The Honeymoon

By Yvonne Kays

You will do foolish things, but do them with enthusiasm.
~Colette

Keith and I were blessed to find love at age sixty. I had planned a trip to Florida with a friend and when she had a change in plans it became the perfect honeymoon for us. Neither Keith nor I had ever been to Florida, and the thought of palm trees, warmth, and sun after a cold, rainy Oregon winter was a dream come true.

Our first day was amazing. Driving from Orlando toward Cape Canaveral, we were curious about a group of people who had stopped along the roadside and were looking up into the sky. We pulled over to find out why they were there. Suddenly, we were gazing in awe at a shuttle blasting off and disappearing into space with a spiraling vapor trail. Later, a walk on the beach hand-in-hand and a romantic candlelight dinner capped off an incredible day.

"Let's explore the St. Petersburg area tomorrow," Keith suggested, little knowing what that next day held in store.

Driving west to St. Petersburg, we continued wandering southward into Fort DeSoto State Park. We were pleasantly surprised to be greeted with a sign that read, "#1 Beach in America in 2005." Wisps of clouds floated in an azure sky. A postcard had shown the beach covered with bodies, but we shared the warm, caressing waves and beautiful palm-shaded shore with only one other family. To our delight, a group of graceful dolphins swam by as we gazed from the pier. We spotted the angular form of a huge frigate bird soaring high above.

"Frigate birds are usually only seen along shore when a storm is brewing," a passing park ranger told us. No hint of that -- what a treat!

After a swim on the idyllic beach, we continued exploring southward, trekking over a magnificent cabled bridge that stretched over the bay with no end in sight. Hunger overtook us as we reached civilization again on the far shore. Unable to find a park nearby, we stopped to munch local vegetables and fruit on a dead end street just off the freeway. A bench seemed to invite visitors, but we chose to sit in the shade of our rented PT Cruiser and observe the neighborhood. I watched a young man stroll across the street with a weed eater, and envisioned him heading to an elderly neighbor's house to help with yard work.

Suddenly a sheriff's car appeared on the right side of our vehicle, and a young officer quickly approached with his hand on his gun. I had a sudden vision of a chubby Barney Fife.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Having lunch and drinking my buttermilk," I replied as I held up the milk carton. "Is there a problem, officer?"

"Well, yes -- if you are selling drugs," he said.

Selling drugs? How absurd! I laughed aloud. The young officer flushed, and looked at me sternly, as my husband Keith jabbed me in the ribs.

"What are you doing having lunch in the ghetto, then," the officer said, "unless you want to be carjacked?"

I gazed in disbelief at the neighborhood homes. What did he mean, ghetto? It was not an affluent neighborhood by any means, but certainly not my idea of a ghetto.

Suddenly another officer appeared by Keith's door, and I saw in the side view mirror that a second sheriff's car had pulled in behind our vehicle. As my husband was asked for his license, he tried to explain that our plight was just an innocent mistake. Gradually, the young officers began to realize we really were just lost tourists from Oregon, not drug dealers. We were only too glad to follow their directions to leave the area and get back on the freeway.

"What were you doing, laughing at that officer?" Keith sputtered. "Did you want to get us arrested?"

"I can't believe they thought we were drug dealers. I should have pulled out my county ID badge that shows I'm an Alcohol/Drug Prevention Specialist and let him look at that," I said.

"Oh yeah -- I'm sure he would think you were just using that as a cover!" Keith retorted.

"Do you think a drug dealer would choose a grandmotherly car like a PT Cruiser? I'd have a Corvette or a Cadillac for sure," I quipped, choking with laughter. Looking down the freeway, I gasped, "Oh, please hurry, and find a rest area soon," as I held my sides and tears ran down my cheeks. Two senior citizens accused of being drug dealers on their honeymoon. This was one day we would surely long remember!

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Dusting Off Memories

By Jenny R. George

The happiest moments of my life have been the few which I have passed at home in the bosom of my family.
~Thomas Jefferson

As a young girl growing up in rural Alabama, I never understood why my mom spent so much time baking bread from scratch, and making my brother and me help her. One day every other week was dedicated to making bread. My brother and I were in charge of grinding the wheat into flour while Mom prepped the remaining ingredients. One of us would pour the wheat, a little at a time, into the hopper while the other turned the handle, and then we would trade positions as our small arms tired. The grinder was attached to a metal desk in the corner of the dining room, and occasionally the vise-like grip would loosen and we would have to stop and tighten it.

Eventually, Dad bought Mom a motorized grinder and our routine changed from pouring and grinding to grinding and keeping the flour dust from settling on everything in the kitchen and dining room. Despite our best efforts, the flour dust always went everywhere. So at the end of the day, while the bread was baking in the oven, we dusted the white off every coated surface.

