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MY HUNTLEY NEWS

THE DOORWAY TO OUR COMMUNITY
 
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January 11, 2024

Columns

Discovering the wonder of “Amazon origami”

About a week before Christmas, my daughter came to my house and noticed a worn, beat-up plastic water bottle on the nightstand next to my bed. “How long has that been there?” she asked.

“Probably four or five years,” I said. “I refill it in case I get thirsty through the night.”

She was horrified and started talking about microplastics, forever chemicals and any number of other unpleasant thoughts.

“Then I probably shouldn’t tell you about the plastic water bottle in my car that’s been there for the last five or six hot summers,” I said.

One Drum at a Time

As a “band wife,” I’ve attended hundreds and hundreds of band concerts, band festivals, and marching band performances because my husband is a high school and college band director. I miss very few performances. I don’t go because I’m obligated, but because I love it.

In my estimation, it’s no exaggeration to say that Mr. Band Director’s job has two primary components: 1) leading and educating his students in pursuit of excellent musicianship; and 2) moving equipment. He wraps extension cords as expertly as a cowboy throwing a lasso.

The scent and sound of a favorite Christmas memory

Ask someone to share their favorite Christmas memory, and they’ll probably tell you about that cherished present they got when they were young. Or the joy in their children’s eyes when they came downstairs to see all the presents beneath the tree. Or the snowy trip into the pines to find the perfect tree to cut down. Something like that.

But for me, it’s cookies.

To be specific, it’s the scent of baking cookies, and the clatter of baking pans from the next room.

Roses Still Bloom

On a cold day in mid-November, my husband came in from outside, his cheeks flushed with excitement. With a smile, he said, “The roses are still blooming!”

Long after the other plants in our garden faded and settled in for a winter nap, the rosebush on the southeast side of our house continued to grow and stretch toward our bedroom window so that when we awoke and pulled up the shades, the palest pink, delicate petals rested serenely with faces open wide, patiently waiting for us to begin our morning.

Reflecting on the history of harnessing sunlight

With daylight growing ever-shorter, I was gazing out the window at sunset yesterday watching the light fade, when a traffic-jam of sunlight-related thoughts collided in my brain.

The first was the memory of a powerful passage from a novel by Elie Wiesel, in which a man is waiting to execute a political prisoner who has been sentenced to die at sunset. He says you know night has arrived when you’re gazing out a window in the evening and you suddenly realize that you’re looking at your reflection in the darkening glass instead of the landscape outside.

A guide to apps for people who hate apps

Although I am as much a slave to technology as the next guy, I don’t embrace it willingly. I never play video games. I don’t listen to music while riding my bike. I refuse to jam a white stick in my ear so I can talk to distant people as I walk.

It would be a stretch to call me a luddite, but it’s fair to say I’m luddite-adjacent.

Yes, I carry my cell phone wherever I go, but I tell myself it’s purely for safety reasons.

Permission to cry, permission to feel, permission to rest

Tragedy is the first thing that shows up when I turn on the news, or log in to social media. The cruelty that humans can perpetrate on other humans takes my breath away. In so many ways I want to retreat into the world that I believe existed when I was a young child, where everyone was a friend and anyone would offer help if you needed it.

Besides the spectacle of war, natural disaster, and crime broadcasted on our screens, tragedy has touched my own community, too.

Not losing sleep over a hero’s fall from grace

Years ago, when I taught high school English, I assigned students to write an essay about some real person they considered to be a hero, and why. I met with each student beforehand to discuss their choice, to ensure they understood the assignment and were going in the right direction.

And when a boy named Jim said his hero was Jean-Claude Van Damme, I asked him why.

He talked about all the characters the actor played, and how much he liked those characters.

Venturing into Vege-sorta-terianism

Last night I tried a new recipe for dinner: Vegan Sloppy Joes.

The “vegan” part of the recipe went straight out the window the moment I decided a trip to the grocery store for vegetable stock was out of the question: the beef stock in my cabinet would have to do.

This is precisely why I’ll never embrace veganism. I’m simply too lazy and don’t have the discipline required.

But vegetarianism? My fickle stomach might have the discipline to pull that off, at least for a while.

In memory of an unhinged Bear

Whenever someone you know passes away and their name comes up in conversation, a mental image of that person will rush to the surface of your thoughts — and often it’s one very specific image of one very singular moment, before other images come flooding into your mind’s eye.

It’s like that with me whenever I hear the name of Chicago Bears middle linebacker Dick Butkus — “the most feared tackler of all time” according to the NFL Network — who passed away two weeks ago on October 5.

Traffic Jam Jammin’

It was a nearly perfect fall morning, the kind with a clear blue sky as sharp as glass. The tips of trees were just starting to be touched by edges of gold and red. My gas tank was full, and I’d thrown my overnight bag into the back seat. I was taking a quick trip up to Wisconsin to visit some relatives who were staying at my parents’ house.

I’ve driven this path between my town and their town for decades; I didn’t need to consult a map or use GPS.

When the AI gods plunk you into a demographic

It can be a bit jarring to learn that you’re part of a demographic, especially if it’s one you didn’t particularly want to be part of.

Oh, sometimes we choose our demographics willingly, if unconsciously. If you watch a lot of Duck Dynasty, you’re probably glad to see ads for camouflage outdoor wear. Watch a lot of Golden Girls reruns, and you’ll find the best prices for hearing aids and hemorrhoid cream.

But what if you watch a show that might be of interest to pretty much any American?

