Category: Stories – Nonfiction

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The Great Escape by Jeanette McGurk

In our house we live with a certain level of spontaneity.  This is partially because of my personality type. “What?  Leave now to see a band 3 hours from us?  Hell yes!” And partially because of my husband’s job.   We joke that he is the cleaner; the guy they bring in when everything else fails.  Right now we are in Germany for 5 weeks because of a project that has gone off the rails.  Riding off the rails was easier to manage when the kids were little.

As they get older, roots and responsibilities stretch themselves around our lives so that we can’t put home on pause anymore.  If we leave, arrangements must be made for Moxie, our fat little tootsie roll of a dog and Mr Farkus, the king of grumpy geriatric cats.

I am a Girl Scout leader.  A few Girl Scout meetings must be managed so 6th graders who are already losing some interest do not lose all interest. And then there is the bit about school.  It is totally frowned upon for 4th and 6th graders to go gallivanting about Germany focused on schnitzel and sledding rather than the common core standard.  In fact, it is easy to justify all the reasons why the girls and I should not be here.

It is expensive, impractical, disruptive, and a bit decadent to put every day life on hold to spend a month hanging out in one of my favorite cities.  On the other side of the argument, my husband is here.  He has been for weeks and weeks.

Not only is it important to rescue him before he goes completely feral, it is better for us as a family to be together.

When John is gone the kids sleep in my bed.  He fusses that I have no boundaries but at 10 and 12, I figure at any moment they will be be over me.  So, I forgo binge watching Black Mirror for Liv and Maddie.  I start off with strict orders of no cookies in bed, only to succumb to cookies in bed which means crumbs in bed.  Next it’s Moxie.  She looks at us with her big brown eyes, and another rule flies out the window, it is now me, the kids, and a 25lb dog with a stink and snore problem.

All that is left to fill the ark is one very old, mean cat who hates the dog, but calls a truce.  Farkus would never allow the dog to one up him.  To be honest, when John travels I suspect he becomes more civilized and we are the ones who go feral.

 

So after some finagling with school and schedules, the kids and I wrap things up and head for Munich.  One would think that 10 and 12 would be a great age to travel with children.  They are older, wiser and can manage their stuff.  All of this is true.

They have also fine tuned their skills on how to annoy one another, and more importantly, me.  Before we even make it through security they are being surly and have started flinging insults.  I am extra crabby because I have discovered the billions of miles and status my husband has on American does not apply to us.   We only get to check 1 bag each.  So, we are each carrying our normal bag plus 3 large duffels, two of which I have been kicking through the security line for 15 minutes.  What I thought had been a lot of time has somehow dwindled down to less than an hour.

The security guy is adamant that my 12 year old remove her hat and clear her hair out of her face so he can compare her passport photo to real her.  She shoots daggers at him from her narrowed eyes.  “Yes,” I want to say, “that cute, sweet, looking girl in that photo is the same child a year ago. Welcome to the tween years.”

We finally make it through security.  Next on the agenda; food.  This is not our first rodeo.  With  11 hours of flying ahead of us, we are going to get hungry.  In fact, we are already hungry.  We had left the fridge as empty as possible before leaving home for 5 weeks and had eaten some stale crackers, cheese and a lone apple before loading into the cab.

As much as we want to like the plane meal three hours from now, it will make our snack look gourmet.  My first inclination is towards the Cantina Laredo 10 steps from our gate.  The girls grimace.  I have been burning them out on Mexican food for the last two weeks.  It is the only thing I miss when we are in Europe, well, that and my mammoth washing machine and dryer.  I try to go into Cantina Laredo when the Hostess stops me.  “Sorry, we are not seating anyone, our computers are down.”  I blink at her stunned.  “Super” I say.  The kids cheer.

I know what this means, pizza.  Parenthood has given me an appreciation for wine and a loathing for pizza.  Every class party, birthday party, Friday night, Saturday afternoon, seems to involve pizza.  I don’t know how my kids can burn out on Mexican food and yet never tire of pizza.

It is one of life’s great mysteries.

We eat our pizza and despite my lack of enthusiasm, it actually hits the spot.  With the hangrys dealt with, we are all much more pleasant.

Boarding starts almost immediately after arriving at the gate.  Whatever I have forgotten to do, we are now committed.  The door closes, the safety info starts and all the over-commitments, under commitments, concerns and stresses fade away.  There is something about being on a plane, the lack of control that I find comforting.

I am fully aware how weird this is.  Perhaps it is because I am so naturally disorganized.

I spend the two days before travel like a chicken with my head chopped off.  Running around, accomplishing nothing.  So when I sit down on the plane, I have at least managed myself and the kids to this point.  The passports obviously weren’t left.  Apparently no one tried to board with a multi-tool.  The large threatening toothpaste had to hit the trash but the crackers Lauren apparently packed herself in my best tupperware were allowed through.

Yes the flight will be cramped and uncomfortable but someone else has to drive.  I can sit, read, watch movies, all while being served tea, cokes or wine if I am so inclined.  Whatever happens, I am not in charge and therefor, I can relax.  It is the time where I transition my brain.  This trip is both escape and homecoming.  It isn’t that I don’t love being at home, I do.  But the chance to explore other places is so delicious.

And to explore as a family is even better.

We skip from Heathrow to Munich.  We snake through the lines to where the customs agent stands.  “How long will you be in Munich?”  “About a month.”  “What brings you here?”  “My husband is here working.”  “Is he in the military?” “No.” He asks where he works. I give more answers.  He looks at the kids, their bears.  “Have a good trip.”  “We will, we love Munich.”

He stamps our passports.  Thunk thunk.  Thunk thunk.  Thunk thunk.  There is the last formality of getting our luggage, which the girls manage all of.  I smile, happy they are showing solid travel legs.

We round the corner and see the tall pale guy we are looking for.  The one smiling at us through the sea of all the other tall pale guys.  There are hugs and cheers and jumping.  My kids are jumpers.  We pile into the tiny European version of an SUV.  Somehow all of us and all our stuff just manages to fit.  We look out at the end of the day and the start of our visit.

Halloo Munchen, we are glad to be here.

