Another Tribute

Another Tribute

“Kenny, that was wonderful, but why don’t you have a seat and let someone else share their story.” Mrs. Hanson oozed kindness out of her every pore.

While all the girls in our freshman English class read stories taken from Reader’s Digest of puppies run over by cars and children with incurable illnesses, in a contest to see how many other girls they could make cry, the boys shared stories of football injuries and deer-hunting accidents. Ken Nick, however, who would go on to graduate third in our class, brought in an article on graphite fishing poles. Those of us who were still awake after the first paragraph, gaped at the boy in the front of the room, trying to figure out how this fulfilled the assignment of bringing in something interesting to read in class.

Mrs. Hanson, however, did not miss a beat. It would slay her to say anything the slightest bit offensive to one of her students. She gently cut him off with her usual sweetness, however gravelly her voice was from years of heavy smoking. As Kenny sat down, she nodded her head, holding her hands together as if in prayer.

The papers she returned were filled with smiley faces and “this is terrific”. Well, at least mine were. I can’t however imagine her writing anything stronger than “I think that maybe you meant to say…” or “Webster’s Dictionary spells it this way, but if you were trying to be creative, it could work your way also.”

The last time I talked to her, nearly thirty years after my high school graduation, she asked if I was still writing.

“I’ve just started up again,” I answered, and actually the Christian women’s conference we were at was what had inspired me to put fingers to keyboard after many years.

A few weeks ago, as I was putting the finishing touches on the devotional I had a written, I had an epiphany. I should send the book to her to review and also to connect with her, let her know how much I appreciated her support, how much she inspired me to keep writing.

A day later, I heard that she was having some medical problems and debated whether or not now was the time to bother her. Then my mother called this past Wednesday afternoon. Monica Hanson’s obituary had just been on the radio.

What a blow, what a loss, not only to puny insignificant me, but to her family, her friends and all of the students who were blessed to have had her in class. Granted, she was 78 years young and all those packs of cigarettes had to take a toll. But don’t we somehow think that our favorite high school teacher is immortal?

Only God knows what was in Mrs. Hanson’s heart, but I would bet that her faith was as strong as anyone’s. And that does make her immortal.

“Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death.” Isaiah 57:2 (NIV)

In March of 1993, my first husband moved out, and other journeys, new journeys started all over again, as if there hadn’t been a ten year interruption. The quest to photograph all of the waterfalls in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula began.

As Pat and I were driving north on Hwy 41, just past Bruce Crossing, a sign jumped out at us. O Kun De Kun Falls. We looked at each other only for a second, before Pat braked for the turnoff.

The yellow and brown wooden sign in the parking lot pointed towards the trailhead and announced that the hike to the falls was 1.3 miles. Again we nodded to each other, agreeing silently.

The trail wound through a swamp for a bit before coming out into a clearing of tall grass. The sun beat down on us. The cool July morning had turned into a warm early afternoon. As we entered the forest again it first dawned on us that this might be a longer walk than we had prepared for. It was so worth it though, when we after a few more minutes, we could hear the distinct sound of water tumbling over rocks.

The first waterfall we encountered was short and bland.

“Is that it, do you suppose?” I asked.

Pat shrugged. “It is still neat, even if it isn’t very big.”

The trail hadn’t ended yet so we tromped on. Down a short hill and through a ravine where the trail had washed out, we could hear the sound of water rushing.

We scrambled along the path and burst out of the pine trees at the river’s edge, just at the top of the waterfall. A series of several short falls ended in a plummet to the Baltimore River some 20 feet below.

We had made it and it was worth it, even though we were starting to swelter in our jeans.

“Hey, there’s nobody I around.” I told Pat as I stripped off my pants.

“Look,” Pat pointed, after she had laid down her freshly shed jeans. “There is a ledge that goes all the way behind the falls.”

“That would be such a cool photo-op.” I had purchased just about all the fascinating equipment which I could for my SLR camera, so everything I saw I turned into a photo opportunity in my head.

“I’ll hand you your camera after you crawl back there.” I had a flashback to a similar conversation many years before. Dad had brought home this huge safe, and Pat bet that I could fit in it. Why did I always do the dumb stuff she suggested?

So, of course, I crawled behind the waterfall on a slimy eight-inch sheet of rock. Just as I was in position and about to reach for my camera, my foot slipped. I have no idea how I hang on but somehow I did. The picture I snapped from behind the falls wasn’t really worth it. And the shot Pat took of me is not going to be published here or elsewhere, because – remember? – I was in my underwear.

At the trailhead of the falls. Note that we did find shorts to put on.

Tonight I am going to the Thousand Foot Krutch concert in Rhinelander - not really a band I had a burning desire to go see, but they are still pretty good. I am really going so that I can work the Compassion booth and try to get sponsors for all those kids around the world who are going to go to bed hungry tonight. Check out their website http://www.compassion.com/ . And if there is just no way for you to sponsor a child right now, pick one out anyway and pray for that little boy or girl. It will still make a difference in their life.
Hopefully tomorrow I will be back on track with my blog travels.

