Peace of Mind and Heart

27 “I am leaving you with a gift—peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give is a gift the world cannot give. So don’t be troubled or afraid. 28 Remember what I told you: I am going away, but I will come back to you again. If you really loved me, you would be happy that I am going to the Father, who is greater than I am. 29 I have told you these things before they happen so that when they do happen, you will believe.

30 “I don’t have much more time to talk to you, because the ruler of this world approaches. He has no power over me, 31 but I will do what the Father requires of me, so that the world will know that I love the Father. Come, let’s be going.” (John 14:27-31, New Living Translation)

I can’t remember who it was – a person I know or God – who sent me the 27^th verse of this chapter in the first few days after my daughter died in August. But those words have been imprinted in my mind and on my heart. Those words let me keep my life together, allow me to take deep breaths and know that everything will be all right.  

Peace I leave with you, My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid. (from the New King James Version)

          No matter what your struggles, turn them over to God and let Him cover you in His peace. And then study the rest of this chapter. Jesus left this world for a few days on Good Friday, but He came back on Easter morning and is still with us. Still giving us His peace.

I Have Always Been This Uncool

 Journal of our Journeys 

Chapter 19 - Virginia III 

It was 1978, and we were going to Virginia. Again.

I was 16 years old and still taking the yearly family camping trip with my parents. And once again, same as the previous year, my best friend and partner in crime, my sister Pat, couldn’t join us. She got a summer job at the paper mill in town, making an unreal amount of money for that time. I had only ever earned any money babysitting, and that was pretty infrequent. I was about as uncool as a teenager could be.

What has always been cool, though, are mountains.

From southeast Canada to Alabama, the Appalachian Mountain range runs the entire length of our country’s eastern seaboard. Running the northern stretch are the Alleghenies, the Berkshires, the Poconos, the Catskills, all places for lake mountain resorts, places where families used to go for month-long retreats. In the southern section, the mountains include the Blue Ridge, the Great Smoky Mountains, and the Shenandoah Mountains. They hold romantic names, mysterious descriptive names.

The Rocky Mountains in the west rise rugged and majestic from the plateau below. But it always feels like if you’ve seen one rugged, majestic mountain, you’ve seen them all.

The mountains in the east, though rising not nearly as high, have more personality. They change colors and moods throughout the day. Their forests are dark and mysterious, almost foreboding at times. Mists rise from the hills in the morning. You always have the feeling as if someone – or something – is watching you from the trees.

At a wayside somewhere in the mountains. Not sure if my hair or my socks are the most uncool. 

We took the minor detour through Chattanooga, Tennessee, again. And visited Rock City, but skipped the waterfall in the cave and other tourist stuff. I did manage to cross the swing bridge this time, hanging onto it for dear life. I never did stop being uncool. 

And, yes, Dad swung the bridge.

On our way to the relatives in Virginia, we spent the night at a KOA in Asheville, North Carolina.

What is significant about Asheville, you may ask? Nothing at that time, because there was no internet or travel brochures, and I knew pretty much nothing. As many times as I have paged through the Camping Log, I never made the connection.

As I write this, as an adult, life on this planet pretty much does not exist without the internet and all the information at everyone’s fingertips. If you have traveled at all in the southeast or if you have any interest in huge houses, you know that Asheville is the home of Biltmore Mansion, the massive estate of the Vanderbilt family.

I have been fascinated with the Biltmore ever since seeing it featured on A & E’s America’s Castles. Through the wonder of the internet, I have discovered that we drove within 15 miles of the estate. Once again, I am awed by my lack of knowledge.

I can understand how, at age six, I didn’t know where I was when we went to New York state, but you would think, that ten years later, I would have gained a few orientation skills. Do 16-year-olds in this day and age know where things are in this great country of ours? Maybe, but they only know what Google Maps tells them.

Hold it, don’t answer that. We live an hour’s drive northeast of the city of Abbotsford, Wisconsin. When my kids were young, whenever we drove by Abbotsford, we would stop for ice cream cones at the ice cream/cheese store in town. Until she was 15 or 16, my daughter thought all roads led past Abbotsford. No matter where we were driving, in what direction, she would ask if we could stop in Abbotsford for ice cream.