About the Author: Jeanette McGurk

jeanette_mcgurkJeanette McGurk is a Graphic Designer who entered the world of writing through advertising. She discovered writing a lot of truth with a little fluff is a lot more fun than the other way round. Now that she is no longer spending time making air conditioners, tile floors, IT and Botox sound sexy, she writes about the unglamorous yet wonderful moments of life for people like herself; in other words, anyone looking for interesting ways to put off cleaning and doing laundry.

She is a curmudgeon and doesn’t Twit or Instagram. She has heard the blog is dead but since she has finally figured out how to do it, that is the museum where you can locate her writings. http://jmcpb.blogspot.com/.

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Meeting My Old Self in the Photo Album by Jeanie Croope

Selfie. The theme of this issue can conjure up many thoughts about the self — inner and outer, good and bad. It was a terrific theme and I confess, a bit of a scary one on which to write. To really look at one’s own self honestly requires a healthy dose of courage and more than a little bit of Kleenex. At least it does for me.

Here on what should be a beautiful April day (but is, in fact, another day where snow and cold is predicted to again hit our Michigan city), the Easter Bunny has come and gone, leaving in its wake leftover jelly beans and chocolate eggs and probably more than a few pounds on my hips. It will require far more work to bid farewell to them than one would like!

A gloomy day like this is perhaps not the best to look deep within oneself, opening that Pandora’s box of faults and foibles. Deadlines don’t care.

My first diet was self-imposed. I was eight and it was post-Halloween. With self control unique for an eight-year-old, I rationed my Halloween candy, piece by piece, limiting myself to three pieces a day. Somewhere between age five and age eight, I had gone from cute, curly-headed girl to a little porkette. To put on my little green tutu with the antler ears for my ballet recital was a memory I’d like to forget. The combination of bad wardrobe, big tummy and an awkwardness that made ballet not my greatest artistic achievement did not lead to a performance I anticipated with great joy.

Throughout the following years, I struggled, as many do, with weight and I do to this day. I wanted to be pretty, like the other girls. My wildly curly hair didn’t allow for the long, straight hairstyle of the day, parted on the side with a strand of hair pulled across the forehead to the opposite side, then tucked neatly behind the ear and hanging below the shoulders. Nor did it work with the shorter chin-length bob with a bit of poof — but not too much poof. Instead, my hair was cut short, the same way it had been since I was — well, eight.

 

On the night of my junior prom, we went to dinner with a group of friends. I was on Weight Watchers so I ate only lettuce from the salad bar. (Weight Watchers was tougher in the late 1960s than it is now.) My boyfriend in senior high, knowing my struggle, gave me a most thoughtful and wonderful gift on Valentine’s Day (and it remains one of my favorites of all time!) — a huge candy box filled with sliced red, yellow and green peppers, carrots and celery sticks. Some would take offense. I was relieved.

The summer before I went to college, my mom made my 18th birthday cake. It was styrofoam, frosted beautifully. But when college came along, with its dorm food, I met the “freshman fifteen.” Then there was the year of apartment living during college — inexpensive pasta and pizza were the two main food groups!

This led to the brewer’s yeast diet, the grapefruit diet, the cabbage soup diet (that was a very bad idea), liquid protein (another bad idea), Dr. Atkins, bingeing and purging (this didn’t last long, fortunately), calorie counting, points counting. You name it.

And the self image continued on its topsy turvy rollercoaster. Round face, big hips, overbite. I thought I looked bad all the time. Every single minute of every single day for decades. And it didn’t matter what anyone else said.

Not all that long ago I was looking at photos taken during my 30s with a friend.  There are three of us, dressed in gowns for an Oscar party, with our friend who was “the producer.”  And we look great. Really terrific. My friend said, “And we thought we were so fat. Wouldn’t we kill to look like that now?”

I had thought that many times.

We do such an number on ourselves, don’t we? Long before the media discovered Photoshop, conveniently removing blemishes and double chins, we were looking at others, trying to see ourselves in them — and failing. Because we were ourselves.

And when I think of me, there was nothing really wrong with that self except some extra pounds, and not even that many. That self had certain talents, some well recognized, the others less obvious but still good. That self I knew had far more kindness to others than to herself. That self could listen to others for hours, could be there when needed but didn’t know how to be there for herself or listen to the positive parts of her inner voice instead of the negative ones.

That self had (and has) grit. She overcame paralyzing shyness, could sing and act on stage, appear on television or speak in front of groups and shake hands with strangers at a public gathering when necessary. That self studied theatre in college and has acted every single day of her life in one way or another, while still doing her best to be her own genuine self — a contradiction, yes, but a truth.

It was no surprise when I took the Myers-Briggs test again, some 20 years after the first time, to find I was still in INFP-T, an introvert who was intuitive, feeling (versus thinking), “prospecting” (or seeking) versus judging and turbulent (emotion-driven) versus judging. That’s the person who could do a meet and greet or work a public event and then return home, mentally exhausted for having been “on” with strangers and the one who hated being a supervisor because making decisions or disciplining others was simply too hurtful.

But there are good things that come of this introspection, some self-realization that is positive. Or, to put it in the words of Oscar Hammerstein in a song from “The King and I,” — “When I fool the people I fear, I fool myself as well.”

That porky introvert did learn to mix and mingle; to get up there and tell her story (granted, far easier on a keyboard than at a TEDtalk); to do a multitude of things well (some, very well) and never lost that north star of believing that the feelings and needs of human beings and living things are perhaps more important than anything else in the world. Those crazy, irascible, unpredictable, loving, annoying, cuddly, frustrating, irritating, beautiful, wonderful  creatures.

And sometimes, one of those creatures is one’s own self.

And so, I look at yesterday’s pictures and see something different. Something better than I saw before. And I look at today’s pictures, too.

The hair is still curly and unruly — but most of the time it looks kind of cute (and it’s really easy to take care of). Every five weeks the gray hair at the roots begins to show and I make my faithful visit to the stylist who does her magic. Yes, it’s vain, but I can work with that.

