Summer in Switzerland

Switzerland

I’m going to Europe–vicariously.

Our son and his wife (who married, as you may remember, last October) are flying off for their belated honeymoon in France and Italy.

I’ve packed myself in Christopher’s suitcase–never you mind that his suitcase is halfway across the country in San Diego–and I’m going to visit Paris, Florence, Nice and Rome.  I’ll be so quiet they won’t even know that the mother-in-law is ooohing and ahhhing up that Eiffel Tower.

I promise not to speak.  In fact, they won’t even know I’m there.

Storms never last do they baby?

Storms never pass do they baby?

Storms never last do they baby?

Bad times all pass with the winds

Your hand in mine stills the thunder

And you make the sun want to shine…

Seriously, folks, you can be enjoying a *somewhat* warm Sunday afternoon with your “baby” when suddenly the conversation turns to old songs.  (A song  which this particular blogger never knew until five minutes ago after her “baby” started rather mockingly singing this old-time classic and she Googled to discover a Jessi Colter and Waylon Jennings version and now, maybe, she’ll remember at least until tomorrow morning as she ponders “Storms never last, do they, baby?”)

What is it about a catchy tune?  A tune which has the power to jingle, jolt, jab, sing, dance you from your very ordinary day?  And what is it about old-time songs, songs from our childhood, or before our childhood, maybe our parent’s childhood, songs from long-ago, which sing us into a place where our heart throbs, who knows why?  Maybe because we remember our Mama or Papa singing it while they made Wonder Bread & peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, who the heck knows?

Opening our Easter heart

My Good Friday tradition, for more years than you can count on fingers and toes, involved spinning the old album on the record player, clicking in an eight track tape, pushing in a condensed “modern” tape, and eventually inserting a CD into the player.

Listening to what, you ask?

Listening to Jesus Christ Superstar, my friends.  Thank you, Lori, from this post at Lori’s Lane for the inspiration!

How many of you can sing the entire score?  If you can, shall we Skype and sing it together?  (Just kidding.  I’m not singing in public.  Even in the relative “private” of Skype, thank you very much.)

If you want to listen to the ENTIRE 1970 CD here’s your Easter weekend jamming:

Who says we can’t go back to Nicaragua again?

Travelers pause

Querida amigos,  Who says we can’t go back to Nicaragua again?

As many of you remember my nephew Tim and his fiance, Natalie, married down in Nicaragua in Central America last January.  Yes, I  flew first to Fort Meyers Beach in Florida and then drove my parents to Miami where we met other family members and winged our way toward Managua and then shuttled to our Ultimate Wedding Destination, be still my remembering heart.

We then spent several of the most memorable days of my life in San Juan del Sur alongside the Pacific Ocean at a most magnificent resort called Pelican Eyes, yes, please be still my remembering heart.

Truly, it was a vacation of a lifetime.  We made memories to last Forever.  Because so many of you readers didn’t come on board Lake Superior Spirit until after the Nicaragua trip–and just because I am enjoying looking through some of the photographs once again–the way returning travelers sometimes do–please feel free to pause by these photos and remember along with me.

If you want to know the actual stories which accompanied the photographs please visit:

Hola!  from San Juan del Sur

Get us to the church on time – Nicaraguan Style

Please don’t step on the chicken in the coffee shop (and other Nicaraguan photos)

and, last but not least:  Danger in Nicaragua  (which people Google to discover if it’s dangerous to visit Nicaragua, which they shouldn’t do.  They should Google the U.S. Department of State, please, and check travel warnings and not rely on Kathy who really knows nothing, I beg of you.)

Hope you all enjoy or re-enjoy this trip down Nicaraguan Memory Lane.

Ahhh, sweet memories…

P.S.  No, no.  No second trips planned back to Nicaragua at this time.  Perhaps in the future.  But not imminently…   Too bad, huh?

Overlooking San Juan del Sur from our casa

Clouds in pool

Once upon a New Year’s Eve

Once upon a black-haired baby

Once upon a time there were three little bears living in our Little House in the Big Woods in Aura, Michigan.  Mama Bear, Daddy Bear and Baby Bear.  One day Mama Bear told Daddy Bear that there was another bear who wanted to come live with them.

Daddy Bear didn’t believe it at first, but it was true.  Mama Bear started getting bigger and bigger, even though she didn’t eat any more porridge each morning.