But we need to go back to 1978. We arrived at Mom’s uncle’s house in Virginia without visiting any emergency rooms, which was good.

While we were there, one of the relatives had the bright idea to visit Busch Gardens amusement park in Williamsburg. It would have been a fun place, had I not been the only teenager. Instead of going on many rides, we mostly walked around, took in the sights, saw the famous Clydesdales, and snapped a few pictures. Having never been to any amusement park, I still thought it was an interesting place, and, always having had a bit of a weak stomach, I had little desire to go on the wilder rides. Just riding through the mountains was usually enough excitement for me. 

And all these years later, I am still just as uncool.

Mom's Last Days - Weepy Wednesday, episode 9

Mom on Christmas 1984. She hated getting her picture taken, and this is one of the rare ones where she's smiling. 

During the past nine years, I’ve shared bits and pieces of the last days that my mom was alive, but I don’t think I ever told the whole story. I dug it out from my journal and here it finally is.

Sunday, January 15, 2017, we brought Mom over for lunch with a few of Hubby's family members. My mom and his mom had a good visit, and it was a good day.

The next day, Monday, the 16th, Mom called me at noon to tell me that she was vomiting and felt weaker than usual. She sounded horrible, so I told her to see if my brother could take her to the ER, and if not, she should call 911.

My brother brought her into the ER, and they checked her over. The only thing wrong with her tests was that her calcium was elevated. The ER doctor told her to stop her calcium supplement and sent her home.

I left work a little early, took her home, and tried to get her to eat something. She wanted a hamburger from McDonald's, so I ran and got one and picked up the Zofran script the ER doc had sent in. She threw up the hamburger, so I gave her a Zofran and stayed until she got ready for bed. Then, I stopped to see her the next two nights, until she came in to see her regular doctor for a recheck on Thursday.

She still looked pretty crummy on Thursday, just as weak, still a little nauseated, and getting confused. She was also dehydrated by then, so her doctor admitted her for IV fluids and observation.

She did okay over the weekend, but never really got much strength back, so on Monday, the 23rd, they sent her to the nursing home for rehab.

She did all right in the nursing home, had good days and bad days. Griped about a lot of stuff (the food, the staff, the other residents) to my sister and me, but she remained sweet as pie to everyone else, which has been her modus operandi for a long time.

Then on Monday, February 6, her insurance company gave her the final heave-ho; they were kicking her out on Thursday. We got home health set up to do an eval, ordered the Lifeline, and made an appointment with ADRC. I planned on staying with her for the weekend to make sure she didn't fall, that she was eating, and that she was doing okay.

By the next morning, she had decided that this wasn't going to work; she wanted to go back to the nursing home. She was just so weak and frail. She'd also been having pain in her hip, and it was getting worse. She had been taking Tylenol or Tramadol as needed, but I started giving it to her on a schedule, so that the pain didn't escalate.

Oh, and her little arthritic fingers were not strong enough to push the Lifeline button if she needed to, so there was no way she could stay home alone at all.

The home health nurse came on Saturday to see what they could offer, but they agreed she couldn't stay home without 24/7 care. I called the nursing home, but because it was the weekend, they couldn't admit her until Monday.

I stayed with her over the weekend, with my brother or sister relieving me for about four hours each day, so I could come home, unwind, take a shower, and try to get a quick nap in my own bed. I'd been trying to sleep on Mom's loveseat, and she also keeps her apartment at 85 degrees, so no matter how hard I tried to get comfortable, it wasn't happening.

Monday morning, she was in more pain, and she clearly had an infection in one of her fingers. It was a challenge, and I tried not to push her, but we finally made it to the nursing home by ten, when they were expecting us.

She got through that day and the next. But by Wednesday morning, the nursing home called to say the finger was even more swollen and was turning black. I told them to send her to the clinic, and her doctor would work her in, because that's what happens when your daughter works for your doctor.

When he went in to see her, I handed him hospital admission orders and told him she needed to be admitted. As soon as he saw her, he agreed. But because of paperwork and stupid computers, it was another hour before I wheeled her over to the hospital and helped the nurse there clean her up and settle her in bed.

Two hours later, my doctor came out of his office and told me, "The hospital just called." He paused. "Your mom just passed away." He was more shocked than I was. I saw this coming.