The hips are still too big — and always will be. The thighs don’t always stop moving when I do and I could throttle Michelle Obama for launching the sleeveless craze. The orthotics in my shoes for the heel spurs mean you are less likely to see me in a dress but I still find pretty things I like and I can work with that, too. And thanks to the extra chin (or is it lack of jaw line?) and my overbite, I have learned the best way to look at a camera — and it isn’t profile!

But I still smile. I smile big, I smile happy and I smile because I’m alive in this world and there’s less time that there was a few decades before. There’s less time for all of us, really, because in truth, we never know when our last moment will be. And wouldn’t it be a shame to have it come and realize all those we wasted thinking we weren’t pretty or smart or talented enough when maybe, just maybe, we were?

I will still try to lose some of those extra pounds. And I will succeed — and fail — and succeed again. Because I want to be healthy, not pretty. Someone very wise (sometimes annoyingly so) reminded me — health is the goal.

But life is too short not to travel the world, even if you have bad feet. It’s too short not to take a chance and learn something new, do something unexpected, find light in the dark, conquer your own demons.

And life is too short not to enjoy chocolate eggs or jelly beans every now and then. Because after all, it’s a long way till Halloween.

About the Author: Jeanie Croope

Jeanie Croope bioAfter a long career in public broadcasting, Jeanie Croope is now doing all the things she loves — art, photography, writing, cooking, reading wonderful books and discovering a multitude of new creative passions. You can find her blogging about life and all the things she loves at The Marmelade Gypsy.

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Are Boys and Girls So Different? by Anna Oginsky

Many years ago, as a sophomore at Michigan State University, I fell in love with a guy. He was in a fraternity. He wasn’t your typical “frat guy”. Unlike most of his fraternity brothers, he didn’t drink alcohol. So, naturally, he served as the designated driver for his friends, and eventually our friends, on many nights. As is typically the case in college, I spent many nights with his friends, riding shotgun as he drove us to and from parties. Even as a mildly wild college sophomore, I knew there was something special about him and the way his friends looked out for each other. Protecting, or looking out for others came naturally to this guy, as if it was his purpose in his life. He made me feel safe.

Twenty years ago, I married him.

A couple years after our wedding, he and his fraternity brothers began the tradition of having an annual Guys’ Weekend. Not long after that, some of the wives of these guys and I came together for a Girls’ Weekend and we have been getting together annually ever since (as have the guys). We didn’t all know each other very well. Some of us didn’t know each other at all, so how it worked out so beautifully is probably due as much to fate as it is to circumstance. We all have some roots or a connection to Michigan, but we’ve never lived near each other. At least one of us has lived out west through the years.

Despite the miles between us, we have stayed connected through our phones, e-mail and text messages. We all got married within a few years of each other and had our first babies within a few years of each other. For many years, one or more of us was pregnant when we gathered, and now, the first two babies are in their first year of college. Some of us have lost our fathers. We’ve supported each other through a lot since our first weekend together and I’m quite sure I wouldn’t be half the woman or mother I am if it wasn’t for these women, my goddesses.

Recently the goddesses and I were texting about the trials of young love that a few of their children were experiencing.

My kids aren’t quite there so I immediately thought of myself as a teenager. Even before I became a teen it is safe to say I was completely fascinated by boys. I wondered what made them tick. I wondered how they could move through life seeming so much less self-conscious than I felt. They just seemed to be more at ease in the world and I wondered why. I envied them. I joked with the goddesses that I spent much of my life trying to figure out boys, and then I had my own. Having two sons blew all my theories on boys.

In my preoccupation with boys, I see now that I had focused on how they were different from girls. I perceived them as different and I was determined to figure out why. As a mother of sons, I recognize that in as much as boys are different than girls, boys and girls have more in common than I thought. Sure, boys may be wired differently than girls and they may face different challenges based on how they move through their lives, but beneath the mechanics, both boys and girls just want to be loved.

They both want to be accepted just as they are.

This realization struck me as odd because everything I had ever learned about boys and girls, from being a girl born in the 70’s in America, led me to believe that I was defined by my gender. I cannot even imagine growing up in a time when phrases like Girl Power and Follow Your Heart were plastered all over t-shirts and room décor, like my daughter is now.

And, if it wasn’t for my sons, I would have no idea how seeing these phrases everywhere impacts them as young, growing boys. Not knowing the history or the context for these phrases, they are left to wonder What about boys? and I, thankfully, knew better than to say, “It’s been all boy power all the time around here, kids and those days are over.” Instead, we’ve had thoughtful conversations about what it means to be a boy or a girl in America at this time, compared to other times in history.

What I once believed about the differences between boys and girls was born of cultural constructs created by society, and not at all by the boys and girls on which those constructs were based. We were never asked and we had no part in constructing the definitions society created for girlhood or boyhood, womanhood or manhood. We inherited the definitions formed by others from the past. These phrases plastered everywhere are not even meant for my daughter. They are there for me, the woman who grew up wondering about her place in the world, the woman who will now, undoubtedly, buy up all the signs and t-shirts holding the hope that her daughter will never question her place.

Raising children has turned my concept of the world on its ear in many ways.

I didn’t enter motherhood holding fast to my preconceived notions about what it meant to be a boy or a girl. I stayed open and I was curious. I was pregnant with my oldest during my first year of graduate school – for Social Work. I was determined to give my son dolls to play with and to dress him in gender-neutral colors. I also swore I would never feed my kid a hot dog, one of the many promises I made about motherhood before I had children. Once he was born, I noticed that he treated Thomas the Tank Engine and the rest of his trains like I had treated my dolls as a little girl, with deep affection and adoration. He couldn’t have cared less what colors he wore. He was born with all the qualities I was determined to instill and nurture.

He didn’t need me to teach him how to be sensitive or compassionate, it was all already there.

When he was one and a half and I returned to finish my graduate degree, I listened as my younger, childless cohorts shared their views on gender differences and how parents perpetuate them. And while there was certainly truth in their arguments, there was also a vast hole in what they said. Somewhere in the difference between boys and girls, there were similarities that just weren’t discussed. These were very basic similarities, like whether you play with trucks or Barbie dolls, a child, boy or girl, still wants to fit in, still wants their needs met, still wants to feel accepted, and still needs to feel loved.

