Finding My 15 Minutes of Sunday

Early in the morning, I wrapped an oversized fleece plaid blanket around my shoulders just as the light of dawn was taking hold. I was in my favorite chair on my screen porch, looking out to my backyard.

That’s when I saw him: a grey-and-rust colored coyote, walking slowly through my backyard! He stopped for long pauses to sniff the air and look around. He didn't seem to notice me. He was in no hurry. He looked to be out on a Lazy Sunday stroll.

Old MacDonald, Do No Harm

HUNTLEY - Jess Chipkin never thought she’d follow a complete stranger out to a parking lot to enlighten her about the cruelties of factory farming, but that’s exactly what she did one afternoon in 2015.

Chipkin, a Huntley resident, had just learned about gestation crates: small, confined spaces where pigs being raised for pork are kept during their four-month pregnancies.

“These crates are so small that [the sow] can’t even stretch her limbs, let alone turn around or walk. If we did that to dogs, it would be animal cruelty and someone would be going to prison for it.”

And So It Begins

The smell of school supplies intoxicates me.

Not the old school supplies I find at the bottom of my kids’ backpacks in June. Those are just sad-looking pencils with their eraser heads worn down to gummy shadows of their former selves, old dried-up glue sticks, and crayons that are pitifully short and stubby.

August school supplies are the ones I like. Fresh notebooks, folders with all four corners intact. Glue sticks banded together in shrink wrap, ready for sticky battle.

This year, school supply shopping for my two high school-age teenagers was pretty low-key.

Proof Required: Who Are You, Anyway?

I still remember the news story from 2013, when Reese Witherspoon and her husband, Jim Toth, were pulled over by a police officer in Atlanta. Toth was ultimately arrested for driving under the influence. As the officer questioned her husband and gave him a breathalyzer test, Witherspoon was livid. Despite repeated warnings, she refused to stay inside the car, saying, “Don’t you know who I am?” The officer either didn’t know who she was, or didn’t care.

The police report from that night states, “Mrs.

We Don’t Have to Go Back to the Way Things Used to Be

Would I lie to you honey?

Now would I say something that wasn’t true?

I’m asking you sugar

Would I lie to you?

— Would I Lie to You, Eurythmics

The world lies to us.

We accept these lies as truth, even when evidence points to the contrary.

This point was driven home over and over when our family moved into our little house.

-You don't need "as large of a house as you can afford."

Sketches of a Slumber Party

Our fourth and youngest child celebrated her 14th birthday this week. I was expecting her to want a huge, loud party in contrast to her pandemic birthday last year, which, sadly, consisted of spending her day entirely with her family, much like all the other days during the pandemic.

But no—she wanted a sleepover. A run of the mill stay-up-late-giggling-and-gossiping overnight with a handful of her besties.

It reminded me of sleeping over at friends’ houses when I was growing up in the 80s: greasy pizza, hours of watching MTV or playing Pac Man.

Putting Down Roots: Not for the Timid

My husband and I both enjoy gardening, but we typically don’t garden at the same time. Our styles and techniques couldn’t be more polar opposite. I’m a timid gardener: I don’t often trust my own intuition about what plants need, and I usually have an uneasy feeling that a neighbor or passerby will see me in the garden and click their tongue at the inept way I’m doing whatever it is I’m doing. The only time I really hit my stride is when attacking a sworn weed-enemy (I’m looking at you, creeping Charlie!).

Time for Me

“Women need solitude in order to find again the true essence of themselves.”

—Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gift from the Sea

My husband is out of town with our two youngest children, which means I’m alone for a few days.

The house is eerily quiet. It took me a little while to adjust to the idea that I was the only person in the house. I walked through all the rooms, seeing the wreckage of two teens who quickly packed their duffel bags a few minutes before leaving; I crossed my fingers that they at least grabbed their toothbrush and clean socks before they went out the door.