Hubby snuck this picture of Mom and me when she was in the hospital on Jan 22.

God, the Holy Spirit

 15 “If you love me, obey my commandments. 16 And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, who will never leave you. 17 He is the Holy Spirit, who leads into all truth. The world cannot receive him, because it isn’t looking for him and doesn’t recognize him. But you know him, because he lives with you now and later will be in you. 18 No, I will not abandon you as orphans—I will come to you. 19 Soon the world will no longer see me, but you will see me. Since I live, you also will live. 20 When I am raised to life again, you will know that I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you. 21 Those who accept my commandments and obey them are the ones who love me. And because they love me, my Father will love them. And I will love them and reveal myself to each of them.”

22 Judas (not Judas Iscariot, but the other disciple with that name) said to him, “Lord, why are you going to reveal yourself only to us and not to the world at large?”

23 Jesus replied, “All who love me will do what I say. My Father will love them, and we will come and make our home with each of them. 24 Anyone who doesn’t love me will not obey me. And remember, my words are not my own. What I am telling you is from the Father who sent me. 25 I am telling you these things now while I am still with you. 26 But when the Father sends the Advocate as my representative—that is, the Holy Spirit—he will teach you everything and will remind you of everything I have told you.” (John 14:15-26, New Living Translation)

We’re still studying John chapter 14, and once again, the eleven verses here seem like a lot of words. They are important ones, though, because they talk about the Holy Spirit.

It took me a long time to figure out Who or What the Holy Spirit is. I mean, we can picture God the Father. We see Him as an elderly man dressed in white reigning on high. That’s probably not even close to how He actually is, but at least we can picture Him as Something.

God the Son, Jesus, is even easier. We’ve all seen enough movies and TV shows portraying Jesus as a man with longer dark hair and a beard. We feel we can relate to Him because He’s made out of the same flesh.

But God the Holy Spirit? What does He look like and what does He even do?

"He is the Holy Spirit, who leads into all truth. The world cannot receive him, because it isn’t looking for him and doesn’t recognize him. But you know him, because he lives with you now and later will be in you.”

This is how I think of the three Persons of the Triune God. The Father is above us, the Son walks beside us, and the Holy Spirit dwells within us. I don’t need to have a picture in my head of any of them, because I feel each of their presences, above me, beside me, and within me.

The Grand Canyon Trip

 Journal of Our Journeys

Chapter 18 - Big Hole in the Ground

In June of 1977, we took off for Arizona and the Grand Canyon. This was the first, and well, only trip that I remember Mom asking for my input. All the other years, Pat and I just packed our stuff and jumped in the camper when it was time to go. I am sure they told us where we were going, but I don't remember ever being asked where we wanted to go.

Maybe it was because Pat graduated from high school that spring and wouldn't be going with us on this trip because she had to work. Here is the crazy thing – guess where she worked that summer, as well as the summer before? A campground. Isn't that ironic? Her science teacher, along with his wife, ran a campground just north of town, and he had asked Pat to help out there. After all the camping we had done over the years, you would have to believe that she had at least some of the qualifications required to do the job.  

Whatever the reason, Mom asked me that spring where I wanted to go on vacation. And I came up with the Grand Canyon. So, a week after Pat graduated, we left her home to have her own shenanigans and headed to the southwest.

It was a different trip. It was our first major trip in the new fifth wheel and the first one without Pat. I must admit that I got pretty lonely. Maybe Dad sensed that I would be, and that was why he gave me the task of being the keeper of the camper log. I kept track not only of the towns we stayed in, but also the mileage and the cost of campgrounds and gasoline. I even had a column for comments on the campgrounds.

This trip cost us $269 in gas and $75 in campgrounds. Hmm? In this day and age, you can't get a one-night hotel stay for $75, and on this trip, we were gone for two weeks. Dad kept track of the MPG, and we averaged just under 10 miles per gallon. I suppose that's not bad, towing that 26-foot trailer with the old pickup. I don't think a similar rig 30 years later would do any better.

The Grand Canyon was indeed awesome. It is one of those places that you can't wrap your mind around. It is just so big, immense, kind of like Niagara Falls. Your eyes can only take in so much at one time. The colors are constantly shifting; if you only stopped at one scenic overlook and spent the day there, you would feel as if you had seen several views because the light is always changing.