And now I wonder, what if we all acknowledged our differences, but focused on these very basic things we have in common, instead of ignoring our similarities and putting so much energy into protecting and defending our differences? At the end of the day, every day, we are all just humans doing the best we can.

Obviously, there is so much more to this conversation than what I share here. At the very least, for now, I am glad to have made space for acknowledging human differences and similarities. We don’t have to limit ourselves to being this or that. We are what is in between.

This applies to boys and girls and many, many other aspects of humanity. I find as I get older that my moments of self-reflection aren’t as much about me as they are about me as a mother, a wife, and a woman, and how these roles intersect with my children, my spouse, and honestly, everyone I meet. Granted, if I hadn’t been so curious about what made boys so different to begin with, I may have never landed in the arms of my husband and children, and the sacred company of wise and loving friends. Now that I’m here though, I am grateful for the awareness that at the core of every type of individual body, there is a heart that beats to the world-renowned tune of acceptance and love.

About the Author: Anna Oginsky

annbioAnna Oginsky is the founder of Heart Connected, LLC, a small Michigan-based workshop and retreat business that creates opportunities for guests to tune in to their hearts and connect with the truth, wisdom, and power held there. Her work is inspired by connections made between spirituality, creativity, and community. Anna’s first book, My New Friend, Grief, came as a result of years of learning to tune in to her own heart after the sudden loss of her father. In addition to writing, Anna uses healing tools like yoga, meditation, and making art in her offerings and in her own personal practice. She lives in Brighton, Michigan with her husband, their three children, and Johnny, the big yellow dog. Connect with her on her website; Twitter; Facebook; or Instagram.

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Leaving a Legacy by Keva Bartnick

My sister sent me an article about not going viral, but leaving a legacy thru small contributions. My “legacy” is raising children who aren’t afraid of being. In doing this I’m helping heal seven generations forward and seven generations back. When you heal something in yourself, that one act of healing heals more than you realize. You start to reverse the damage done in the past and what would have been possible in the future.

Other than that I have no idea what my legacy will look like. This year in fact I’m only worried about doing two thing…living in the moment, and taking care of myself. I’m not worried about what is happening out of Facebook, or the interwebs. I’m taking my moments one at a time. I’m spending time working on refining my inner lover of Hygge. I’m taking the time to figure out who I really am, and what I really think, how I really feel about life in general. Self-care is paramount this year.

I’m also branching out to experience things outside of my comfort zone. It’s been said that if you don’t do one thing a day that doesn’t scare you then you aren’t truly living. Now, that’s a huge stretch for me. I’m a homebody, seriously, an introvert that loves to introvert. I need my space, but with that said, once a week doing something out of my comfort zone wouldn’t kill me right?

I’ve decided that this year I’m branching out and taking an interest in cooking. Let me be clear, I can cook. I also bake, but I’m a better baker than a chef. I figure that while I’m teaching myself new things I can spend this time sharing these new experiences with my girls.

They can see that I’m trying, that I too can expand, taking pleasure in life. I want that to trickle down to them so they know life isn’t always so serious. That there is a time and place for that, but right now I’m choosing to live my best life.

It’s not outside the possibility to Hygge the crap out of this whole cooking thing. When your perspective on a situation changes, the situation itself changes. I’m embracing and exploring what food and nourishment means to my soul.

I’ve always looked at eating as something I had to do to survive. Not something that could be enjoyed, should be enjoyed, or take in pleasurably. Look at the Italians, the French…they love food. They are passionate about food, they take it to the next level of enjoyment and pleasure. I want that. I want to experience that. I’m the one that is the last to sit down at the table and the first one finished, plate cleaned. It’s gotten worse since I’ve become a mother. I want to change that this year.

Leaving a legacy starts with the smallest step forward. A constant step forward into your best self every single day. For me, my constant stepping forward begins with morning gratitude for all things; ending the day in the same way.

I hope that my legacy looks effortless from the outside when it’s my time to transition to the other side. I want people to know that I didn’t struggle to leave a good legacy. That my constant everyday act of becoming better than I was the day before be the mark I leave on the world.

That I leave my daughters in a better sense of self then they were when they arrived into this world. That I teach them that it is possible to leave people and places better than you found them. The act of becoming is our legacy, for better and hopefully not for worse. That becoming is our birthright that we give to ourselves everyday. For me, I will make mine a great one just by becoming me.

About the Author: Keva Bartnick

Keva Bartnick is an artist, writer, and lightworker. Happily married mother of three; she’s been inspiring people to be their most courageous selves since 2015.

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A Journey of Self Discovery Through Family History by Jeanie Croope

I like to say it’s all Dr. Henry Louis Gates’ fault.

For many years I’ve enjoyed his PBS shows on tracing genealogy and I had plenty of questions about my own. Last year I decided to dig into my past in earnest.

Anyone who has engaged in family history research knows that there are a million rabbit holes into which one can fall. Start googling or using one of the several more common genealogy web services out there and you begin to find names you never heard of and stories you never knew. I knew that the results would be interesting. What I didn’t realize was the effect those revelations would have on my sense of self and family.

My mother’s family was a bit of a mystery to my cousins and me. We had a few stories on my grandmother’s side, but Grandpa’s family was a complete unknown, never discussed. Mysteries evoke speculation (there was plenty of that!) and I was determined to learn what happened to my great grandparents, Henry and Angeline (whose names I never knew until I started this journey).

It took awhile but I discovered things I never would have imagined, some sad, some inspiring, some just interesting. As this information was revealed, bit by bit, like layers of an onion gently falling off to reveal its core, I realized that I, too, am part of this story. These men and women and the struggles and challenges they faced, were all part of my DNA, my true self.

Call me ignorant, uninformed or too far beyond the American history I learned in school, but I had long forgotten that not all American settlers in the 1700s came from England and for a variety of reasons. I had no idea that the first immigrants of my great grandmother on my grandfather’s side came as a result of religious persecution that began in Switzerland during the 1500s.

Switzerland? Really?

They were Mennonites and part of a group that came to Pennsylvania in the 1700s from Germany known as “Pennsylvania Dutch,” a group that also included the Amish. My Swiss ancestors, those of our great grandmother, Angeline, after fearing torture and even death for their beliefs, fled to Germany and from there to America. They would later move north, to Canada.

