And yet, she persisted

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE MAY 22, 2019 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

The nest is gone. It never was, really a nest. The nook or cranny, if you will, that mama robin chose was less than ideal. The slant of the roof was just a little too steep, the porch door just a little too close for both mama robin’s liking and ours.

But that little bird persisted. Day after day new pieces of plastic and landscaping material congregated on the little eave. Daily she made great progress, and daily her day’s work was tossed down onto our deck by the wind, occasionally by hand, mostly by gravity. Bits of paper and grass and other natural and unnatural bits floated into the deck corners, very accessible for the next day’s redo. But mama robin always brought new material, similar to be sure, but not yesterday’s discard. 

My husband and I were impressed by this persistence and work ethic and mistakenly attributed it to a male bird. I had no idea that female robins build their own nests. I assumed the male robin was either on assignment from his impregnated partner, or he was trying to attract a partner to impregnate. The more this bird “persisted,” the more foolish it became to us. We started talking to him, calling him bro. Bro, you gotta move on, man. Bro, you are trying to defy physics with your location choice. Turns out he wasn’t a bro at all. 

The female robin chooses the nest site. She also builds the nest from the inside out, pressing dead grass and twigs into a cup shape using the wrist of one wing. Other materials include paper, feathers, rootlets, or moss in addition to grass and twigs. Once the cup is formed, she reinforces the nest using soft mud gathered from worm castings to make a heavy, sturdy nest. She then lines the nest with fine dry grass. The finished nest is 6-8 inches across and 3-6 inches high.

This nest never got that far, at least not where it was originally intended anyway. 

This was the first time I’d seen a nest attempt in that spot in the 2 years I’ve lived here. I wondered why this spot now; it must be a new robin moving into the neighborhood. But I found out, it could be a veteran just looking for a new spot. Robins go through the nest-building process each time they produce a new brood, so about two or three times a season. While robins might repair or build on top of a previous nest, most of them build a new nest for each “family” they raise. This is best for many reasons. A used nest is a mess, stretched out, and often home to mites, lice, flies and possibly poop.

Each brood may consist of three to five eggs, sky-blue or green blue in color and unmarked—distinct enough that most children of young ages can distinguish a robin’s egg from any other. The eggs are incubated for 12-14 days and fledglings are born helpless and naked (as we all are at birth) with just a spare whitish down. 

I’m a little sad I didn’t get the front row view to this rite of spring. But I expect there may be another attempt some day. After all, this is only the first brood this season. 

When the chicks hatch, both the parents get busy feeding them. When the chicks fledge (leave the nest), both parents continue to follow them and feed them for a few days. But then the female gets busy building a new nest and laying new eggs. While she incubates the new brood, the male continues taking care of the older babies. He leads them to a stand of trees in the evening where they will roost with other robins. By the time the new eggs hatch, the older babies are ready to be on their own, and the male is able to help feed the new babies. Bro, you’re totally doing it right.

I still hear the male robins singing early in the dawn hours. I like to think it’s the robin couple nearby safely waiting for their brood to hatch in a very stable nest. 

The roads to joy

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE APRIL 17, 2019 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

As I write this, I am sitting on a school bus traveling to a soccer game. It is one of at least 10 bus rides this season. Hopefully 12, but I won’t get ahead of myself. It is also one of tens of thousands of hours I’ve spent going to or coming from this game I love. 

I was reminiscing about bus rides to my co-worker and fondly recalled the long rides I clocked in college with my teammates. I remember talking—so much talking. If you’ve ever been around females in larger numbers, on a bus, everyone has so much to say—all the time. 

I remember helping my best friend study for her nursing exams on a long bus trip to North Dakota in fall. The flat landscape hit its aesthetic peak, golden stretches with bursts of green and orange. Sunny hours on the road flew by, especially now in retrospect. 