          On the way home, we drove through the Four Corners area, where the states of Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, and Utah meet. A 30-mile drive into Colorado is Mesa Verde National Park.

From the year 600 A.D. to 1300, the ancestral Pueblo people lived here. Their homes were often built into the overhangs of the many cliffs in the area. The largest such dwelling, Cliff Palace, has 217 rooms and is estimated to have accommodated 250 residents. As large as Cliff Palace was, it was hard to picture an entire village living there.    

Our next diversion was the Black Hills of South Dakota. As long as it was on the way, we couldn't resist visiting again, even though Crazy Horse still looked the same.

A problem sprang up when we encountered a detour in Lead, South Dakota, and took a wrong turn. We ended up driving up a narrow city street that grew narrower and steeper the further we went. We soon realized that we had to be on the wrong road, especially when the road suddenly ended at a dead end.

Well, Mom was not too happy. Remember the episode with the railroad tracks when we were smelt fishing? Remember that I couldn't recall Mom's reaction clearly? Well, I remember her reaction to this miscalculation, and it wasn't to compliment Dad's navigation. 

It wasn't anyone's fault except for the highway crew, who couldn't accurately mark a detour. Mom had a few words, and Dad just slowly, cautiously turned around. I don't know how he did it; the driveways were all only wide enough for one compact car, and the street wasn't much wider. 

I started feeling that I preferred the pickup camper. I had rarely ridden in the truck's cab, so I never heard any of the arguments between Mom and Dad, and I'm sure there had been others over the years. From the bed above the cab, I would also have had a better view of the turning, although it would have only been half the fun with the much smaller rig.

Of course, thinking about the driving skills Dad employed to park the fifth wheel in the Red Barn, I don't know how I could doubt his ability to navigate it around a dead-end street in Lead, South Dakota.

Integrity – Weepy Wednesday (for a somewhat different reason), episode 8

 

My father-in-law, Lloyd Kincaid, passed away on November 1, 2007, at the age of 82. He served in the United States Army during World War II, from 1943 to 1945. On October 4, 1947, he married Trink, and they had three sons together, the middle one being my hubby. He worked as a meat cutter and later as a cabinet maker.

But what many Wisconsinites remember him for is that, from 1973 to 1990,  he served first in the State Assembly and then in the State Senate. And that he had more integrity than anyone I've ever heard of in politics.

Fairly early on in his career, a bill came up that would adversely affect the people of his district. He represented small rural communities in northern Wisconsin, and this bill was designed to help residents of larger cities at the expense of towns like his.

When his political party learned that he intended to vote against this bill, the party's leaders told him that if he didn't vote for it, they would find someone else in the party to run against him in the next election. They could guarantee that this person would win.

He would have nothing to do with it. He met with the leaders of the other political party, and they told him they would support him. So, he switched parties. (And to be clear, in case you research this and discover which party is which in this story, it doesn't matter. In our current political climate, you are either a Democrat or a Republican for life, and Lloyd would have chosen to switch parties no matter which one he started with.)

The moral of that story is that political parties have wielded this kind of control for decades. Reminds me of the movie "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington". If the television networks weren't already run by one party or the other, they would be playing that movie incessantly right about now.

Maybe if our current leaders in high places had their priorities set on the people they serve, rather than mindlessly following their party, the world would be a better place. Maybe they need to be reminded of that. And maybe in the next election, we need to remember that and vote for the person and their beliefs, rather than the party they are affiliated with. 

LLoyd in the middle standing behind Tommy Thompson

Ask for anything in Jesus’ name

Verses 8 through 14 from the 14^th chapter of the Book of John.

8 Philip said, “Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.”

9 Jesus replied, “Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and yet you still don’t know who I am? Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father! So why are you asking me to show him to you? 10 Don’t you believe that I am in the Father and the Father is in me? The words I speak are not my own, but my Father who lives in me does his work through me. 11 Just believe that I am in the Father and the Father is in me. Or at least believe because of the work you have seen me do.