My grandfather’s paternal side also came to Pennsylvania in the 1700s, but their initial motivation was to find a better life during a period of financial challenges in Germany that lingered after the Thirty Years War. Many sons in this family also joined the Mennonite movement and my ancestors were among them.

These brave families were indeed pioneers. Pennsylvania had just been established as a commonwealth by William Penn and promised religious freedom and the hope of prosperity. My ancestors, as did many of yours, came thousands of miles on a ship that took months to arrive and on a journey that for many resulted in death at sea. Quite literally, they had nothing but the clothing on their backs and what they could pack. They built the towns, the stores, the schools and farmed land never before cleared.

Think about what it would be like to move into a new community with no ready communication sources, no schools, no stores, no doctor or dentist unless one came along with you. It puts things in perspective.

As the generations moved on, Henry’s ancestors moved west, first to Ohio. In fact, his father walked to Ohio alone, purchased land, established a farm, and then returned to Pennsylvania to bring back his parents and wife in a covered wagon. It was in Ohio where Henry was born and raised. As an adult, he came to Michigan to settle about an hour from where I now live and started his family, my grandfather being one of the youngest of his six children.

I unraveled all sorts of stories about relatives on both sides but the mystery of Henry continued until we learned that he had been committed to a mental institution and in a stroke of great luck, found his commitment papers, which tell a sad story of mania and perhaps schizophrenia.

His counterpart, my grandmother’s father, William (presumably born “at sea” but I’m still looking for documentation), emigrated as an infant to Buffalo, NY and set out on a long career as a confectioner during the booming years of candy making in New York. It was a life of relative prosperity and comfort, much unlike the life of a farmer in the 1800s. Their stories simply couldn’t be more different.

As I’ve studied these stories and others in the family line, I have more than once pondered how I feel about this history and how I fit into this narrative.

And the short answer is proud. And sad. And impressed, in a way.

I have lived in the same city since the day I was born. Sure, I travel, I get around. But I’m not what one would call adventurous. I’m not a risky person. And so to consider that my people lived in such conditions where leaving their homeland was the only reasonable solution to their life situation evokes such a feeling of respect and awe. There are many who would simply deny their faith, fit in with the norms of the time and live in relative safety. But my family took a different path. To make that very long, often dangerous trans-Atlantic crossing required commitment and courage, a courage I’m not sure I have.

I am filled with admiration for their dedication to a faith that provided so many obstacles. While this is not the faith I practice, I admire the Mennonite’s basic tenets of belief, particularly the strong emphasis on peace and not bearing arms, and my ancestors’ willingness to die for it, to hide in caves and to worship in secret. It takes strength of character to defy the rules for one’s beliefs. I like to think I have some of that — but I’m not sure I am that strong.

As I’ve learned about farming in the American Victorian period, I’ve realized how difficult it was when technology had not brought tractors and other farming implements to make the work easier. We all know this, rationally. But it wasn’t until I both read more and then actually saw the property that was my great grandparent’s — 100 acres of farmland in western Michigan — that I realized the challenge of it all. Farming was a family job. The children worked alongside their parents and that work was done manually. Michigan winters are tough and west Michigan tends to have some pretty rugged weather due to the lake effect snow. My people had to work hard, very hard, relying as farmers today do for weather conditions throughout the growing season to provide the best crops.

I have trouble growing tomatoes. In pots.

I am so soft.

I’ve learned I am much like my grandmother — a creative soul who loves to laugh. I had heard stories from my mother, her sisters and my mother’s best friend about my grandmother and her wonderful sense of humor, her creative streak and her good nature. What I didn’t know was that her parents had come to America in the 1800s from England to settle in a new city. Why they left remains a mystery. But somehow, through the chance happening of two people working in the same confectionery business, Minnie’s parents met.

Try as I may, my candy making ventures will never be store-worthy. (Witness the peanut butter fudge epic fail at Christmas.) Yet to know my great grandfather William was a candy maker — and indeed, I have his handwritten recipe book — gives me the confidence to try again.
My ancestors were not academically educated. I believe my mother’s generation was the first in her family to attend college. But they had a toughness and determination to build a good life, a new life, in a new land and to thrive.

I look at today’s news, stories of refugees fleeing oppression and seeking a freedom — religious or otherwise — they do not have. They are no different than the families of Angeline and Henry, William and Bessie. I find myself nurturing a desire to help those who come to my community settle into a new life. I haven’t quite figured out how to do this yet, but if there is one legacy I hold dear from the stories of my past, it is that in challenge we can triumph, over generations we can soar. These new immigrants deserve the same chance as my people did.

Perhaps one day, their descendants, too, will look back with awe, admiration and respect at their courage and strength and feel a little bit changed. I know I do.

About the Author: Jeanie Croope

Jeanie Croope bioAfter a long career in public broadcasting, Jeanie Croope is now doing all the things she loves — art, photography, writing, cooking, reading wonderful books and discovering a multitude of new creative passions. You can find her blogging about life and all the things she loves at The Marmelade Gypsy.

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I am the Seeker by Keva Bartnick

I’ve always wondered exactly “what” I was, you know when you are little you feel better if you belong to a group, a clan, a tribe. I’ve heard several arguments for and against putting yourself in a box; defining yourself as a person. If I wanted to define myself I could use several hundred boxes in which to put myself.

If I wanted to describe myself by astrological standards I could say I’m a Gemini. This is true unless you go by the 13th symbol, then I’d be a Taurus. I could also say that I’m an INTJ; some days I am more E than I. It doesn’t change where I get my energy from that’s for sure. I’m also less J than I’ve ever been so the scale keeps sliding.

I keep expanding, I keep changing. I have always loved the saying, “the only person you should try and be better than is the person you were yesterday.’’

My dear friend Melissa Cynova, she wrote ‘Kitchen Table Tarot.’ Her cards have her name on them and one word; Reader. She was asked what that was all about. Her answer was brilliant as always. She said something to the effect that she didn’t want to be called a fortune teller, or anything like that, she was a reader.