While I went about my bread baking chores obediently, I chafed at the hours spent in the kitchen. I would wistfully look out the window as my horses grazed contentedly in the nearby pasture. I preferred to be outside with my horses. Looking back, I never appreciated my mom's idea of quality family time with my brother and me, at least when it came to time in the kitchen.

Years have gone by and I have become a mother myself. Home is now North Idaho. I handle kitchen chores with more grace as an adult, but I prefer to leave most of the cooking and baking to my husband. He's quite good at it, too.

It was on one such occasion that my husband, Christopher, was preparing dinner. I was at the kitchen table going through the day's mail when our two-year-old son, Cody, asked his Papa if he could help him cook. Christopher smiled and tried to explain that the stove was hot and it wasn't safe for him to be near it. Undeterred and resourceful, Cody grabbed a chair from the nearby table, and with all his effort began dragging the chair toward the nearest kitchen counter several feet away. While he struggled with the chair over the carpet, he made fast progress on the linoleum and soon had it placed in front of a counter centered between the refrigerator and the pantry. I sat there amused at his determination.

Cody climbed up on the chair and reached for a glass on the counter containing two dozen or so wine corks that Christopher had collected. With corks in hand, he pointed to the coffee pot on another counter. His Papa handed him the unplugged coffee pot. His final request was a wooden spoon. I put the mail down and watched as Cody carefully removed the glass pot from the brewer and placed the corks inside the pot. He stirred the corks with his wooden spoon for several minutes before returning them, and the pot, to the coffee maker.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Helping Papa cook," he replied with a big smile on his face. "I'm making cork soup!" It didn't matter that Christopher was behind him tending food in the oven. He was in the kitchen helping his Papa and that was all that mattered to him.

At that moment, something from within me stirred. I thought back to all those times as a kid when my own mom asked for help in baking bread, and I had grudgingly, but obediently, complied. Perhaps she was trying to create something more than just fresh baked bread. Maybe Mom was trying to instill a sense of togetherness through family time. Maybe she was trying to create a few lasting memories.

As I watched Cody take the corks in and out of the pot and stir them with all the dedication of a two-year-old, I realized that he had created a forever moment for me, a moment in time in which Christopher's willingness to let him "help" in the kitchen created a profound sense of family for our son. When the wine corks were sufficiently stirred to Cody's satisfaction, I got up from the table and offered him the small counter scale. Weighing the corks would let the moment linger even longer as I savored my newfound appreciation for the experiences my mom had given me years ago in her kitchen, a place where I was welcomed and belonged, flour dust and all.

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The Quilt

By Rosalie Grangaard Grosch

Tears streamed down my face as I reminded myself, "It's only a thing."

Earlier in the day, the ringing of the telephone had startled us. It was the snowplow operator at our lake home. "I noticed that one window is broken and another is open."

With great haste, my husband set out on the hour-and-a-half drive. Not wanting to face the fear of the unknown, I stayed home.

Ken's call came. "They must have had lots of time because the place has been ransacked. They broke the bedroom window when they entered and exited with the loot through an open kitchen window."

Sawdust on the counter looked familiar to Ken. Checking the basement, he realized his chain saw was missing. That, along with other objects, must have been packed on the kitchen counter.

The drawers in the upstairs dressers were upside-down on the floor. Things were strewn around all over. A container of pennies was missing, as was the microwave from under the counter and guns from the closet.

With Ken's second phone call, I asked, "Is the quilt still there?"

"Just a minute. I will look." The phone was silent while I waited.

"It is gone. They must have wrapped everything in it when they fled."

I was heartbroken. That quilt meant everything to me. We were living out of the country when Mother died, and I was not able to attend her funeral. The quilt had been her project. Each piece told a story from my family's past. The partially finished quilt was given to my daughter. While at college, she finished the piecing. On an unforgettable trip to the other grandma's house, my two daughters and Grandma sat around the big frame, stitching everything by hand.

"We are doing this for Mom and Dad's twenty-fifth anniversary," our daughters sang as they stitched. In the center, embroidered in bright colors, was a special square: "Ken and Rosalie, 25 years of love and laughter."

We wept with joy when the quilt was presented to us. We pictured so many hands lovingly working: Mother cutting and piecing the old remnants; our daughter sewing the pieces between college classes; our two girls sitting around the quilt frame, stitching with Grandma.

Now, it was gone. I took off a day from work and went on a scavenger hunt, stopping at antique stores on the way to our cabin. No one had seen or heard anything of the quilt. I put up flyers with pictures asking people to call if they ran across the quilt.