Huzzah! Vintage ‘Base Ball’ Returns

MCHENRY COUNTY - Baseball in the Civil War era bore some resemblance to America’s contemporary favorite pastime, but in its infancy, the game resembled more of a gentleman’s club, noted for good sportsmanship and manners. Players were known to even cheer their opponents, and the captains would offer inspiring words after each game, praising both teams and the fans. Any players who got out of line would apologize to the crowd.

Kurt “Scoop” Begalka is the administrator of the McHenry County Historical Society, but when summer comes, he becomes manager of the McHenry County Independants, a vintage baseball team that is cheekily named after what appears to be a misspelled team team name from a newspaper article from more than 150 years ago.

Meat Sweats

There are a few smells I associate with summer: freshly mown grass; sunblock on a precious child’s skin, wet from swimming but warming in the sun; and hickory smoke curling off a crackling barbecue.

My husband grills old-school. He swears by his little Smokey Joe and refuses to upgrade to anything larger, and especially wouldn’t entertain the idea of a gas grill. When he grills, it’s an event; that grill is filled up with meat, and the smell is sublime. He’ll walk back and forth between the kitchen and the backyard, grabbing tongs and hot pads and platters with a sly grin on his face; I watch him, trying to gauge whether the side dishes I’m preparing will be ready at the same time the smoky meat is deemed edible by the grill-master.

Warning: Introvert Emerging

It’s not you. It’s me.

You’ve got to believe me.

You’ve maybe noticed how I trip over my words. Or I say things that seem to meander on a disjointed path, bereft of any point or story.

When we were told not to leave our house in order to stop the coronavirus from spreading, I wanted to leave my house in the worst possible way.

Now that restrictions are easing up and we’re slowly leaving our house again, going back to work, standing a little closer to others—close enough to have an actual conversation—well, I’m not sure I’m ready.

Small House Exhaling

During the cold months, our little house holds its breath. When the wind starts gusting and the chilly rain chases the last few leaves off the trees, we close its doors and windows and it stands firm, boldly bracing its wood and brick frame against the elements. For the long midwestern winters, our house wraps its arms tightly around our family, pulling us close to the core of the house where the warmth is unwavering.

When we bought this house a few years ago, we knew it would be a tight fit.

Wanna go driving?

Wanna go driving?

I get a text like this most days from my son. Reese is 16, and he was right in the middle of taking his drivers ed course when school closed because of the pandemic. Now, in what is turning out to be the slowest year of our lives, he has ample time to practice his driving.

The funny thing is, Reese likes to text me, even if he’s just sitting across the room: “Wanna go driving?” This has become our secret signal, the unspoken get-out-of-jail-free card we have during these lazy days when COVID-19 makes it difficult to go anywhere.

I’ve Heard How this Story Ends

Recently, I was listening to an episode of NPR’s “Fresh Air,” in which book reviewer Maureen Corrigan proclaimed a recent book by the British author Kazuo Ishiguro to be a “masterpiece.” My ears perked up, because I recognized the author’s name: in fact, I had just picked up one of his previous books and was about four chapters deep.

Without warning, the reviewer compared the new novel to a previous work by the same author—the very book that I had on my nightstand!

Sip Slowly

It’s going to take time. It’s going to take patience.

But I’m raring to go. It’s officially spring. We have a vaccine. (Several vaccines, which is nothing short of miraculous.) Stores and restaurants are opening up, loosening restrictions. The latest question folks ask each other is, “Did you get the vaccine yet?”

This week, my kids headed back to in-person school. It felt like a momentous occasion, a celebrated return to normalcy from the “before times.” Even though I’ve loved having the kids home during remote learning, it’s been an entire year of barely going anywhere.

Take Me Away

This week I was gifted with bath bombs, pretty little circles in springlike colors, smelling of citrus and lavender. It made me wonder about the last time I took a bath rather than a shower, and judging by the fact that I can’t remember, I can deduce it’s been a good long time. In the coming week, I’ll schedule time for a bath, filling the tub with water as hot as I can stand it, and let the aroma of orange and lemon hang on the steamy air in my tiny bathroom.

Jammie Pants: A Fond Farewell

“I always wear the same thing at home. I can’t be bothered with jewelry. My pants have elastic waists. I like to be comfortable.
There are so many more important things to be worried about.”