The same sun at a different angle hits my shoulders now, warm and filled with just as much anticipation. I’ve learned to love the spring in a new way these last 3 years. Like any transition in Wisconsin, some days I GET to be outside, some days I HAVE to be. 

I was just telling some of the girls on the team about how much I’ve learned as an assistant varsity coach in 3 years—just in bus rides. My first year, I jumped on a bus bound for Hudson with no more than a naive attitude and the layers I had thrown on as I changed my reporter hat for my coaching hat. The forecast called for rain. And rain responded. Then rain. And more rain. 

When it rains it pours, they say. We lost to Hudson 10-0, but they took their sweet time about it. We kept the players somewhat covered under the plexiglass shelter. Coach Shomion and I stood in the elements, watching the battering and taking one ourselves. It was the first big loss of my coaching career, and I found the rain to be a poetic backdrop to the day. 

What I failed to understand at the time was that just because you get back to a dry bus, it doesn’t mean you’ll dry off at all, even in the 2 and 1/2 hours it takes to get home. The heat was off. I huddled in the fetal position of my school bus seat. With every jostle and bump, I thought bitterly, this is not what I signed up for. 

Oh, but it was. For every minute of misery associated with this sport, I have 10,000 of pure joy. Playing soccer, and now coaching it, is my happy place. I read a quote recently that said, “What you are passionate about isn’t random. It’s your calling.”

I whole-heartedly believe that. I think about how at age 10, I was the worst player on my team. I hid in my closet crying about how worthless I was. Time for practice, my dad rolled back the closet door and physically had to drag me down the hallway. The lesson: We always keep a commitment. I had to see the season out. Our team went to a coveted final tournament that year and won it on penalty kicks. I turned into a college scholarship soccer player. 

Playing soccer taught me integrity, not perfectly, but in a way that makes me want to pass it on. Coaching soccer gives me the chance to do just that.

The April sun has finally shown up for business, much like the Rice Lake girls soccer team has shown up for serious work this season. They are determined, serious about what they do and have each other’s backs, always.

As we head home on a warm night in April, I sit smiling in the dark as dozens of girls sing at the top of their lungs, riding the high of another win. And I’m so happy to know they are making a memory. Because only a handful of them will remember the score, but most will remember how it felt to be on this team. 

I love Los Cabos and I hate winter

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE FEBRUARY 27, 2019 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

As the suntan lines fade, and the smell of the ocean gets more difficult to conjure, I feel prodded to record a recent trip to a warmer climate. Before the chill finds its home again in my bones and I lose all footing on the undulating waves of snow and ice. 

I observed an interesting parallel as my husband and I traversed the rippled sidewalks of Cabo San Jose earlier this month. I found myself looking down at the ground almost the whole time for fear of catching a sandaled toe on the uneven walkways. It was much the same posture one takes while walking the sidewalks during Wisconsin winters. 

That’s about where the parallels end though. Cabo San José is the sleepier cousin to Cabo San Lucas, just a few miles south on Hwy. 1 in the Baja Peninsula, and a far cry in climate, cuisine and culture from here. Perfect for my husband and I, who wanted to immerse ourselves in new smells, another language and the softest air imaginable, all while running wildly away from the polar vortex.

Nick and I stayed at an AirBnB in a San José neighborhood called Chamizal. Our hostess, Susanna, a fit and gracious woman, guided us through a short tour of the upstairs apartment that would be our home for a few days. A gorgeous patio surrounded the neatly decorated one-bedroom guest loft on all sides, providing ample views of the ocean in the far distance and the colorful stepped neighborhood that rose behind and descended below the apartment. It was private and perfect.

The sounds of the neighborhood greeted us during the day, including a  white pickup truck that would drive seemingly randomly through the neighborhood blasting a political radio show from a makeshift loudspeaker attached to the hood. The nights were quiet, with the exception of the occasional barking dog, or pack of dogs that would make it their agenda to visit every dog on the block. 