I dream of someday finding a stained and worn quilt with our names stitched in the center. With a few left-over pieces, my daughter and I replicated the quilt in a smaller size. And as I look at those familiar fabric pieces, I give thanks.

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Hard Truth

By Shawnelle Eliasen

We are so accustomed to disguising ourselves to others that in the end we become disguised to ourselves.
~François Duc de La Rochefoucauld

I picked through the jumble in my locker. Only a few students clustered in the hall. The class bell was about to ring. Where was that science book?

"C'mon," I said. My heart was beginning to beat a little fast when I saw the blue binding at the bottom of a pile of books. I tugged hard. The book slid from the stack. I pushed it under my arm, slammed my locker door, and bolted down the hall to Mr. Countryman's room.

As I walked through the door, my heart beat a little harder still. My eyes scanned the room. Our sixth grade classroom had short brown tables and cream-colored plastic chairs. Two kids per table. And the seats were assigned.

I cleared my throat and trudged toward my table. My tablemate was already there, twisted backwards in his seat, visiting with someone at the table behind him. His thick blond hair hung over the collar of his sweatshirt. I felt that I could melt into a puddle, just being so close.

The bell rang as I reached my seat. I dropped my books to the tabletop and created a sharp "Slam!" Scott turned in his chair and flashed a smile. There he was. Golden boy of the junior high school. Handsome. Athletic. Strong. And nice.

"Tough morning?" he asked.

I plunked into my seat and conjured my best growly voice. "Stupid science. It smells like frogs in here. I just hate science."

Scott produced a sad, crooked smile. I set my jaw and flipped my book open as Mr. Countryman made his way to the front of the classroom.

Unsettling. That's a good word to describe my first year of junior high school. In our town, three elementary schools, two from town and one from the country, fed into the junior high. I was from the country school. We were a tight group, and it was different to be sprinkled in with the kids from town who all seemed to know one another well. There was a lot of new stuff to keep up with. A cool crowd. Nike athletic shoes. Just the right brand of jeans. Talking the right talk. Then my best friend became best friends with a town girl -- one who didn't care for me. I felt overwhelmed and insecure. I masked my uncertainties behind an angry exterior. My new classmates had no idea I was like Jell-O inside.

Mr. Countryman began to talk about different types of rocks. Several students opened their notebooks, tipped their heads, and scrawled notes. But I was distracted. It was hard sitting at the same table as Scott. I wanted him to like me. I daydreamed about being his girlfriend -- another big, new thing that was customary in junior high. I could picture myself in the bleachers watching him rule the basketball court. I'd cheer at all the right times and maybe there'd be pizza at Joe's Pizzeria after the game. Many of my classmates were allowed to walk there after sports events.

A jab on the arm brought me back to reality. A boy from the next table thrust a rock sample in my direction. From the corner of my eye, I saw Scott watching me. I held the crumbly rock with distaste, poked my nose in the air, and passed it to him.

The remaining forty-five minutes of class flew by. Science class always did. I didn't have any other classes with Scott, and I enjoyed every minute of sitting there, though no one would have known that.

When the bell rang to end the period, the science students screeched their chairs back and bolted out the door. Scott hung back a bit. It appeared that he wanted to talk. I was hopeful and excited. But I was also scared, so I was sure to not smile.

"Shawn?" Scott said. His eyes were so blue.

"What?" I answered a little gruff.

"Well, I just wanted to say something."

I acted annoyed. "Go ahead."

"I think you're a real pretty girl," Scott said. "Nice to look at. It's just too bad you don't act nice, too." Then he pulled his red sweatshirt from the back of his chair, shrugged his shoulders, and walked out.

I stood beside the table for a minute or two. My face felt hot and I knew tears were close. I wanted to yell at the top of my lungs. He was wrong! I was nice! Didn't he know that I was just scared? The answer was no. He didn't see my fear -- only my grouchy attitude.

I learned a lot from Scott that day. I wish I could say that the honest, hard truth caused me to do a fast 180. It didn't. In fact, for a while, the words may have made me feel even more insecure with who and where I was. But later, when middle school anxiety melted away and I didn't feel the need to protect myself with a grizzly exterior, I found honesty and kindness in those simple words.

Scott never became my boyfriend. And he never treated me to pizza at Joe's. But he had given me something of value. Though it had been hard to hear, he'd given me the truth.