12 “I tell you the truth, anyone who believes in me will do the same works I have done, and even greater works, because I am going to be with the Father. 13 You can ask for anything in my name, and I will do it, so that the Son can bring glory to the Father. 14 Yes, ask me for anything in my name, and I will do it!” (John 14:8-14, New Living Translation)

     For me (and others), the Book of John in the New Testament can be difficult to understand. The apostle often repeats himself to stress what he is getting at, but it makes the text monotonous instead of enlightening. He also uses a lot of symbolism and flowery language. But John also wrote the words his Lord and Savior used.

     That being said, I’d like you to read the above verses again, this time as one of the original disciples hearing Jesus speaking these words for the first time. Listen for His passion and conviction. Just like He wanted all of the people of His time saved, He wants all of us saved as well.

The Fifth Wheel and Big Red

 Journal of Our Journeys

Chapter 17 - The Fifth Wheel

 For years, Dad had been looking at fifth-wheel travel trailers. In the 1970s, they were still a novelty in camping. Also called goose-neck trailers, the style was more commonly used for horse trailers at the time.  

I will never know what Dad's fascination with fifth wheels was. We looked at so many of them over the years that I never really thought that my mom would cave and let him buy one. When we first got the pickup camper, we thought that it was so amazing. You can't even believe how excited we were by the prospect of getting a fifth wheel.

I was excited anyway; by the time Dad really got serious about getting a new, larger camper, Pat was a senior in high school. Her days of camping with the parents were numbered. I would be the lone child to continue the tradition.

After all the dreaming, Dad found someone he knew who was selling their practically new fifth wheel. The couple had bought it a year or two before, and after only one trip, the wife decided that camping was not for her. Obviously, she had never camped in a tent. The fifth wheel was more like a motel room on wheels.

So, camping in the fifth wheel really wasn't like camping. Besides the private bedroom over the bed of the truck for Mom and Dad, this thing had a full bathroom with a shower. The refrigerator was practically as large as the one we had at home, and the kitchen even had an oven. We didn't do much baking in it, though, using it mostly for storage.

Several weeks after returning from one trip with the fifth wheel, Mom was looking for one of her cake pans. It dawned on her that she had left it safely in the oven in the trailer. Ever the helpful daughter, I scampered out to the camper to retrieve it.

Well, not only had Mom forgotten the cake pan in the oven, but she had forgotten that there was still rhubarb cake in it. Ooh, it had gotten all moldy. Not only was it moldy, but the acid from the rhubarb had actually eaten holes in the metal cake pan.

This next part I will never be able to describe accurately; you would have to actually see it to picture it. When we had the pickup camper, Dad always parked it in the sixteen-foot-wide spot between the garage and the house. The area wasn't long enough for the fifth wheel, so for the first year, Dad parked it next to the garden in front of the house.

It soon became apparent that that was not going to work. When he retired, Dad had built a large pole barn behind the house and the garage. The mastery came when Dad backed the fifth wheel between the house and the garage and then angled it into the red barn.

(See the red barn in the back and that narrow space between the garage and the house? Yikes, is all can say.)

The best part was the clothesline poles along that route. People who had never been to the house could not fathom how he could not only back the trailer between the buildings but also navigate it past the clothesline poles, which were directly in his path. Little did they know that the poles easily pulled out of sleeves buried in the ground.  

The year after buying the fifth wheel, Mom and Dad decided they needed a new truck to pull it. The teal pickup that had come with the original camper had been replaced years earlier with a forest-green Chevy. Now, it was time to replace that one.

Mom and Dad went to Wausau and ordered the new pickup from the Ford dealer downtown. I even got to go with them, though my input was not taken into consideration. They picked out a bright orange truck to match the orange strip running down the side of the fifth wheel. The new truck also had an extended cab, so that there was room for someone to sit in the back seat. That was usually me, as the dog sat in the front seat between Mom and Dad.

Remember, this was 1976, when few pickup trucks had an extended cab, and hardly any had four doors.

(The AMC Matador was one of the ugliset cars built.)

        We named the new truck Big Red, and believe it or not, it is the vehicle I learned to drive on. Sure, I practiced on Mom's white AMC Matador and used it when I took my driver's test. But I drove Big Red as much as the car. Dad even would occasionally let me drive it while pulling the fifth wheel, only on back roads, though, at a slow speed, such as our road, which was fraught with ninety-degree turns.  