She reads cards, she reads energy, she reads people. She’s freaking great at it too! She IS a reader. So I texted her the other day, and it went something like this:

Me: “I have a question for you. Since you call yourself a reader, which I believe is the most accurate description of you in the whole entire history of eva. What would I call myself? If I had to define myself or what I do in one word I wouldn’t even know where to start. Do you have any suggestions since you are the only wordsmith guru that I know.”

Lis: “Seeker”

Me: “I love it!!” *heart eyed emoji*

Lis: “;)”

Then I started the list, and I kept listing and listing……and listing. Would you like to see what Melissa knew about me? Pull up a chair, and grab something to drink, this might take a couple of minutes. So let’s begin, and in no particular order, this is me…”the seeker.”

I AM a Seeker of insight, of direction, of knowledge, of information, of wisdom, of the ways of truth.

I am a seeker of great books, and of beautiful stories. I am a seeker of alchemy, of adventure, of life, of Northstars and compasses, and also of the mysteries.

Sometimes I’m a seeker of approval and praise, because who doesn’t like a little of that sometimes? I don’t need it to thrive though. I’m a seeker and seer of signs, of spirit, of the Universe and of God, the Holy Spirit, of ghosts and energetic signatures. I am a seeker of validation every once in awhile, but not all the time. I am a seeker of healing modalities and of shamanic journeys, of ancestral roots, of tools for healing toolboxes, and wonder.

I am a seeker of good coffee and good food, of great whiskey, of red wine and dark chocolate.

I am a seeker of inspiration, of the ancients, of guides (spirit and otherwise), of rocks and minerals, and of projects to complete. I am most definitely a seeker of recipes to try, of ideas, of art, of weather phenomena, and of great clouds.

I am seeker of wonder and feathers. A seeker of gift ideas for my loved ones, of places to go, of things to do, of people to see.

I am a seeker of patterns in the universe, of scientific discoveries, and of scientific theories.

I am a seeker of animal totems, of soul selves, of energy in general.

I am a seeker of great music that speaks to my soul, of kick ass dance offs, and of meanings to life.

I’m also a seeker of angelic touch points or symbols and signs. I am a seeker of heroes, of pay it forward moments, of finding kindness in the world. I’m also a huge seeker of small gestures with loving intent. Those moments that might not mean a whole lot to you, but that could change the destiny or the direction of the recipient.

I’m a seeker of the small magical moments, of deep belly laughs and giggles of children. I am a seeker of living IN the moment, of precious smiles, and of cups running over.

I am NOT a seeker of revenge, or anything hurtful or hateful. I will leave that to others, because it’s not me.

I have to admit a couple of things though; I am a finder too. I am a finder of happiness, of paths, of love in my life, sometimes great parking spaces, and tables in bars. I’m also blessed to also find part, even if it’s a small part, of my purpose. Finding after seeking, and being content with what you do find is one of those heaven on earth moments. I can be content with what I find. It totally is a thing, but that doesn’t stop me from seeking; sometimes it just deepens the quest.

I’m also a builder of foundations, but foundations take time, effort, and a “wanna”. That wanna makes you dig real deep down in your soul for change. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither are we. We take time, because we are worth it. I’m a builder of esteem, mostly of my own, but a girl has to start somewhere. I’m a builder of life paths. If you are interested in finding your own, I could help with that. With the right questions, and some elbow grease you too could stumble on part of your own.

Life is about the journey to unfold the purpose of why we are here. I’m on my journey, and will be till I die; constantly seeking, finding, building my dream that I’m living everyday. My life is never a dull moment, and neither is my journey. Honestly, I wouldn’t want it any other way; live well, dream big, seek often.

Seeking is a lifetime obsession of mine, actually it’s been the one thing that’s been a constant throughout. There are things that may change, but being a seeker I hope isn’t one of them. If I’m not seeking something then I don’t believe that I’m learning, if there is one thing that I do it’s learn. Learning is genetically encoded in my biology, in my DNA. I wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t seeking to glean copious amounts of information.

The thing about me is that I never ask or expect anyone to do anything that I’ve not already done, and experienced myself. If I don’t want to do it why should I ask anyone else do to it either. To me that just makes sense, ya know? Being a seeker you have to be okay with, and up for just about anything. Seeking takes a certain lifestyle, to which I am completely committed.

My motto: Learn, Experience, Practice, Share (Repeat)

About the Author: Keva Bartnick

Keva Bartnick is an artist, writer, and lightworker. Happily married mother of three; she’s been inspiring people to be their most courageous selves since 2015.

She can be found at Taleoftwofeathers.com

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Portrait in Pen and Ink by Melissa A. Bartell

Paper and Ink

She didn’t collect selfies on her phone, and rarely allowed photos to be taken at all. When asked why she would joke that she was the most unphotogenic (which isn’t a word, but should be) person in the world.

But it wasn’t true.

The truth was that when she was five, her mother’s first husband (NOT her biological father – that’s a different story) said that when she smiled she looked like she’d swallowed lemons.

 

She lived a lifetime of avoiding photos because no matter what she did the image on the film or the screen was always sullen, or silly, or stupid, and she was none of those things.

 

She never kept a journal.

Why write things that no one will ever read? she asked, not really rhetorically.

But no one ever gave her a satisfying answer.

 

So she filled spiral notebooks with stories, stacks upon stacks of green-lined paper filled with glossy black or peacock blue. Wet ink. Roller balls. Micro-fine points. And when writing online became accessible to the masses, she did that, too, coding her first website in Lynx, creating her first blog in OpenDiary because LiveJournal hadn’t yet been invented.

(But you don’t keep diaries, she was reminded.)

(No, she said, I don’t write words that no one will read; people read this.)

 

The archives on her current blog, which is too infrequently updated these days, go back sixteen years. For a long time, she posted content daily, until she realized she didn’t want to write who she was.

 

She wanted to write who she wasn’t.

She wanted to take reality and give it a twist – just there – and a tweak – and in so doing, she revealed far more of herself than people realized.

 

She doesn’t keep journals. She doesn’t save photos of herself or others.