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Manitoulin Connections

By Rose McCormick Brandon, Caledonia, ON

If it matters at all, it's because we know who we are. I'd never leave Canada. This is my home and I got to be everything I am right here.
~Sarah McLachlan

One fall morning, surrounded by empty cottages and bronze maples, I perched on a picnic table at Lake Mindemoya's vacant beach. Quiet waves nudged my thoughts back to childhood memories -- swimming for hours with my sisters, sunning ourselves crispy, then years later taking our babies for their first beach experiences. Dad's freshly caught lake trout dinners, Chinese checkers and visits to relatives' homes on rainy days. Memories of these warmed my heart while my body shivered in cool October breezes. It was time to let go of the cottage and that wouldn't be easy.

Nine years a widow, cottage-owner responsibilities had become a burden for Mom. My husband and I had come to the cottage on one last vacation. On arrival, we hammered a For Sale sign into the ground. It'll go fast, passersby said. Three bedrooms, attached garage, indoor plumbing, a short sprint to the beach, someone will snatch up your four decades of memories in a hurry.

If not for a small island blocking my view from the picnic table, I would see a hilltop log cabin across the lake. Built by my great-great-grandparents, John and Sarah Galbraith, when they were newly married Scottish immigrants, the stone foundations of the cabin are a monument to their determination to carve out a homestead in a new country. They and other pioneer couples seeded central Manitoulin Island with their offspring.

My parents, both children of pioneers with farming in their veins, moved to a nearby booming paper town because it promised a better and more regular paycheque than life on the farm. I was four, my sister three when we left what citizens call The Island.

Once a month, on Dad's long weekends, we made the seventy-mile trip back to Manitoulin to visit grandparents, aunts and cousins. When our family's number reached seven, fitting us into a relative's already full household wasn't easy. So, my parents built the cottage, our Manitoulin home.

When the cottage sells, my identity here disappears. People here know where I come from -- "That's Bill and Millie's oldest girl," the folks used to say when I visited the general store near my grandmother's house.

Another would nod, "Yea, she's a McCormick alright."

Whenever our toes touched the Island, the local paper added the event to its social column. Even now, mysterious forces report our visits. The following appeared recently -- "Doug and Rose Brandon and family visited Evelyn Pattison [my aunt] and had lunch with Ted and Georgeanne Legge [my cousins]."

Friends who also visit but don't have roots on the Island wonder why our names, and not theirs, appear in print. "You're not connected," I say. My husband's not connected either but he caught onto the importance of connections on his early visits. Other fishermen, recognizing him as a non-local, would ask how he knew where to fish. That was another way of asking, "Who are you and where do you come from?" Curiosity is an Island pastime.

His answer was always, "I'm married to Bill McCormick's daughter."

"Is that a fact? That means you're related to the Galbraiths too." He was in, connected, almost as good as homegrown. Son-in-law status became his calling card. Few people know his actual name.

These connections made me reluctant to sell the cottage to strangers. As I gazed at the water, I wondered if I should heed sentimental memories and buy the cottage. Were my memories getting in the way of a common sense decision -- letting go?

In the end, I decided that my memories are more than sentiment, that it really matters to me, my children, and their children, that we maintain our connection to Manitoulin Island. We are people who care about treading in the footsteps of our forefathers. I've shown my children John and Sarah's original home. We can envision their tired, scorched bodies dunking in the waters of our lake after a hard day of gathering stones.

That day at the picnic table I decided to buy the cottage. My two grandchildren have become the sixth generation to connect with our Island. I know my Scottish and Irish pioneer ancestors would be pleased that I've decided to keep my Manitoulin identity.

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Glove Lost, Purpose Found

By Elaine L. Bridge

Success has nothing to do with what you gain in life or accomplish for yourself. It's what you do for others.
~Danny Thomas

The automatic door opened and the wintry weather carried a host of shoppers into the grocery store in its icy blast. Most hesitated a moment at the entrance, removing hats, stashing gloves in pockets, and unzipping coats before grabbing their shopping lists and heading down the aisles. The situation then reversed itself once they passed through the checkout lanes and donned their winter garb and prepared to head out into the cold once more.

The process seemed to take longer than usual for one elderly female shopper who came through my line that winter's day. Her order processed. Then I was surprised to see her lingering in my lane, fumbling in her pockets and looking about with a worried look on her face. Eventually she asked, "Have you seen my missing red glove?"

There was no sign of it at the register, so she reluctantly moved in the direction of the exit door. People leave belongings behind on a regular basis, and this missing item was likewise no big deal -- she'd either find it somewhere or get herself another pair.

But instead of leaving, the woman remained, circling the checkout area, obviously concerned. The next time I saw her she told me she had walked the whole store, repeatedly retracing her steps to see if she might have dropped her glove.