Other Aunts and Uncles - Weepy Wednesday, episode 7

On this depressing series of the deaths of loved ones, today I planned on revisiting the night my mom died. But yesterday, Hubby and I went to the funeral of one of his aunts; the funeral for another one of his mom’s sisters had been exactly two months ago.

Naturally, I wasn’t as close to either of these aunts as I was to my own, but they were still sweet ladies who lived full lives and loved their families.

And their numbers are dwindling. I believe that my generation of relatives – me, my husband, his brothers and sisters-in-law, and cousins – are the ones who soon will be all who are left to carry on.

We’ve had quite a few picnics at our house with these relatives, so that’s where the pictures are from. 

 2014 - Susie, Lois, Louise, cousin John, mother-in-law Trink, Joyce, Bill and Gerald (5 are gone)

2018 - Bill, his wife Pat, Joyce, Lois, her husband Larry, Suzie, Louise, and Trink (3 are gone)

2021 - Linda, Lois, Louise, Suzie, and Joyce (2 are gone)

Anyone from his family interested in coming for another picnic this summer?

Jesus is the Way, the Truth, the Light

         I’d still been having a hard time coming up with a theme for my blog posts during Lent this year. The only thing that kept running through my head was, “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life,” from the book of John, chapter 14.

         So, I thought, what else does that chapter say? And is it all worthwhile to share?

"Don’t let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, and trust also in me. 2 There is more than enough room in my Father’s home. If this were not so, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? 3 When everything is ready, I will come and get you, so that you will always be with me where I am. 4 And you know the way to where I am going.”

5 “No, we don’t know, Lord,” Thomas said. “We have no idea where you are going, so how can we know the way?”

6 Jesus told him, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one can come to the Father except through me. 7 If you had really known me, you would know who my Father is. From now on, you do know him and have seen him!” (John 14:1-7, New Living Translation)

My favorite place within driving distance

Journal of our Journeys

Chapter 16 - Up North to the UP

Many weekend mornings throughout my childhood, we woke up early, and Mom packed us and a picnic lunch into the car. With Dad at the wheel, we'd drive to Copper Falls, Potato Falls, Saxon Harbor, and Ashland in Wisconsin. Just over the border in Michigan, we'd go to Ironwood with its statue of the world's tallest Indian, Black River Harbor, the Porcupine Mountains, and the Lake of the Clouds. I am indeed blessed that I was raised within a three-hour drive of all of these wonderful places.

We had camped at some of these places on weekends before, but in 1975, we took a few more days and drove further north. All the way north, as a matter of fact, to the tip of the peninsula.

The first night, however, was spent at McLain State Park just outside of Hancock, Michigan. I don't know what it is about this state park, but it has always fascinated me. I think it's the amazing sunrises and breathtaking sunsets you can view from the beach or your campsite, if you're lucky enough to get a spot on the lake. Even campsites that are not on Lake Superior (the sites Mom always picked) have a view of the lake through the trees. And late in the evening, when all is still, you can hear the water lapping at the shore.

A couple that Mom and Dad knew from church set up their trailer at McLain for the entire summer, so it was nice to stop in and visit them. Mrs. Kleinfeldt even took her organ camping with her – a real, though small organ, not one of the keyboards of the late twentieth century. She would play hymns on it for the rest of the campers on Sunday mornings.

From McLain State Park, it is just a hop, skip, and jump to another State Park, Fort Wilkins. Fort Wilkins is a restored 19th-century military fort. Settlers in the area feared trouble with the local Indians, so they wanted a military presence nearby. As it turned out, there were no problems with any Native Americans, and the base was only in operation for a few years. The buildings had decayed over the years but have been painstakingly restored and tell a fascinating story of pioneer life, where winters were frigid, and the snow could reach the tops of roofs.

Somewhere along the highway, along Lake Superior, there was a small gift shop on a bluff above the water. The proprietor sold pieces of driftwood with paintings of birds on them, rocks with paintings of birds on them, and framed paintings of birds, along with lots of polished stones from along the shore.

The building had a small tower. Up two flights of stairs, there was a little windowed room with fantastic views of the lake. Occasionally, an iron ore freighter could be seen slowly moving along the horizon. Only five months later, one of those freighters, the Edmond Fitzgerald, along with its 29-man crew, would succumb to the will of the Great Lake during a November storm.