The neighborhood was within walking distance to downtown Cabo San José, brimming with restaurants, a diverse art scene, shops, breweries and tequila/mezcal tasting rooms. Public squares teemed with passive art vendors, street performers and food carts. Walking downtown, you were left alone to peruse the scene. It felt safe at all hours, in shadows and light. 

We took public transportation to a safe swimming beach (where you potentially wouldn’t get ripped out to sea by the undertow.) It was exquisite as far as public beaches go. Bathrooms were immaculate and the sand free of litter. As a connoisseur of California beaches in my younger years,  Playa Chileno stood out as exceptional. 

Food was also a high point. We took an AirBnB experience from a guide named Axel, who took us and another couple on a walking tour of the best tacos in Cabo. It turned into a best food and beer of Cabo as some of the vendors were closed and Axel learned our palettes were more interested in authenticity than familiarity.  It turns out there are some excellent beers crafted in Mexico other than Corona and Dos Equis. Out there in the vast infinity of craft beer in the world, there is a glorious IPA crafted in Tijuana that I can’t actually remember the name of, but it was muy bien. 

As I see the extended forecast calls for more snow and all cold, I have some pretty great memories of a fabulous trip to Mexico. The marks of which have yet to leave my skin and waistline. 

As the snow flies, I think I’ll scroll through my photos, close my eyes and listen for the echoes of waves crashing, the vibrant quickness of the Spanish language, and pretend that the dogs barking next door are really roaming a quiet Mexican neighborhood, where I can have my café con leche in the sun. 

To love is love and to hate is hate

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE JANUARY 16, 2019 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

Every light casts a shadow. In the shade of celebration and praise for the homecoming of Jayme Closs lies comments filled with vitriol and damnation for the man who abducted her and cold-bloodedly killed her parents. 

Social media posts like, “Hope he gets shanked so my tax money doesn’t have to support him.” “Wisconsin NEEDS the death penalty.” As with most sinister criminals, Jake Patterson will be hanged by the community long before his true sentence is delivered and carried out. His one life isn’t close to enough for the two he took. The public wants vengeance and to inflict all the pent up pain and grief onto the person who caused it all. To many, that’s justice.  

And as smug and unremorseful as Patterson eerily seemed on that screen during his initial appearance, there is another image I can’t get out of my mind. A video of Patterson’s brother and father leaving the courthouse. Described as “inconsolable” at one point during the proceedings, Patrick Patterson and Erik Patterson had their heads bowed low and shoulders hunched to avoid the cameras. More than that, they looked like they were carrying the remorse, pain and regret that didn’t show up anywhere on Jake’s face. When asked if he knew, Jake’s father just slowly shook his head from side to side and simply said “no.”

We say that we’re to love everyone, show grace to the most insufferable of us all. How many of us sit in church and reiterate those lessons every weekend? Yet, we are tested more today in those lessons than maybe ever before. If you subscribe to it, we are supposed to love Jake Patterson. Not what he did, not the evil that lives and breathes through him, but him—the floppy mopped 14-year-old pictured in a freshman photo. The quiet kid who had a difficult time relating to others. Somewhere, as a unit, we failed to love another among us. And he failed to receive it. 

Please don’t get me wrong. Jake Patterson is absolutely responsible for his actions of the night of Oct. 15 and in the 88 days since. I am confident that our justice system will see to it that justice is served. 

What we are responsible for is each other, each and every person we touch in this lifetime. Each and every word we post and say. If you knew healthy love growing up, maybe becoming a mentor and spending time with kids who live in the margins now could save two lives a decade from now—possibly save a 13-year-old girl from horrific trauma and forced orphanhood. I don’t know. 

I just know that the silos we construct to house the people who deserve love and prayer and the ones that house the wrongdoers, the evil and unjust, will continue to churn out more of the same if we don’t start delivering goodness to everyone. 

Do you think anyone is bringing a casserole to the Pattersons during this time? Offering them gas cards to visit their loved one in jail? I’m guessing not. They are guilty by blood. 