Finally realizing there was more to her troubled heart than just a lost item of clothing, I listened as she told me the gloves were a gift from her sister who had since passed on. "They are simply irreplaceable," she said.

Suddenly my heart connected to her problem and I started looking for that glove almost as determinedly as she. I searched through her grocery bags in case she had accidentally dropped it in one. I gently urged her to check her coat pockets one more time. Then I circled my register a couple of times, my eyes scanning all the nooks and crannies on the floor where an item might have been dropped and inadvertently kicked out of sight. No luck. I suggested she leave her name and number at the front desk so the store could contact her if the glove was found and turned in. Despondent, she turned to go and I went back to work, but my mind stayed on that woman and her distress over the missing connection with her departed sister.

A short time later I had a few minutes to spare while nobody was in my line. I realized that, while I could do little else to help her, I could pray. In recent weeks God had been building my faith with many answered prayers, and I firmly believed He would show up in this situation as well. So I lifted a simple request in faith, affirming my belief that He knew where the missing glove was and asking that He direct her to it. I smiled to myself as I realized it was just the sort of situation He specializes in, after all -- finding that which is lost and healing broken hearts.

Ten minutes later my white-haired friend was back, a huge grin on her face and her hand madly flapping a red glove in my direction.

"I found it! I found it!" she called. She'd decided to take one more tour around the store and found the glove at last, lying on the edge of the meat counter where someone must have put it. We rejoiced together and I watched as she finally exited the store, her step lighter and her heart happy once more.

I expected God to find her lost glove, but as usual He did more than that. It turned out that more than just a glove was missing. I had clearly lost my focus on why I stood behind that register in the first place. He reminded me that He places me in all my situations each day deliberately, to be a conduit through which His love flows to the people around me. I needed the reminder to be about my Father's business even in my place of business, as well as in my home, my car... and in all the hidden corners of my life where His desires might have been dropped and absently kicked out of sight by the seemingly more pressing problems of the day.

I worked the rest of that shift with a totally different attitude, believing God sent that woman to the store not for groceries, but for me. She may have found her lost glove, but I found my missing purpose.

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The Small Things

By Michelle Vanderwist

Why not learn to enjoy the little things -- there are so many of them.
~Author Unknown

I dated Dan for two and a half years, through the end of high school and my first year into college. Like any other naïve teenager in love, I hadn't anticipated that someday we'd break up, so when this happened just before my sophomore year of college I was devastated. I clung to my feelings for him, and tried masochistically to maintain a friendship with him through the semester that followed. It hurt worse than I could have imagined seeing him go out with other girls and pretending to be happy for him. As I sank further and further into a solitary depression, my friends could see that I was turning into an entirely different person. Weeks turned into months, summer turned into fall, and as the air chilled and the last leaves fell I began to seriously consider transferring to another city where I couldn't torture myself anymore.

On one of my particularly down afternoons -- one of those gray days in early winter where even nature itself seems to be in low spirits -- I met up with my good friend Jon for lunch. We sat in the dimly lit second-floor common room, eating sandwiches from the nearby Wisemiller's deli (a student favorite, affectionately nicknamed Wisey's). I unloaded my troubles on him, and, like the patient and caring person he is, he listened sympathetically and gave me a shoulder to cry on. He also gave me what I later realized is some of the best advice I've ever gotten:

"Do something each day that makes you smile, no matter how tiny or how dumb that thing is."

"I'm going to need an example," I said.

"When I feel down, I call and place a pickup order at Wisey's. When they ask me what name the order is under, I say 'Pants.'"

"...Pants?"

"Yep. There's usually a pause on the other end of the line, and then they ask me to repeat. By the time I pick up the order and announce myself as 'Pants,' I can't stop smiling."

I'm fully aware of how odd and insignificant this may sound, but it worked where nothing else had. The next day around lunchtime I called and placed the order. I hadn't even said the word "Pants" before I felt a huge and genuine grin spread across my face for the first time in months. I'm still not even sure why this works so well, but it was definitely worth it to take the time out of my day to do something silly, solely for the purpose of making myself smile.

This quickly became my go-to tactic when I needed a quick grin. I changed it up a bit, sometimes ordering as Harry Potter or other fictional characters, and slowly started to get over Dan and climb out of the slump I had fallen into. I began to find other small pick-me-ups to add into my daily life: letting myself eat Spaghetti-O's out of the can for dinner, watching the sun set over the city from the benches on the rooftop of my dorm building, keeping a baggie of peanuts in my coat pocket for feeding the squirrels...

The best advice I can give to anyone who needs that extra boost on an off day is simply to find your own version of "Pants." Do something tiny, something silly, something relaxing, something pointless... most importantly, do something every day that makes you smile.

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