Further inland and far to the east is another state park, which hosts one of the largest waterfalls in the eastern United States. The campground at Tahquamenon Falls is as nice as any of the state parks in the UP; they all have modern amenities, such as flush toilets, hot showers, and electrical hookups. However, instead, we stayed at a small, private campground that we rated an "ugh" in the camping log.

We had a reason, though, for not staying at the state park. We left the camper at Soo Junction, just north of the burg of Newberry, and rode the Toonerville Trolley through the tranquil woods and swamps to the Tahquamenon River. The small train rocked and rattled along its narrow track for an hour or so.

Then, we boarded a riverboat, which took us within walking distance of the waterfalls. It was an interesting trip, unconventional for us. We got to see a lot of the countryside, and the scenery was fantastic. But then, it always is in the UP of Michigan.  

Over the years, I would return to all of those places, and the magic never got old. Unfortunately, the Toonerville Trolley and Riverboat Tour closed in the fall of 2024 after 96 seasons in operation. It's a shame I never got to take my husband and our kids on this excursion.

(This is the only picture I have from that camping trip in 1975. The rest of the pictures in this blog are from the many other, more recent trips we've taken to the UP.)

How It Ends – Weepy Wednesday, episode 6

I know you’ve heard this story; maybe you’ve even read it in the book I wrote about my sister Pat. But here it is again, coz this is the weepy theme I’ve chosen for Wednesdays for now.

Chapter 13 - How it Ends (from the book "Holding All the Aces")

           “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want,” I read from her Bible at the side of her bed several nights later. Pat was unresponsive, her breathing labored but steady.

           “Keep reading,” Mom whispered to me. “They say that your hearing is the last thing to go.”

          We were keeping vigil, something I never in a million years thought I would be doing, there at Pat’s bedside in the nursing home. Just being in the nursing home was beyond anything I could fathom. My sister Pat? Bubbly, full of life, a pistol who never stopped moving, never stopped working. How could she be lying in that nursing home bed, pale and gaunt, unable to speak or move on her own?

           “He makes me to lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul; He leads me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.”

           Why would God do this to my sister, my best friend? Why did she have to suffer so much and so long? If He wanted her in heaven, why didn’t He take her suddenly, painlessly? And why can’t He send a miracle? Right here and right now?

           The doctors said that it had been a miracle that she had lived for six years with this kind of an aggressive cancer. Really? Because I didn’t see it as a miracle, I saw it as six years of my sister dying when she should have been living.

           “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; For You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.”

           But she had lived those six years. She and I had gone on camping trips, sometimes with Judy, sometimes with my kids. She had stood up at the wedding of her best friend from college. She had been the photographer for my second wedding. She and her husband, along with me and mine, had flown to Las Vegas for a long weekend. She had continued working as long as she could.

          “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; My cup runs over.”

           I looked up at Mom, and she gestured that I should keep reading. But I was out of ideas. Sure, there were many more chapters in the book of Psalms, David’s outpouring of belief in his God and that all things would turn out right through Him. But I just could not do it.

           The following day, my sister Judy joined the vigil. When the nurse checked on Pat, she nodded toward her bed as she left the room. I don’t remember if she actually said it or not, but the words that came into my head were, “It’s time.”

           We gathered around Pat and watched her lungs fill for the last time. Then, the air slowly ebbed from her, as if the oxygen was leaving not only her lungs but her fingers and toes and even her pores.

           A sob escaped from Mom, and Judy probably reacted as well. All I did was watch that frail chest, waiting for it to rise again, willing it to rise. Not taking my eyes from that slight lump under the sheet.

           “Come on, Pat, come on, you can do it. Take another breath.”

           It never happened.

           “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Where My Heart Is

It's the first Sunday in Lent, and if you've been following my blog over the years, you know I like to write a series of blog posts for these six weeks in remembrance of Jesus last days as a man on this earth. I haven't come up with any new ideas this year. And if God is sending me some ideas, I'm not hearing Him. 

But I guess that's because something else is on my mind and in my heart. Today is the six-month anniversary, and that is where my mind and my heart should probably be. I think that's what God wants for me today. 

