Filling Up Your Page

When you're dealing with a multitude of unwelcome challenges in a particular year, there's nothing like a little holiday cheer from a bevy of innocents, like my Wisconsin friend Annie's brood.  These are the children that Mary Poppins and Nanny McPhee long for.  Unspoiled, charming, funny, and highly entertaining.  It was during a frigid late December day that they warmed me with their antics and loving nature.  They sang, they danced, they played music, they drew, and they hula-hooped, all with great enthusiasm.  Well into our day together, we did our inevitable art project, around the massive kitchen counter.  The second in line of the troupe, Kate, 5, went full out, with great confidence, dashing off one creation after another, while simultaneously belting out "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun." 

Lauren, 8, was more cautious and self-critical.  She glanced over at my work, accordingly tossed her pages aside and kept attempting new creations, not satisfied with any.  I suggested to her that she should let any mistakes go, and just keep working on the same page, or at least turn the same sheet of paper over, and use the other side.  She initially did not welcome this suggestion.  She even questioned my recommendation, with the astute observation, "But you're not my mother."  And I responded, gently but matter-of-factly, "But I am a teacher, and I might have some good ideas."

You see, I am more like Lauren than Kate. I know what it is to be the oldest girl of a large bunch -- to not always be free to just let go, fill the page, and let it all settle out as it will, all the while singing with abandon to anyone within earshot.  I so wanted Lauren to avoid the self doubts and, at times, disproportionate sense of responsibility that is typically inherent to the oldest of the family.  I was coming from a place of empathy, rather than didacticism.  I thought that my "words of wisdom" were likely soon forgotten.  Not so.  Shortly after returning, via The City of New Orleans, to my Mandeville home, I received a touching missive from Lauren.  In reiterating my own admonishment back to me, I realized that it was once again, out of the mouths of babes, from which true wisdom flows. 

Because, life is MESSY and even though we are all inclined to try to throw away our pages and start over, again and again -- before ever finishing the first ones -- all we can REALLY do is keep on doing our best, but accept that THAT will never be perfect.  Rather than letting those imperfections paralyze us in self doubt and sometimes even despondency, we all have to keep on making every effort to fill up our pages, every single day.  Some of those days will seem like there is overwhelming illness, loss, pain, confusion,and sadness.  I know I am in that spot right now.  But there is always some space on that page for even a smidgeon of hope, joy, gratitude.  So, from Lauren to me to you, here's to a life of pages, full and messy and beautiful.   

Giving it up for Lent ...

Truth be told, there is plenty I would not mind going without in the coming weeks. Offhand, the list goes something like this, in no particular order:

1. $4.00 a gallon gasoline

2. Tornadoes and flash floods

3. Thesis stress

4. Tendinitis in both feet

5. Scott Walker

6. Income tax preparation

7. Migraines

8. Cell phone conversations

9. Insomnia

10. Difficult people

11. The ongoing construction outside my window

12. Cleaning up spontaneous emissions from pre-schoolers

See, that was pretty easy.

Valentine's Day

If someone had ever told me that, at this point, in my life, I would be living in a city called Mandeville, Louisiana, I would have been speechless with incredulity. Me, a forever urban girl, and a Yankee at that, living in a southern city whose name translates as "big farm."

But, it is Valentine's Day, and here I am. Now, a few facts about Mandeville.

It's post-Katrina population totals 12, 421. A strange number -- 12, 420 would be so much symmetrical. I guess I'm that extra "one." The odd man out. In so many ways.

I don't have soccer-mom blonde hair. I don't play tennis. My political views are that of an independent and I generally keep them to myself. The phrase "family values" typically gives me indigestion.

Once upon a time, doctors sent their New Orleans patients with respiratory difficulties to Mandeville to take in the clear air. That was when Mandeville was a haven for towering pines. Six months ago, I was able to look out my living room window and see nothing by greenery. I now keep my blinds closed at night so that I don't get a seizure from the flashing neon sign advertising "Kim's Nails." Even with the blinds closed, that damned purple light manages to poke its ugly self through the window.


In 2009, I threw my hat in the ring as a candidate for interim mayor. When asked, the other candidates immediately affirmed that they were proponents of business expansion in the city. Me, not so much. Not without consideration of some kind of master plan. A plan that would not include being able to feast my eyes on a Dollar General store when I awaken each morning, or listen to the perpetual drone of bulldozers making way for the next similar attraction.