The anger is so great, we want to exact pain onto anyone whom we think is deserving of it. I feel angry and sad too. This story has imbedded itself in my heart as a journalist, a member of this community and especially as a mom. We all want to know WHY?

That anger becomes fiery hate if not dealt with. It’s apparent in the cycles of abuse and addiction that plague this county. It’s the same hate that drives violent murder and kidnapping. But what if, instead of adding to the hateful, angry mob, we churned out creative solutions with the anger that fuels us? What if we helped create more miracles?

While that very strong 13-year-old girl has a long road of recovery and reentry ahead, let’s remember another family involved in this. I think the Pattersons could use a massive amount of prayer transferred their way now. Pain is pain. We shouldn’t judge if they deserve it or not. 

And if there’s one thing this community does extremely well, it’s pray and hope for a better tomorrow for everyone.

All hail Lord Renly, beefiest of dogs

Lord Renly, 4 months olds

When I said “I do” last month on a cold October afternoon, I was saying I will to more than one male. Don’t worry, no brother husbands or anything like that. While my husband was joining a family of three girls, we were gaining a furry little rascal called Renly.

Renly is a 10-month-old tri-color Australian shepherd. If you happen to use the Rice Lake Dog Park (a gem of an asset in this town, by the way), you may have been forced to meet Lord Renly with a swift head butt to your legs or to the rib cage of your smaller dog. We’re working on that.

You see, Renly really really wants to herd. He’ll herd people, other dogs—children are a certain favorite. He looks to the sky at a honking flock of geese and I can see the longing in his chocolate brown eyes. If only I could fly! He just wants to control the chaos, and I totally get that.

I’ve recently found myself in a bit of chaos—a few upsets to the daily grind I’ve come to love, and head butting is one of a few centering tactics I haven’t employed….yet.

But I digress. I come from a long line of dog lovers. I have grown up surrounded by dogs my entire life. Dachshunds are my mother’s breed of choice, and while cute (and yippee), I’ve found myself migrating to bigger dogs.

Australian shepherds might be my breed. They are smart and kind spirited. Their “hyper activity” isn’t really that at all. I’ve been told by a very experienced dog person that it’s more of an intensity of adrenaline, which can shoot high or low in a matter of seconds. It’s instinct so they can get their job done. Controlling them is about controlling the space they think they own.

And Renly wants to control all the space. His body was made to push other bodies where he wants them to go, and God bless him, his little teenage mind at the moment is having a hard time adjusting to having not just one boss, but four.

Renly’s need to dominate the clan is palatable. He is never happier than when the girls come back from their dad’s house and the entire “pack” is together again. We affectionately call him “beef” because if he was human, he’d probably be a ‘roided up (albeit sweet) meathead pushing people around just because he can. More than once he has skidded headlong into a cupboard or door chasing down his ball or toy, emerging entirely unfazed.

But we’ve put a big halt on his physical dominating; one, because he’s now 55 pounds, and two, because it’s safer and better for him if he knows who is actually running the show.

Despite his physical need to dominate, he really is sweet natured, but very dramatic! When he finally realizes we are unrelenting on a stay command, his dramatic flop to the floor and subsequent sigh would win an Oscar every time. I swear he rolls his eyes so much better than the two pre-teenage girls in the house.

He’s totally a 10-month-old shepherd, but despite his age is well behaved and increasingly obedient. Throw in a visit to my original dog household over Thanksgiving though, and obedience becomes optional.

My mother’s philosophy in raising dogs has always been more is better—more dogs, more treats, more human food, more space for the dogs. Dogs basically rule the world in her house. Not so in our household. Battle of the “dog moms” commenced. We weren’t arguing politics at Thanksgiving, mom and I were locked in over treats.

I handily won when I mentioned that Renly doesn’t get human food and I suspected said human food was going to end up all over mom’s floor at some point if she didn’t stop slipping him juicy turkey bits.