(These were pictures from different road trips that we went on after the kids were grown.)

Let’s take a break and have a Funday Friday

Two weeks ago, I wrote about trips around Wisconsin that my family took one year when I was a kid. I talked about picking cherries in Algoma and that I couldn’t find the picture I was thinking of.

Guess what? I found it; here it is. But looking at that picture reminded me of a hysterical and inappropriate story. 

Back in the sixties and seventies, Ajax Powdered Cleanser advertised that the white powder was sprinkled with blue dots which were more effective cleaning agents, instilled with bleach. At the time, Mom had a shirt which had blue dots on it, which she is shown wearing in this picture.

The thing is there were two blue dots on the front of her shirt which were – how should I say it? Improperly placed, or if you have a juvenile sense of humor, they were in just the right spots.

For years, my sister Pat and I called it Mom’s Ajax Blue Dot shirt, and then we’d giggle. And Mom never got it. Hee hee hee. 

We'll Be Okay, and We Were - - Weepy Wednesday, episode 5

111 years ago, this coming Friday, my dad was born in Köln, Germany. His mother, Emma, was 26, and his father, Paul, was 28.

When he was nine years old, he traveled across the ocean aboard the Republic, with his mother, younger brother, and two sisters. They settled in Chicago, and then Grandpa died five years later in 1929. Grandma remarried later that same year. By 1940, they were living in Tripoli, Wisconsin, and owned a farm.

(Dad on the right, with his sister and younger brother - I just realized this was taken the day their dad died)

I'm not sure when Dad started driving bus for the Tripoli School District. But you may remember the story, because I've told it many times, Dad was Mom's school bus driver. He had just turned thirty when he asked seventeen-year-old Mom out.

They married on July 6, 1945, six months after Mom turned eighteen and graduated from high school. Those were different times.

Four kids and forty-eight years later, Alzheimer's Disease had taken over Dad's brilliant mind. With only an eighth-grade education, he had been one of the smartest men I'd ever known. He read voraciously and could solve any problem put before him. Until those last few years.

Friday, April 23, 1993, Mom finally couldn't take it anymore, couldn't stay awake with him all night as he tried to get out of the house to wander, couldn't handle him calling her the nurse, demanding to know what she'd done with his wife. She admitted him to the nursing home.

I went to visit him that afternoon, in that place where no daughter should have to see their dad, confused and scared. He was wandering the halls when I saw him, but his face lit up in his signature crooked smile.

"You're someone I should know," he clearly stated.

"I'm your daughter, Chris."

His smile broadened, and he nodded. Then, he scooted past me to keep walking the halls.

On Sunday afternoon, Mom called to say he had choked on some food and had been taken to the hospital. When he was admitted to the nursing home, she told the staff that she had been pureeing his meals because he had started choking, forgetting how to swallow. They told her that they would need an order from his doctor to do that, and since he was out of the office until Monday, it would have to wait until then.

The doctor on duty at the hospital told her that Dad would need a feeding tube or he would continue to choke on whatever he ate, and that it would eventually kill him. As it was, he was already showing signs of aspiration pneumonia.

We all knew that Dad would never want a feeding tube. And why prolong his life if he was no longer living the life he had loved for 78 years.

When his regular physician saw Dad in the hospital on Monday, he agreed with Mom and us kids. Keep him comfortable, keep an IV going, but let nature run its course.  

He lay in bed pretty much unresponsive until Thursday morning. When his doctor made rounds, he asked, "How are you doing, Paul?"

"Not so good," Dad answered.

Mom and I looked at each other. He hadn't spoken since the weekend.

Late that afternoon, Mom got a call from her niece. She and her husband were leaving on vacation but didn't know whether they should go because of how Dad was doing.

Mom reassured her several times, saying, "You go ahead and go. We'll be okay."

After she finally hung up the phone, the nurse came in to check on things. She nodded to us and whispered, "It's getting close."

Within ten minutes, Dad took his last breaths, Mom holding one of his hands, me holding the other. Even though Mom struggled for years over our joint decision to withhold a feeding tube, she believed with all her heart that when she was talking on the phone to my cousin, Dad heard her say, "You should go. We'll be okay."

I believe that too.