It also would have been nice if our forefathers had considered the benefits of sidewalks which are few and far between here. Yes, we have two state parks within walking distance, but you can't actually walk to them.

Long ago, things were much different. At the beginning of the 20th century, bands played music on steamboats traveling from New Orleans across Lake Pontchartrain, and at at local pavilions and dance halls. Mandeville was the first place where jazz music was heard outside of the Big Easy, and many early jazz artists played here.

Many people don't know this, but there used to be numerous lighthouses in the Mandeville area, too. The ultimate romantic edifice.

Mandeville still has its merits. Two libraries. Good schools. Low crime. But it could be so much more.

Maybe I'm especially feeling this way today because Mandeville, as livable as it remains in contrast to many other communities, can sometimes be a lonely place for the "plus one" to the 12, 420 other residents. Particularly when that person just lost a close friend. Someone she could have seen herself kicking back with on one of those musical, magical steamboats so long ago ...

A Cheesehead Gloats in Mandeville -- Lambeaulicious!

Just a temporary -- but justified -- name change for my blog today, in celebration of the Green Bay Packers' win over the Philly Eagles/Michael Vick.

Be it known that once a Cheesehead, always a Cheesehead, no matter how long I live in Louisiana and embrace my current state. Especially now that there's no chance of the Saints progressing any further this season.

Seems to be a good time to let folks know a little about the origination of the term. Whenever I've heard it uttered (or should I say "uddered" -- ouch!) in these parts, there's a negative connotation. Indeed, it started out that way, reportedly first coined by Illinois (flatlanders) football and baseball fans in reference to opposing Wisconsin sports supporters.

Wisconsinites, being of gracious, self-deprecatory humor, embraced the term and now -- especially since our victorious Sunday -- wear it as a badge(as in Badgers!)of pride.

The actual cheesehead hat was first crafted by "milliner" Ralph Bruno out of foam and flaunted at a Milwaukee Brewers/Chicago White Sox game in 1987. The headgear was popularized by center-fielder Rick Manning, who noticed the hat while playing ball.

Bruno got in the biz of selling the hat as a novelty. See? A good idea flies itself. The "Cheesehead" trademark is owned by Foamation, Inc. of St. Francis, Wisconsin, which began manufacture of the wearable, foam cheesehead in 1987.

Of note, unlike the neverending conflict arising out of merchandise sporting the "Who Dat!" phrase, no such problems have arisen regarding the Cheesehead phenomenon.

And that, my friends, is "the rest of the story."

Who dat? Green Bay dat!

It's 2011 and I'm still here ...

It began with my still being engaged to marry. It ended with a newfound strength in singlehood and a magnificent male friend.

It started with being the oldest ballet major in state history, which required transcendence over cancer and injury. It ended with production of my first original children's ballet and being asked to teach at the school of a Bolshoi-trained artist.

In its embryonic stages, there were dreams of life in a less urban and more idyllic setting. At its conclusion, I am living that dream.

It commenced with a body of writing work that was directed at my peers. It evolved into works appreciated by far younger audiences.

At its origins, I did not know how to extricate myself from putting the lion's share of my labors into others' interests. Now I know better.

It initiated with undue concern about how my life looked on paper. It has culminated with my pulling my head out of my proverbial rear end and embracing what really matters.

At the onset, I had lost touch with far too many from my past. At its closure, I am magically surrounded by so many of them once again.

9/11, Katrina, Hirings and layoffs, sickness and recovery, loves lost and gained ... I remain ... most grateful, and looking forward to the next 10.

The Most Powerful Christmas Song Ever Written

The year was 1962. The United States was in the midst of the Cuban Missile Crisis -- the great standoff between John F. Kennedy and Nikita ("We will bury you!") Khrushchev.

A French songwriter, living in New York, had been commissioned to write a Christmas-themed song, but he could not put pen to paper. He certainly had the talent. He had studied at the Strasbourg Conservatory and at the Conservatoire National de Paris.

However, the man was troubled. How could he write a joyful tune when the world was on the brink of potential annihilation? He had already been through enough war in his lifetime.