—Barbra Streisand

I knew this day was coming for a while. Yesterday, I had to say goodbye to my favorite comfy pants.

The day I met my Jammie Pants was back in my old life, before we downsized to our Cozy Cottage. We were living in the Big House, strapped with a crushing mortgage payment, limited by one income, and managing a gaggle of adorable children at home who had wants and needs that eclipsed my own.

25 Years of ‘I Do’

He proposed to me on a snowy Wednesday evening in December of 1994. I was 19, he was 21. Heavy snow and ice had caused the power to go out across our college campus, right in the middle of studying for midterms. With no lights and no electricity, students poured from the dorms, elated at this unexpected study break. On the college courtyard, scores of students engaged in an epic snowball fight. He and I laughed at the sight, but walked in the opposite direction, away from the free-for-all.

Camping isn’t just for summer anymore

Even from the quiet shoreline of the lake at our favorite campsite in DeKalb County, we can look east and see the pale pink halo of light that radiates off the city of Chicago, more than 60 miles away. But from our campsite, we are another world away from it.

Nearly every weekend my husband and I go camping, sometimes bringing along our children, sometimes not. In summer, we had to make reservations to be sure we got a spot. When we’d arrive on a Friday night, we’d often pull into one of the last campsites.

Hunkering down

Years ago, toward the end of each one of my pregnancies, I’d get the strong, uncontrollable urge to “nest”: I’d clean drawers, bake casseroles to keep in the freezer, wash bedding, fold blankets. Despite my bulging belly and aching back, it was an instinct to do these things. I don’t think I could’ve stopped if I tried. Something deep in my DNA was demanding that I prepare, as if my brain and my body comprehended on a cellular level how I could get ready now to help out my future self, who would be both exhausted and lovestruck with a new precious baby.

Out of whack

We had to face the facts: we were out of whack.

We were getting by, but we were struggling financially, and it was robbing our peace of mind. My husband and I have jobs that we love, and four children that we love more. We knew we had to make more money so that we could build our retirement while also saving for the kids’ college funds.

Oh — while also paying for music lessons, soccer, and ballet.
But even after completing Dave Ramsey’s Financial Peace University, and paying off all our debt except the mortgage (YAY us!!),

One last bouquet

The zinnias I planted in early summer are still holding on. Out my window, I see them reaching awkwardly up to the heavens, scraggly and too tall, like a teenager whose feet have grown too fast and are out of proportion with his body.

The zinnia is my favorite flower. It is a reliable annual, pretty easy to grow from seed, even with my less-than-stellar gardening skills. In spring, I start buying seed packets from garden shops, choosing different varieties: Sunbow Mix.

Porch Life

Visible across the way from our house are two homes that cause a lot of discussion when my husband and I take the dog for a walk. Since we moved into our neighborhood, we’ve passed these two homes countless times; they are part of our daily scenery.

The one house is what you’d call a farmhouse style: it looms large with lots of sunny windows. It’s a newer construction boasting all the amenities, conveniences, and 21st century square footage coupled with old fashioned curb appeal.

Savoring senseless beauty

Practice random kindness & senseless acts of beauty.

—Anne Herbert

On a nondescript weeknight, a young man, probably barely over the age of 20, set up a chair beside a bike path. With a single microphone, an amplifier, and his guitar, he began playing — with no explanation — exquisite classical music.

There was nothing about this young man that would indicate that he was capable of this stunning music. His sneakers were scuffed, his hair a shaggy reminder that haircuts in the time of COVID are not necessarily essential.

Remote Learning Results in Unexpected Closeness

This isn’t the school year we planned for.

Instead of new shoes, piles of fresh notebooks, pencil cases, locker organizers, and backpacks, this year started off more with a tiptoe than a bang. Come to think of it, I never took a “First Day of School” picture like I usually do. On the first day of classes, two of my kids woke up, showered, and unceremoniously walked to the dining room table a few feet away from where they’d just grabbed the milk for their breakfast cereal.

THE DOORWAY TO OUR COMMUNITY