She doesn’t need external sources to help her retain the things that are printed indelibly on her memory: her mother’s singing (off-key, but enthusiastic), her husband’s eyes (twinkling blue, like the ocean she loves, and full of adoration), her grandmother’s gnarled hands and crooked fingers, her grandfather’s slightly bow-legged walk, the way her dog comes to visit her when she’s in the bath – biting at the bubbles and then shaking his head in confusion.

 

If you want to see me, she doesn’t say out loud, but expects people to understand, read my words.

 

That ink is my blood.

That paper is my body.

 

Handwritten scenes stuck to the fridge on brightly colored post-its.

Scrawled phrases in purse-sized Moleskine notebooks.

Digital files full of stories, some that are ready and some that are still perking.

 

She thinks in music, because music was her first language. (Foghorns and sea birds and boat horns and her mother’s singing. )

But she lives in lines of text.

About the author: Melissa A. Bartell

Melissa is a writer, voice actor, podcaster, itinerant musician, voracious reader, and collector of hats and rescue dogs. She is the author of The Bathtub Mermaid: Tales from the Holiday Tub. You can learn more about her on her blog, listen to her podcast, or connect with her on on Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter.

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I Want to Remember by Michelle GD

I am keen on the little bits that make up life, and I explore them with camera in hand.  Certainly, there are the photographs of my growing children and the holidays and the vacations.  But what intrigues me most are the pieces of all that…the pile of shoes left by the back door, the crushed candy cane spilled on the table, the afternoon light streaming through the window on our second-last day of vacation.  That is what I want to capture.

And I find the search for the bits and pieces appear in my self-portrait work as well, quite literally at times.  I might take a traditional shot of my face.  But the shots I really love are the ones that capture pieces of me.  Glimpses.  Those are the shots that remind me what I was doing on a given day; those are the images that trigger memories of what I was feeling that day.

Like many of us, I am generally the person taking the photographs of everyone else.  And that suits me just fine.  Truthfully, the reason I turn the camera on myself is not so much so that I appear in an occasional family shot – although that’s nice.  The reason I turn the camera on myself is because I want to remember.  I want to remember me.  I delight in making photographs of everything that shapes my life.  But, even in the delight, there is the potential for getting lost.  I do not want to be lost.

And so I turn the lens.  It’s not every day, but I make an effort to position myself on the other side of the camera on a regular basis.  It’s a practice I’m developing and, though I’ve been doing it a couple years, I am astounded each and every time by just how healing the experience is.

My shots reflect wherever I am on a given day.  Sometimes they’re playful in nature; sometimes they’re restrained; rarely are they staged.  But when I look back at each of them, I say to myself, Ah, yes.  That.  Me.  Then.  It’s powerful.

It’s not about a good hair day or showcasing a perfect life.  Not at all.  It’s about looking, with intention, at where I am in my life.  Where am I standing in the midst of all my little bits?  What am I feeling?  What am I holding, literally or figuratively? How am I doing…for real?

Because I want to know what I’m doing and how I’m feeling, for real.  I want to understand how I fit with the other pieces of my life.  Self-portraiture allows me a process for exploring that, for celebrating that.  It allows me a means to express what otherwise might get trapped inside.  I want nothing trapped inside.  I want to see and understand, as best I can, all the pieces of my life.  I want to remember the shoes and the candy canes.  I want to remember how the afternoon light fell through the window.  And I want to remember how that light fell onto me.

Editor’s Note: *text previously published in Bella Grace, Issue 4, 2015

About the Author: Michelle GD

Michelle GD is an artist living in Virginia. Using writing and photography as forms of meditation, she explores the connections between the beautiful and messy bits of life. You can find her at MichelleGD.com.

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All That is to Come by Christine Mason Miller

In three weeks time, I’ll be on the other side of the planet—traveling through India with three companions, my second visit to that part of the world. Just like the first time I went there, I don’t know what to expect and I’m excited for a new adventure. Even though we’re headed to many of the same places I visited before, four years have passed since that trip. During that time, I’ve written a book, moved across country and turned fifty. The world has changed and so have I, so I’m not heading to Delhi assuming I’ll love India the same way I did last time.

Who’s to say how well I’ll be able to handle the colorful chaos that is India this time around? Who’s to say I won’t love it more?

I traveled with my friend Barb on 2014 visit, and we went to Ranthambore National Park, a wildlife preserve in Rajasthan best known for its tiger population. As we both got situated with the guided jeep tour our first morning there, we were told not to get our hopes up with regard to seeing a tiger. None had been spotted for days, so expectations were tempered right away.

Over the next few hours, we were driven all over the park, observing sambar deer, monkeys and all kinds of birds. While we weren’t finding any tigers, it was fascinating to watch our guides try to track them. After pulling up near the edge of a dramatic vista and turning the engine off, they listened for the telltale signs of smaller animals’ sounds and movements that might signal the presence of a predator. Sure enough, there seemed to be a bit of commotion, and the guides immediately headed in a new direction. After checking in with another guide down the road, following tracks and taking a few more detours, it eventually came time to wrap up our tour with nary a tiger in sight.

On the route back to the entrance of the park, ours was the only jeep in sight that morning, and it was a small one compared to the twenty-person caravans we saw on our way in. All the other vehicles that had entered the park the same time we did at the beginning of the day were in search of tigers in other areas, so our small band of less than a dozen tourists had the road in front of us all to ourselves.

We’d passed a small body of water on our way into the park, and stopped on our return to see if we might spot a crocodile. While scanning the shoreline, something unexpected came into view, and once my brain caught up with my eyes, I realized what I was looking at: a full grown tiger, walking straight toward us, eyes locked, it seemed, on mine. My eyes went wide, my jaw dropped, and I immediately started crying. Even the guides were freaking out, exclaiming, “THIS is magic moment!” with a hand raised in the air as if in an exalted prayer. Looking at him with tearful eyes, I knew, body and soul, he was right. This was a magic moment.

I know people see wild animals all the time, all over the world. Whether on a jeep tour similar to ours, a safari in Africa or a fishing trip in Alaska, I’ve heard countless stories of encounters with creatures big and small in their native habitat. Seeing an animal in the wild isn’t terribly unique or even difficult. But for whatever reason, on that particular day, the rush of excitement upon seeing the tiger poured through me like a meteor shower—all stars and light and, yes, magic.