Back to Colorado

Without fail, Daniel and I made at least a yearly foray back to his hometown of Franktown, Colorado. We went for a few birthdays and most Christmases. I wish – oh, how I wish – that I could conjure up happy memories of those trips. Why is it the bad always stays with us more clearly than the good?

One year when we were there in the winter, Daniel wanted to go up in the mountains skiing. We took along one of his friends and I rode along thinking that a day alone just hanging out, reading in the ski lodge would be all right. When we got up there, they didn’t have ski boots to rent in Daniel’s size. So while his friend went up and down the slopes all day, Daniel wandered around with me, moping, and I didn’t get much reading done.

Another time, when the kids were still fairly little, we went for a ride up in the mountains. Nick and Val, sitting in the back seat of Grandma’s truck, did not fare so well. First one child threw up all over the back seat, and just as we had stopped to clean it up, the other child threw up also.

Coming home from Colorado one January, we ran into an ice storm on the interstate. It was dark and all the other motorists were pulled over on the shoulder, resigned to wait it out. Well, not my husband. We just kept inching along, sliding off the road once. I have no idea how we were able, in the glare ice under our feet, to get the car moving again.

Back in Wisconsin, Nick and Val had no first cousins their own age, so I wanted them to be able to just play with Daniel’s niece and nephew. I guess they had fun times together, I hope they did anyway. Their grandpa Loehmer, my dad, had to seem ancient to them and was getting more and more forgetful. Their grandparents in Colorado were young by comparison and I wanted my kids to know them while they could. I hope it was all worth it.

My childhood just seemed so idyllic compared to theirs. It’s a mother’s daily stress. “How can I give my kids a better childhood than I had?” I don’t really know if the trips back to Colorado had any positive effect. And I suspect that if I asked them, they would say, “what trips to Colorado?”

Nick with his cousins, Jeremy and Christina, at the Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs.

Cripple Creek, Colorado, once a ghost town, but now a tourist spot.

Back to the UP

The first and only camping trip which I took with my first husband and son was to Michigan’s UP in the summer of 1989. Nick was three and a half years old by then, full of life and questions. And sometimes answers. He was - and still is – the blood line of his Grandpa Loehmer.

I was a different person then. The first time I had been to this Michigan state park, Bewabic near Crystal Falls, I had been a kid, fresh out of high school. My eyes were wide open to the wonders of the world and my whole life was ahead of me. Suddenly, a mere nine years later, I was so changed. My whole life was no longer in the future it was right there by my side in my husband and my son.

The weather did not cooperate. We tented the first night, but after a steady drizzle most of the first day, we sought sturdier accommodations. Being that it was the summer tourism season, all of the hotels had no vacancy signs.

Finally, as we arrived along Lake Superior and the town of Ontonagon, we found yet another resort, Lambert’s Cottages. Daniel pulled up to the manager’s office. They had one cabin open, a small single bedroom with a small couch, just big enough for Nick. It was dark by the time we were settled.

In the morning, the sun rose warm and red over Lake Superior. The sky was clear. The water was brooding as it usually is after the rain, as if thinking why did I give way to sunshine, why can’t I always be in control of the weather, the world?

I was refreshed, renewed, as I always am when I am on Lake Superior. I thought back to all the times I had been here before. The Lake was always in a different mood, it is so much like me. Maybe that’s why, the older I get, the more I feel its pull. Or with the passing of time, and of people, Gitche Gumee is what always brings me back to my childhood.

Nick and I at Fort Wilkins State Park, in Michigan's UP, in July 1989

(I made the shirt that I am wearing, but I don't know what is up with my fluffy hair.)

“For His anger is but for a moment, His favor is for life; Weeping may endure for a night, But joy comes in the morning.” Psalm 30:5

I’ve been writing about suffering for a couple weeks, and this passage starts out talking about sadness, unhappy things we encounter in life. But then we hear, “Joy comes in the morning”. No matter what you are facing today it will not last forever. Your life will turn around; God has been listening to your prayers and He will answer them when the time is right. Your life will suddenly be blessed.

Even if you are suffering an incurable illness and leave this life in pain and misery, you need to know that there is an eternal life that is better than anything you can imagine. There is joy in the knowledge that we have everlasting life with our Lord and Savior.

You will wake up someday, either in your own bed in your own house and things will be better for you. Or you will wake up in heaven where there is never any pain or suffering or worries at all.

It is all in God’s hands, and all we can do sometimes is wait until our own morning of joy arrives.

In fall of 1987, I moved back home to Wisconsin with 18 month old Nicholas and his dad. We didn't go bumming too much those first few years, but you know me, I can not stay put for long. And we still made lots of trips back to Colorado.

Sunset over Somo Lake, just west of Tomahawk, Wisconsin, June 1988

Door County, Wisconsin, September 1989

Red Rocks outdoor amphitheater, west of Denver, Colorado, Fall 1989