She stopped, and all were grateful, except for Lord Renly, who once again did not get his way.

Being a light is one answer we do have

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE OCTOBER 24, 2018 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

As I triple-checked the locks on our home’s front and back doors the other night, I was thinking about another door, another home not too far from any of us, where safety and peace was violently disrupted last week Monday. I thought of a 13-year-old girl missing, and prayed for the thousandth time that she would be found, safe and alive, knowing that even so, she would be traumatically altered.

I ascended the stairs, looked in again on my own sleeping 11- and 9-year-olds, safe and snug, and thanked God for their health and safety, imploring Him to keep them that way always.

That afternoon, in the car on the way home, my kids and I had talked a little about Jayme Closs, the missing girl. My daughters’ social network involves children of those county employees and law enforcement who are pouring in overtime hours to help find answers. One child told a friend of my girls, “I haven’t seen my dad much this week.”

The horror of this most recent tragedy is processed differently for kids at every age. But across the board, how adults express their emotions will influence the reactions of children and youth. That’s according to National Association of School Psychologists informational pamphlets which were handed out at a vigil for Jayme Closs on Monday. The information included tips for talking to children about violence, tips for caregivers to make sure they are caring for themselves during crisis and tips for managing strong emotional reactions to traumatic events.

If you’ve been on social media at all in the last week, you can see several examples of people who may benefit from the latter of that information. Posts and responses dripping with anger over the lack of information or speculations in the Closs case have erupted everywhere. There are many unanswered questions. Everyone is feeling some pretty intense emotions, including grief—grief for the Closs family, but also our own losses of a sense of peace and safety in our community, loss of privacy with the onslaught of national news media descending on Barron County, and just an overwhelming feeling of helplessness.

Anger is a natural extension of other emotions like fear and grief because it is a defense mechanism that makes us feel more in control. This is what the shadow side of a trauma such as this looks like.

On the other side, however, there is the light of this community—thousands of people taking their vacation time from work to help the search for answers, people spending their time and money to make sure up to 200 law enforcement individuals are fed and watered every day for as long at it takes, caretakers putting in extra time to watch kiddos, neighbors checking on neighbors to make sure they’re okay. This community rises up each and every time tragedy strikes, without complaint or hesitation and I’m knocked speechless by the generosity every time.

I should be used to it; from plane crashes, tornadoes and murder-suicides, our little pocket here in Northwestern Wisconsin is no stranger to tragedy lately. But Barron has been launched into the international spotlight twice in the last 2 weeks—in elation for hometown singing star Chris Kroeze and now missing Jayme Closs. The sun rises and sets on all of us.  It’s the stories of what human beings can do for each other in good that will always transcend the tragedies that set them in motion.

Let’s choose to recognize our grief and anger and channel it to doing better for each other every day. We’re full of hope and help. Our job is to make this journey a little easier for each other, not just in tragic times, but all of the time.

For more information on coping with trauma, visit www.nasponline.org. For up-to-date information on ways to help the search for Jayme Closs, follow the Barron County Sheriff’s department on Facebook.

To thee I wed, wiser and whole

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE SEPTEMBER 19, 2018 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

In 16 days I’m going to do it again. What’s that, you ask? I’m going to run another marathon? Nope, not this time, maybe next year.  Am I going back to school? Nope. Am I aiming to climb a mountain, jump off a cliff in Mexico? Nope and nope, though I am taking a plunge, and not just any plunge, THE plunge—very willfully. I am once again getting married. And this time around is very different from 12 years ago.

It is different mostly in that I have a much clearer perspective going in, armed not just with eager anticipation for the years to come, but a healed heart and much stronger soul, full of integrity for myself that will not be compromised again. Also, I’m not pregnant this time around. I believe that if you’re not a wiser, truer version of yourself entering into your second marriage, then you divorced wrong.