As the tiger walked toward us, our driver backed up and pulled up to a small hill just off the road. For a blissful ten minutes or so, we had front row seats to the tiger’s quiet meanderings. We watched him walk toward the water and sprawl out on the ground before offering us a big, gaping yawn, perhaps to let us know our presence in his home couldn’t possibly bore him more. We were guests in his domain, so we all sat quietly and watched him, the most audible sounds being the click-click-click of all the cameras. After taking a few photos myself, I set mine down, wanting to watch him with my own eyes for as long as possible rather than through a viewfinder. When I turned around to look at Barb, sitting behind me, I saw she had been crying too.

We cried quite a few times on that trip—at the sight of other animals, at the kindness of strangers, out of exhaustion and overwhelm. We laughed and sobbed and whooped and prayed, letting all the emotions flow through us day by day, moment by moment. In order to fully experience all the beauty and wonder India had to offer, we had to be open to all of its challenges too—the poverty, the crowds, the constant noise and movement. We came home filled in ways we hadn’t expected, having been pushed far out of our comfort zones and given gifts we didn’t see coming, like the tiger that emerged, seemingly out of nowhere, right in front of our jeep on that cold, misty morning in Ranthambore.

I am returning to India in a few weeks with Barb again, along with two other first-time visitors. While we aren’t visiting Ranthambore this time, there are, no doubt, many magic moments ahead of us. I don’t know what they will look or feel like and am not going to try to predict where they’ll happen, but I know they’re there—waiting for us all like unopened, beautifully wrapped presents. As I prepare for the journey ahead, I’m already saying thank you for everything that is to come.

About the Author: Christine Mason Miller

Christine Mason Miller is an author and artist who has been inspiring others to create a meaningful life since 1995.

Follow her adventures at www.christinemasonmiller.com.

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A Cinderella Story by Ruth Coe Chambers

I’ve always felt my childhood was marred because we didn’t have a library in our town. We had beaches with sand as white as sugar, water from the Gulf of Mexico that touched places we might never see. But no books. I longed for a well-stocked library, but all I had was hope that a family would move to our small town and bring books with them. My family didn’t seem to find a lack of books something to worry about. Mama had her crocheting and soap operas on the radio, Daddy had hunting and fishing when he wasn’t busy protecting us as he sported his deputy sheriff badge, and my dentist uncle brought home pulp fiction detective magazines that Mama had forbidden me to touch.

Me? Nothing filled that void for me but hope. Still, I started school without books and discovered something more wonderful than the colored chalk our teacher used to draw a calendar of September. She had a book! I would eventually learn that all the teachers had books, but just starting school, I believed pretty Mrs. Howell was the only one who owned one and not just any book, but one called Cinderella. I’d never heard a name so beautiful. On the cover was a young woman as beautiful as her name, dressed in a long, yellow bouffant dress cascading with ruffles and bows and all things wonderful.

Each day Mrs. Howell read a  little of Cinderella to us, and I suppose she knew we were hungry for books because every Friday one person from a list she kept in her desk would be allowed to take Cinderella home for the weekend. I thought my Friday would never arrive. How the time dragged until the day I ran to her desk after school and told her it was my turn to take Cinderella home. She looked at me and said quite simply, “Oh, Ruth, it’s lost. I don’t have it any more.” Her eyes weren’t red from weeping, she didn’t pound the floor with her fists. An important part of her world had obviously been stolen, and she appeared unconcerned about it. I hoped I never took anything of beauty for granted. I realized in that moment, even though I was only six years old, that I still had hope, and no one could ever steal it or the wonder it brought me.

I continued going to people who moved into town to see if they brought any books with them. That was how I came to read my first novel, A Girl of the Limberlost, by Gene Stratton-Porter. I identified with the girl though I didn’t possess the courage she did in collecting specimens from a swamp. I could, however, feel her shame in having to carry her lunch to school in a syrup bucket.

I was growing older, and when my parents realized I could read, they knew they would have to be more careful and keep their secrets hidden. One they kept hidden in plain sight. I had found a need for hope beyond books. I prayed that God would not let Mama turn out to be my stepmother.

It was my reading that had uncovered their secret. When I was very young, they let me see snapshots with writing on the backs. The woman had my name, and she stood with Daddy. I knew then why a room grew quiet when I entered it. Things fell into place and I knew who she was, even her name. Hope dimmed and my fate was sealed when a girl at school said one day, “She isn’t your real mother, is she?” I didn’t want a stepmother and ran, ran until my side hurt, but I couldn’t escape my stepmother.

I realized my parents didn’t want me to know who Mama really was so I began the long years of protecting them from my awakening. It was a heavy burden for a child to carry. Hope had been stolen after all, and I was left with guilt. Should I love the woman with my name, the woman who carried me under her heart, or the woman who cared for me through the measles and chicken pox and all the childhood illnesses? It was a heavy burden, even for a teenager, and the whispers of stepmother never left me.

I was an adult when I came to realize that I still had hope after all. Where would I have been without my escape through writing, my hope for making a contribution? I had to make my time on earth count. I had to repay a debt to a woman with my name. I was a Cinderella child. I had a stepmother who was sometimes wicked, but I saw that both Cinderella and I not only had stepmothers, but also hope in a glass slipper or a published book. Thinking of all I had written, of the stories, essays, plays and novels, I wondered if they would have been written had I not used them as a way of running until my side didn’t ache any more. Oh, the wonder of it all. Both my mothers, they were the wonder all along, never once calling me a stepchild.

About the Author: Ruth Coe Chambers

Ruth Coe Chambers takes pride in her Florida panhandle roots and her hometown of Port St. Joe has inspired much of her writing.

She is indebted to the creative writing classes at the University of South Florida where she found her “voice” and began writing literary fiction. Listed in the Who’s Who of American Women. She has recently republished one novel, and published it’s sequel, and has written two award-winning plays. She is currently working on the third novel in her Bay Harbor Trilogy. She has two daughters and lives with her husband and one very spoiled Cairn terrier in Neptune Beach, Florida.

Her two earlier novels include The Chinaberry Album and Heat Lightening.