were able to assemble the whole family for a special New Years weekend together in Milwaukee. A chaotic photo op ensued, capturing 15 Grammy Jammies in all. And lots of love.

What was I thinking?

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The box lingered in the corner, untouched. Its factory tape still in tact. The large cardboard cube became invisible over time, as all things do when left alone. I passed it numerous times a day without giving it a thought. Yet at the same time, its very existence hung over my head.

I had wrestled with the idea for months. At first it prickled, then it pestered, then visions formed on how I could bring it to reality. Until one day I just did it. I walked into the sewing machine shop and bought myself a new serger.

I had survived seven years without the specialty sewing machine that breezes through knit fabrics, rendering t-shirts, sweatsuits, leggings, shorts, pajamas and even swimsuits in a flash. Its mastery over ribbed cuffs and necklines brought professional finishes to all these garments. For years I clothed myself and my children in custom outfits for mere pennies and large helping of personal satisfaction.

Matching family outfits so we could find one another at Disney World

That trusty machine soldiered on for years, then lay dormant when those little children went off to college and moved on to real jobs. But I brought it back into service to finish the edges of the cloth napkins for my son Carl’s wedding reception. It was on the 240th napkin that it ground to a halt – about a dozen napkins short. The repair shop delivered the harsh news, it had met its demise. My years of sewing had completely worn out the parts inside. Fortunately, the final guest count did not exceed 240.

Rich offered to buy me a new machine on the spot, but I declined. After being idled for so many years, I was uncertain I would make use of it. And so I laid the idea to rest. Or did I?

Perhaps it was my annual Grammy Jammie sewing spree that unearthed the thought again. The possibility that older grandchildren might soon opt out of slipper jammies and prefer something lighter drifted into my thoughts. And even Grammy Jammies could benefit from the bound seams the serger produces. As I picked out knit dresses for my 5 and 6 year old granddaughters for Christmas, cousins who refuse to wear anything but dresses, the niggling truth lingered. I could make these. So easily, with a serger.

Visions of resurrecting my old sewing life danced before my eyes. Just think of all the cute outfits I could make for them! And then the other voice intervened. What about my writing? Would this usurp the hours I had formerly designated for writing? Is this a delay tactic, to put off getting back to writing my book? I tried to silence the mental arguments.

So the box loitered. I couldn’t open it before Christmas, as I knew it would unleash a mountain of tasks. Choose new patterns, figure out sizes, buy fabric, cut out garment pieces. Worse yet would be the learning curve. Sergers are notoriously finicky machines and I had a brand new model to master. I had no intention of spoiling my family holidays with a new obsession.

Weeks went by. Then, in the depth of our latest cold snap I took the plunge. Tearing the tape off the box, I extracted the thick manual, then shut it again. Just flipping through the pages of instructions in three languages sent my eyes rolling back in my head. But I went ahead and bought fabric anyway, and cut out a little girl dress. Then I watched the instructional DVD. Taking a deep breath I returned to the box, lifted out the squeaky styrofoam, lugged the heavy machine to my workspace, and stared it down. Perhaps this wasn’t such a great idea after all. I would wait until morning to do battle when I was fresh.

To my great joy, the serger came already threaded. That alleviated one huge hurdle right away. Until I jammed the fabric in the machine and had to rethread the gnarliest of the four threads. But my confidence soared when I was able to return the stitches to finely tuned regularity. I continued to practice throughout the morning, tweaking tension, adjusting the differential, eyeballing the seam allowance and honing my technique.

Eventually the moment of truth arrived. It was time to sew for real. Sergers are not at all forgiving when it comes to mistakes, so my heart thumped and my throat tightened as I fed the dress pieces under the presser foot and pushed down on the pedal. One seam led to another. I successfully married the ribbing with the neckline and attached sleeves and skirt. The familiar loud thumping of the machine (as opposed to the sweet hum of a regular sewing machine) brought it all back. My fingers remembered what to do, and my eyes guided the fabric. And in short order I had a completed dress.

Maybe it wasn’t such a hairbrained idea after all.

It’s Been a While

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“Would you like to bike to Lakes Park with me?” Rich asked.

On the surface it was a simple question. It’s a nice park about six miles from our AirBnB in Ft. Myers. The route is totally flat, with bike trail all the way. The afternoon was sunny and warm, inviting for an outdoor activity.

For eight years we bike toured at least once a year, usually for up to a month at a time, covering around 1,000 miles. Hopping on our bikes together was ingrained in our retirement lifestyle. When we weren’t touring, we were still out there training or just staying in shape. We took it for granted.

But yesterday’s question was not simple. It carried a depth of meaning that was not lost on me. Since Rich’s open-heart surgery over a year ago, he has been fighting his way back to health and persistently pushing to increase his endurance. He no longer takes anything for granted. Nor do I.

I couldn’t remember the last time we biked together. I looked it up in my sports tracking app. The answer – August 31, 2020. That was just over a month before his heart took him down on the trail. Back when there were signs that we missed, when workouts were harder for him but we had no idea why. When we blamed it on getting older. Yet he persevered, and we went on a nice ride in Grand Marais. I didn’t know it would be our last for so long.

Throughout his recovery, Rich insisted he had to fight his own battles. Overcome his demons on his own. He doggedly went out trail running and passed the spot where he went down, his recovering heart pounding as hard as it could as the haunting memory swept over him. He got back on his bike when the weather warmed, walking the hills when he didn’t have the stamina to pedal up them. “Slow and steady” was his mantra. Each time I offered to go with him, I got the same response. “I have to conquer this on my own.” Admittedly, sometimes I set out for my own ride on the same route a little later, just to reassure myself he was still upright, on his way home.

Rich was told that the mental game would be just as hard as the physical side of his recovery. Not knowing how much his body has left to give and the extent of his long-term prospects for active sports has been hard.

Facing all this has clouded my horizon as well. Rich’s uncertainties leave me feeling adrift. What does all this mean for our future? Our mutual love of outdoor active pursuits hangs in limbo. It used to be a no-brainer to dream up vacations that revolved around cross-country skiing, canoeing, kayaking, cycling and hiking. How much of that remains within our reach? It’s understandable that Rich’s interest may wane with his abilities. The gulf between our abilities has plunged us into uncharted territory.

And the big question still looms: Will we ever be able to resume bike touring? I still long for those days in the saddle, grappling with weather conditions, the incredible views from the seats of our bikes, the wonderful people we meet along the way, and the sense of empowerment from traveling under own own steam. I can’t accept that it’s the end just yet. Only time will tell.

Rich’s question really marked a milestone. For the first time, he was willing to share his ride. Which really meant sharing his new reality. Riding with him would allow me to personally witness his capabilities.

Cycling down the driveway, I settled into place behind him, allowing him to set the pace and curbing my urge to forge ahead – an issue even in normal times. The sense of familiarity and normalcy was overwhelming, yet I recognized it as a gift. I was also impressed. Rich kept up a good pace, better than I anticipated. Clearly his efforts were paying off.

When Google misled us on the distance to the park, and the round-trip turned out to be closer to 16 miles than 12, I could see Rich tiring on the way home. He doggedly pushed his pedals to complete the ride, and still carried his bike up the 16 steps to our 2nd floor abode. But not without a cost. I witnessed the weakness imposed by his heart. A good lesson, grounding me.

But the ride held more significance. It was a measure of just how far he’s come. More and more often, I hear Rich utter “I never could have done that a few months ago.” Which I take as a good omen for the future. For our future. He’s fighting a good fight and winning. I’m already looking forward to our next bike ride. This time I don’t expect it to be such a long while.