But if I could go back, I would tell that 24-year-old girl that kindness is the sexiest thing on the planet. That talking about ideas is far richer and empowering than talking about other people. Saying how you feel and having it be acknowledged is healthy. That being the punch line of a joke is equal to receiving a punch in the face. That things and toys are so very temporary with no long-term value. That what other people think of you is their problem. What you think of you, however, is your problem. That choosing to care for yourself first is the only way to be a healthy mom, wife, volunteer, coach and employee. That respect is the baseline of a healthy marriage, and it is never too late to ask for or give it, no matter what has occurred.

Those are just a few to scratch the surface. But I don’t wish away that girl or the years between. I wouldn’t be who I am now without her and every success and epic failure along the way.  Due to the way I chose to exit my first marriage, I’ve harbored the weight of shame for the last 4 1/2 years, though it has significantly dissipated over that time. Now, shame no longer defines me or my choices. I’ve worked harder at finding my truth in the last few years than any other pursuit I’ve endeavored. And I’m well aware that the journey does not cease, ever. I’m just glad to have a kind and beautiful soul to hold my hand along the way, while we each continue to grow individually and together.

One of the best things is that no matter how busy our schedule is, we  recognize the value of checking in with each other. How are WE doing? What do we need from the other person, emotionally? We talk a lot about feelings and not just the sweet and flowery ones, though there are a lot of those. We talk about fear and shame and pain. We cry together when we should. Our bodies were made to express emotion that way. We laugh. Because our screw- ups have been both gigantic and very small. Acknowledging truth can be the funniest time or most heart-wrenching moment, often both.

So the vows will be a little different this time around. I will promise to be honest and kind always, to myself and to him. I promise to be a parent to my girls who doesn’t depend on their love for me; who is warm and firm and encourages their autonomy and growth within the rules and structure of our family.

When my girls met me outside after receiving my college diploma, their eyes said, Mom, you are smart. When I looked into my dying father’s beautiful blue eyes, they said, “I am so proud of you.” When I see my reflection in white (yes, white), this time I will say, “you are strong.” And after a short walk down a grassy aisle on Oct. 6, when I look into another set of blue eyes (it’s a thing, I guess.), I know they will say, “You are loved.” I understand the truth of that deeper than yesterday. I’ll recognize it because I saw the same message in the mirror a few minutes before—you are loved, and I believe her.

Plot twist: climate change is real

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE AUGUST 8, 2018 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

Looking at pictures from the largest California wildfire in its history this week feels like looking into another world. As cataclysmic disaster after another destroys thousands of acres in California, I can’t help but think that these disasters feel more and more pronounced and significant.

I’ve recently gotten into a new genre of fiction called climate fiction or cli-fi for short. It’s a term being used to describe books in which an altered climate is part of the plot—a significant part of the plot. Some say though that the primary theme of books that are being recognized under the rubric of “climate fiction” are essentially dystopian visions of a world decimated by climate change.

Dystopian fiction is nothing new. It is essentially a work describing an imaginary place where life is extremely bad because of deprivation or oppression or terror. In climate fiction, climate change complete with cataclysmic natural disasters is that horror.

The science fiction novelist Kim Stanley Robinson focused on the climate change theme in his “Science in the Capital” trilogy, which is set in the near future and includes “Forty Signs of Rain” (2004), “Fifty Degrees Below” (2005), and “Sixty Days and Counting” (2007). Robert K. J. Killheffer in his review for Fantasy & Science Fiction said “‘Forty Signs of Rain’ is a fascinating depiction of the workings of science and politics, and an urgent call for us to pull our heads from the sand and confront the threat of climate change.”

The novels “Not A Drop To Drink” (2013) and its sequel, “In A Handful Of Dust” (2014), by Mindy McGinnis feature a small group of survivors living in the aftermath of an extreme shortage of fresh water following a severe, prolonged drought on a national scale.