Someone Else’s House

She is practically my neighbor, but I don’t run into her at the block party or chat with her at garage sales. This mysterious woman was, until a few months ago, an elected public official—and she just happens to live down the street from me. Even though I know her by name, I’ve never spoken to her face to face. But she’s visible in other ways. I’ve seen her at ribbon cutting ceremonies, sports tournaments, and public meetings. I’ve read her Op-ed pieces; I’ve scoured countless news stories, tracking her role as a public servant.

Biking back to a memory of Kathy and the bullfrog

As summer peaks and edges toward autumn, and with winter not far ahead down the road, I cherish my morning bike ride more and more each day.

Early every morning, weather permitting, I ride out of Sun City southward along Sandwald Road all the way to Timber Creek and back, a roundtrip of a bit more than seven miles that lasts me the better part of an hour. I wish it were longer, but that’s as far as I can go in the countryside without too great a risk of being squashed like a bug by a truck or car.

This Tender Heart

I come home from work to find my teen daughter crying on her bed. She is 16, a high school junior, a virtual replica of myself at that age, both in looks and demeanor. The tears rolling down her face are hot and angry. When I try to hug her, I can feel the way every muscle in her body is taut, and my mind immediately thinks of a snake, coiled and backed into a corner, ready to strike defensively at the slightest provocation.

Sail on, Jimmy. Thanks for the memories

As I write these words, it is early Saturday morning, September 2. Just a few hours ago, my musical hero Jimmy Buffett died.

When I learned the news, I did the same thing I did when my musical hero John Prine died of covid three years ago: I pulled out my guitar and started playing as many of his songs as I knew, fighting back the tears before my throat choked each song to a premature end.

Both Jimmy and John were only about a year older than me—and I have a personal connection to each of them.

A DIY Writing Retreat

For as far back as I can remember, going on a writing retreat has held a certain allure. Blame it on my third-grade teacher, who encouraged me to enter a writing contest through the school. When my story advanced to state, I got the exciting news: I was invited to spend an entire Saturday at Illinois State University with other elementary school-aged writers. That day, I met my first real author, as I clutched a hardcover book that she signed on the inside cover with large loopy letters.

Too soon or not, a taste of pandemic nostalgia

After an unmitigated disaster has passed, when can you say anything good about it, beyond the point when anybody might say “too soon”?

After WWII ended in 1945, it took 20 years before “Hogan’s Heroes” could crack jokes about life in a German prisoner of war camp. It took a similar number of decades before “Mash” could get us laughing about a Korean War triage medical hospital.

And although I have no jokes to share about Covid 19, I can’t help but feel that in some ways the “pandemic years” were among the best years of my life — because a world-wide disaster like a pandemic can bring sighs of fond nostalgia if you tuck it in between the two most personally disastrous periods of your life.

The Cosmic Loophole of Pee-Wee’s Playhouse

The headline came to my phone while I was at work: “Pee-Wee Herman Actor Paul Reubens Dead at Age 70.” My heart sank. I waited for the world around me to take a collective moment to remember Paul Reubens. But in the office, phones kept ringing and computer keyboards kept clacking. My younger coworkers may not even know who Paul Reubens is. Was. But I knew.

I spent my tween and teen years in sighs and sulks, muttering under my breath all the ways I was being deprived of the over-the-top 80s childhood to which I felt entitled.

It’s not easy saving the world, but someone has to do it

I am saving the world through my flower garden —a daunting task, but I embrace it willingly, especially when my Save the World Gardening Instruction Manual reads like this:

Rule 1: Do nothing.

Rule 2: See Rule 1.

So lately I’ve been leaving my garden alone as much as I can. You might say I’m idling my fingers to the metaphorical bone, all in the name of saving the world.

You’re welcome.

So how am I saving the world with my garden?

Meeting Gary and slithering back to childhood

I’ve only known my new neighbor Gary for a little while, but he brings a smile to my face each time I see him, because he reminds me of my childhood.

Well, I guess you might say that Gary is not my neighbor, but my tenant, because Gary is a garter snake living in my garden. I call him Gary because… well, he looks like a Gary to me.

I first met him in early June when I skirted the edge of the lawn, yanking weeds, and I almost stepped on him.

Snapshots of the Heart Last a Lifetime

After raising four children, I have certain mental snapshots I keep close to my heart. There was the day when my 5-year-old held my hand to cross the street. He paused to look up at me and said, “Momma, I love you so hard.”

 

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There are those first few seconds when, after glancing over their shoulder, the realization sets in: Dad has let go of the back of the seat and they are, in fact, riding a two-wheeled bike.

In case you were wondering about that flag on my porch

Every day until the end of her life, my wife flew a flag from our front porch, and she changed it often.

She was an avid gardener, so most of her flags were inspired by the season. Goldfinches and lilacs in April and May. Red cardinals and orange leaves in October. Turkeys and pumpkins in November.

Of course, sometimes she honored other things with her flags. Sundays during football season she flew a Bears flag. During July every other year she flew a soccer flag to honor the World Cups, both men’s and women’s.

Weaving in the Imperfections

I slid a slightly crooked hand-woven bookmark into the envelope before sealing it and mailing it to a friend. I attached a note:

My newest fascination is hand weaving on a loom. I made this bookmark for you. It’s one of my first, but I’ll send another one after I’ve had more practice. Hopefully you’ll see my progress. Happy Reading!

A hands-on fiber arts exhibit at an art museum in Wisconsin was where I first tried a loom —— just a wooden frame strung with cotton thread.