It became obvious that Baby Bear would soon have a new brother or sister.  Mama Bear was sure it would be another boy because she had visions of two boys running helter-skelter in the ravine behind the house.  (She also really secretly wanted a girl-baby, but didn’t want to be disappointed, you know how it is.)

As the darkest days of December approached in 1985 (see, it wasn’t THAT long ago) Mama Bear suddenly switched allegiances   It now felt like a girl nesting inside, preparing to join the family.   (She still didn’t want to be disappointed, so she reminded herself of the vision.)

Once upon a New Year’s Eve those long, long years ago a baby girl came squalling into the world, a bright brand new spanking baby girl, a delight, a joy, a new addition to the Bear family, a black-haired red-faced angel we named Kiah Michelle.

Tomfoolery of our Santas and Snowmen

Dear readers, it’s just about time to go a’diggin’ down in the basement closet and find our multi-colored Christmas lights and Grandma’s ceramic tree and the reindeer ornament that hangs on the wall by the door.  Don’t forget some garland, and the box for Christmas cards, and that red-and-white Santa pillow, and who knows what else?

Oh, yes, some of you know what else, don’t you sly long-time readers?  Yes, the Santas and Snowmen must come upstairs and find a special place to sit on their tic-tac-toe board.

I really want to introduce you newcomers to the Santas and Snowmen.  (Some of you spotted them in a recent post and admired the way they marched around outside in the snow.) However, I really didn’t want to type the story again.  So I am copying and pasting a blog post which originally ran in Lake Superior Spirit on December 25th, 2010.

(I wrote it just four days after my gall bladder surgery, so it proves that the doctor didn’t remove any sense of humor along with that organ.)

Tomfoolery of our Santas and Snowmen

With tears streaming down my face…

It’s my daughter’s fault.

She ignited a memory this morning, a very cherished memory of our children’s elementary years.

As many of you know, we live in a small township with about 460 residents (down twenty folks since the 2000 census.)  Our elementary students attend a two-room public school.  The student count fluctuates over the years.  Back in the 1980′s and 90′s when our kids attended the count averaged about 28.  One year, for a very short time, we topped out at 41 students.  These days we teach between five and fifteen girls and boys.

Our two attended Arvon Township School where their mama (me!) had the fancy title of Business Manager.  That meant I did the books, paid the handful of employees and filled out countless state reports.  (As many of you know, I am still in this part-time position all these years later.)

One of the highlights of the school year for our students is a magnificent Christmas program where moms and dads, grandmas and grandpas, friends and neighbors all turn out to listen to little Johnny or Melinda sing, act, read or play recorders.

When people die on Facebook

Death

Yesterday morning I woke up to discover the death of a Facebook friend.

We’ve been watching her die slowly on Facebook for the past several weeks.

She actually friended me about a month ago.  She was the daughter of my children’s babysitter when they were mere babes.  For a very short stint, we once worked together.

About five or ten years ago we had a significant encounter, one of those encounters of which I’ve lost all the particulars.  I know I had a dream about her.  We ran into one another outside the sauna of a local motel.  I shared the dream with her–not one detail can be recalled all these years later–and we bonded deeply for maybe twenty minutes.

Maybe I also shared the dream I had of her mother, our babysitter, before she died.  I dreamed of a Native American blanket wrapped around her basement.  A few weeks later she was unexpectedly dead.

I don’t recall what we talked about outside the sauna, but we talked, and we hugged and laughed and maybe cried, and then five years pass in the blink of an eyelash and she friended me on Facebook.

Roots of the dead

Underworld

Beneath the graves of our loved ones roots funnel down, down to an underworld alive with memories, alive with possibility that perhaps–do you think maybe perhaps?–the dearly departed can never, ever, ever leave our embracing hearts, our fond recall, our encompassing reach.

Note to those still alive attempting to comment: I have turned off the commenting function of this blog until I catch up reading other people’s posts.

This photo comes to you from the Pequaming Cemetery in November, 2010. Hope you enjoy!

In which we play a mean game of croquet at the pre-wedding picnic.

The players plan their croquet strategy…

You guys don’t  believe everything I type in the blog headlines, do you?  You really don’t think we played a mean game of croquet at the pre-wedding picnic of our son and his bride  in Balboa Park, San Diego, California, last Friday, do you?

Alas.  Sigh.  It’s not the case.

But you shall have to read on to glean all the crazy mallet & wicket details.