Ian McEwan’s “Solar” (2010) follows the story of a physicist who discovers a way to fight climate change after managing to derive power from artificial photosynthesis.

Barbara Kingsolver’s novel, “Flight Behavior” (2012), employs environmental themes and highlights the potential effects of global warming on the monarch butterfly.

“Devolution of a Species” by M.E. Ellington focuses on the Gaia hypothesis, and describes the Earth as a single living organism fighting back against humankind.

Natural disasters feel like that sometimes, like the Earth is fighting back, proving its age and strength and longevity, despite human occupation.

In January 2017, several scientific agencies around the world, including NASA and the NOAA in the United States and the Met Office in the United Kingdom, named 2016 the warmest year recorded. This marked the third consecutive year reaching a new record temperature, the first time since the current warming trend began in the 1970s that 3 years in a row were record highs. When 2017 was declared the third hottest year on record, that meant that 17 of the last 18 warmest years have occurred since 2000.

Climate fiction is intriguing and particularly terrible because now, when I emerge from a fictional world full of climate disasters, I am living in a world where these disasters are a reality. What’s important to pay attention to in these fictional plots, is how the remainder of society gathers and reorganizes to sustain humanity amid the destruction.

Unfortunately, I don’t see climate fiction or even the increase in devastating natural disasters as game changers in the climate change debate. It’d be great if we as a collective could band together to create a more sustainable world for future generations. Fearmongering just isn’t going to be the catalyst to do it. It’s when someone we know and love has lost access to water or their home or life to fire and flood, that the reality will cease being fictional.

May the sun shine upon you safely

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE JUNE 27, 2018 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

As of last Thursday, the days are officially getting shorter. I know, let’s not dwell on that too long. There’s plenty of summer left to live—water fights, grill outs, twilight evenings when the air is so soft it feels magical and time stands still. Also sunshine—loads and loads of UVA and UVB rays drenching our skin for hours on end, while we play, work and leisure.

As we celebrate summer and because too much sunshine in our lives is actually bad for us, I bring a cautionary tale, one with pain and fear, but a very happy sunshiney continuation.

Eighteen years ago in June I turned 18 years old in a hospital bed in Santa Monica, California. I was there alone except for the nursing staff and doctors on their daily rounds at John Wayne Cancer Center.

Just finishing the third day of my third round of intense biochemotherapy, I felt miserable. My hair was gone, the right side of my face slowly regaining feeling, control, not a picture of health. Health had evaded me for the previous 4 months. Surgery had invaded my face and neck.

But they brought me a birthday cake anyway, and sang a surprisingly in-key rendition of the birthday song. I felt loved, and thought, what if this is the last birthday song I receive?

The question was a valid one. As a recent high school graduate, I was battling Stage III melanoma, skin cancer, not the friendly one. I had had many numbers thrown my way since the diagnosis in February, but the one that stuck out the most was my odds for living. 50/50. A coin flip. So at 17 years old, I was contemplating the meaning(s) of life in a whole different way from my peers. I grew up suddenly in a few short months.

When I mention this part of my life, I often get asked if I sought the sun through tanning oils, tanning beds, a pool side chaise lounge. The answer isn’t definitively no. I wore sunscreen and I loved the sun. It was abundant in our Southern California backyard and beach trips.

I recall a particularly bad sunburn when I was about 9 years old. My brother and I had been Boogie boarding all day long, our newfound summer obsession. Later that evening, our skin came awake as the skin cells started dying. Second degree sunburn was, as I would come to find, almost as miserable as chemotherapy, almost.

Sunburns as children are a significant contribution to the likelihood that grown children will have melanoma later in life. After that day at the beach, our mandated swimming uniform consisted of a T-shirt over our swimsuit, no matter what. Mom and Dad’s  No. 1 rule.

Still cancer found me. Thankfully it hasn’t found my brother. I know my own strength better than I know his.