Duing World War II, the aspiring composer, previously destined for a brilliant career, was drafted into the German army after Hitler's Nazi forces overcame France.

While still in the German army and wearing the hated uniform, he became a member of the French underground. He collected information and warned French resistance fighters of attacks being planned by the Germans on his homeland.

That activity culminated in an episode that haunted him for the rest of his life. Intrepidly, he led a group of German soldiers into a trap where they were ambushed by French fighters in crossfire. The young man was also shot -- most likely on purpose -- to protect him from being found out.

The young man survived, but never forgot the image of all of those enemy soldiers collapsing and dying around him. He never talked about it publicly. He subsequently deserted the German army and lived with the French underground until the war was over.

In 1952, he moved to Manhattan, and it was on that memorable night, 10 years later, that he was having so much difficulty with his composition. He decided to clear his head by going out for a walk that evening through the streets of New York.

He saw something that made him pause. Two mothers had stopped by a storefront to chat with one another. They each were holding onto a baby stroller. The two infants in those strollers were smiling and wordlessly gesturing to one another
in a language wholly of their own.

What the songwriter witnessed was complete openness and love shared by two innocent beings. He raced home, inspired as never before, and in one sitting wrote the following as a plea for peace:

Said the night wind to the little lamb
Do you see what I see?
'Way up in the sky, little lamb
Do you see what I see?


A star, a star
Dancing in the night
With a tail as big as a kite
With a tail as big as a kite


Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?
Ringing thru the sky, shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?


A song, a song
High above the tree
With a voice as big as the sea
With a voice as big as the sea


Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king
Do you know what I know?
In your palace warm, mighty king
Do you know what I know?


A Child, a Child
Shivers in the cold
Let us bring Him silver and gold
Let us bring Him silver and gold


Said the king to the people ev'rywhere
Listen to what I say!
Pray for peace, people ev'rywhere
Listen to what I say!


The Child, the Child
Sleeping in the night
He will bring us goodness and light
He will bring us goodness and light

Postscript: Although Bing Crosby's version of the carol brought it to national attention and sold more copies that that of anyone else, the composer -- the late Noel Regney -- most appreciated the version recorded by Robert Goulet, with that artist's impassioned delivery of the line, "Pray for peace, people ev'rywhere!"

Nothing says summer like ...

Baseball and state fairs!

Enjoyed the first on Sunday and the latter this evening in Wisconsin. This year, the trend is food on a stick. Unless it's an olive in a Bloody Mary, or shish kabobs on the grill, I'm of the mind, "Let's not and say we did." Just not that into skewered food and, particularly, food that's been skewered and fried.

Just give me the basics, the classics: fresh cream puffs with cold, real cream. And anything that Rupena's makes -- to die for! It's a West Allis caterer that provided the eats for more weddings, funerals and picnics than I can remember growing up here. The chicken I had tonight was marinated in butter, seasoned with garlic, roasted, and served -- plump, thick and tender -- in a fresh bun with lettuce and tomato. No condiments necessary. Accompanied by a cold beer and a cool breeze, and you have my idea of heaven. Especially when there's a group of scruffy young'ins churning up some Irish folk music nearby.

A state fair appeals to all of the senses, but perhaps most salient are the smells. The convergence of strong odors from prized livestock with the aromas of their "kin" being grilled for the pleasure of attendees. Such is the cycle of life. Just ask E.B. White's infamous pig, "Wilbur," saved from such a fate by his supremely generous friend, "Charlotte."

And even when you're no longer of younger and crazier mind to partake of rides designed to do nothing less than play havoc with your central nervous system, there's the ubiquitous ferris wheel, tame enough for just about any age, and offering spectacular views of the lights of the city beyond.

There are larger fairs than the one in Wisconsin. I should know. My family lived right across the street from it, in Falcon Heights, Minnesota. Now, I know dem's fightin' words with Texans. Their fair lasts longer and ultimately has a greater overall attendance. But Minnesota's has a larger daily attendance, and it's also got Garrison Keillor and gang as perennial performers.

No matter where you live, you really oughtta go to your fair this year. Most things American -- including my beloved baseball -- seem almost unrecognizable these days, with the actual event taking a back seat to the techno-happy, ear-blasting sideshows. But not a fair. It's still pretty much what it's always been. And that's a good thing.