The difference I believe falls in the nuances of our lives. Sunscreened, we both played soccer year-round under the Southern Californian ozone hole. We eventually found that yes, melanoma does run in our family when dad found one on his forearm (the driver’s side) 15 years after my diagnosis.

But I had 16 years worth of exposed skin during those California years. It didn’t know winter. My skin, full of displastic nevi (new moles pop up everyday), was always more susceptible. So much so, that once, at 14, I had 40 moles removed off my back in one sitting as a precaution. Still cancer found me. It may again.

My last treatment occurred in July 2000. I wear sunscreen pretty religiously and have moles annually removed at almost every dermatology visit. I still love the sun. I also respect it.

So as days get shorter, let us remember that our days are short. Take care of your skin (and your kid’s) and your body, soak up the memories of this summer, and live. That’s my plan.

Movie magic on Mother’s Day

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE MAY 16, 2018 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

From a young age my family has fostered in me a love for the movies. I was lucky enough to attend many blockbusters with my family in the theater and learned to love and appreciate the art of the cinema almost as much as books. Almost.

Dad got into the LaserDisc era in the 1990s and he and my mom hosted a movie night once a month for their fellow film buffs. They would play the director’s cut of classics like “Gone With the Wind,”  “High Noon,” “Cinema Paradiso” and “Schindler’s List.” We kids weren’t allowed downstairs on those nights, but we’d sit in the stairwell and listen. It was usually beyond boring, some guy’s voice dubbed over the movie itself, explaining why certain cinematic decisions were made, etc. Yawn. There was usually wine involved for the adults.

Living and socializing in the height of the old Hollywood era, my grandpa rubbed elbows with a few stars and loves to tell and retell those stories. To this day, I love watching the Oscars ceremony and vet many movie picks from that standard. I now appreciate the subtleties those director cuts were trying to illustrate in good movies.

The cinema love has not waned over time, but it has been honed. Dropping $40 at the theater for a family of four means the movie better be worth its salted popcorn. And nowadays it is few and far between that a movie earns that. But it is still an experience I cherish, especially with my kids.

On Mother’s Day, a perfectly beautiful day in northwest Wisconsin, the girls announced that there was a new movie they wanted to see. I was conflicted. After 7 months of winter, one of the first really idyllic days this spring was ours for the taking—outside. And my kids wanted to sit indoors and watch a flick? After hearing the description of the movie, the sucker in me for inspirational sports stories won out.

To be fair, we spent the first part of the day playing outside and, heeding my own mother’s warning in my head, spent the hottest part of the day away from dangerous UVA rays. So we went and we three sat all alone in the theater. It felt special, but also like I missed a memo from Mother Nature herself, one that would come back to haunt me come October, but oh well. The buttered popcorn soothed my ruffled conscious.

A star athlete’s untimely death, community unites, comeback season, perfect soundtrack—the movie had all the ingredients for a good flick. Based on a true story, it delivered inspiration and I cried—through the entire thing. It’s a risk you take watching movies with me, hell, watching commercials with me.

Puffy eyed, I emerged from the theater a little better person than I was going in. That’s the making of a good movie for me. If watching it makes me change, forces me to look at things just a little differently, I’ll give it a thumbs up.

For this film, I mentally took notes on the coach’s character, comparing it to my own now in the midst of the spring soccer season. Do I inspire like she did? Can I, if it comes down to a return trip to state like the team in the film? I don’t know the answers to that yet. One day, one game at a time for now.

The movie was worth it. The girls were singing their praises for the sport of volleyball and dreaming about playing in high school. It was a grown-up version of the many times we have emerged from the theater singing the newest Disney theme song and reliving our favorite parts during the ride home—talking over each other in our excitement or asking for clarification for a part we missed after finishing the giant cola too early after showtime. We’d declare our favorite characters and change our minds at least twice on the way home, not wanting to lose the magic too quickly.

Like when I was kid, the movie brought me a little bit closer to those with me and with a story—the three of us alone in the theater on Mother’s Day.