My recent trip to Michigan to visit friends and family, many of whom I’d not seen in over twenty years, underscored what I’d known all along: these are the people who answer my needs and fill me with happiness and hope. There is no substitute. I hope that I do the same for them.
Conversely, this trip made clear that the effort required to hold up some of my other relationships, those that are not sincerely loving or that lacked our having common ground or that didn’t bring me joy — those relationships needed to end, as did the relationships with people incapable of sharing — be it their feelings, their good fortune, their wisdom, their space or their stories. The cornerstone of every friendship, in my opinion: sharing. Those unable to do so are not true friends, nor are they true family.
Now, beautifully, after doing a bit of housekeeping, I have room for more good stuff. And thanks to my wonderful partner, John, I finally have the time and means to pursue friendships that for years I had to put on hold.
I worried — had I waited too long to connect? Had the feelings with the important people in my life waned? Had friends and family gone on without me? No, no, and no.
The relief: indescribable.
And so the trip was planned. There was no time to waste, as some of the most important people in my life were already gone — I had waited too long. There were voices I needed to hear, and faces I needed to see. I needed to feel familiar arms around me.
First stop on this epic journey: Honor, Michigan, summer home of Carl and Brett. Carl, my loving uncle, had, over the years, helped me work through childhood traumas by lending an ear, often for hours on end. In many ways, Carl filled the void left by both of my parents. He gathered up family photos and connected the dots in my family tree, walked me down the “aisle” at the back of his cherry orchard when I married my children’s father, and he shared warm memories of my mother, of her beauty and talent, painting a picture for me of a woman I barely knew. All of this helped me to feel normal — a person with a place in this world. A person who came from somewhere.
Additionally, Carl had always supported me in my musical endeavors. He and Aunt Joni would invite friends over for impromptu performances in their living room, and would attend my recitals when they were nearby. The year I was pregnant with Ben and on the faculty at Interlochen Center for the Arts, which was near their farm, Joni and Carl put me up for an entire summer. When I arrived at their house in June, two months into the pregnancy, sitting in the middle of the dinner table was “What To Eat When You’re Expecting,” which Joni had read cover to cover, dog-earing the most important pages, something a real mama might have done, had I one of those.
With joy, Joni took on the role of mother of the mother-to-be, something I needed as I embarked on my journey toward motherhood. She spoke to me about the challenges and rewards ahead, helping me to prepare mentally, and together we made lists of everything needed for the baby. Ironically, my son, Bennett, was born with a remarkably similar temperament, interests, and talents to her own son, Brett. And then there is that uncanny resemblance between them. Joni’s DNA and spirit (to this day), is infused in everything I do and am, so really no surprise our sons are so much alike.
That summer of my first pregnancy, Joni and Carl created a peaceful nest for me on the ground floor of their farmhouse, a quiet, cozy place I could sleep for 12 hours a day, which my body seemed to need. And Joni did her darnedest to get me to eat well, though my morning-noon-and-night sickness meant that most of the time I couldn’t hold down anything more than Saltines, boiled potatoes, bananas, and eggs. Whenever I had a brief break in my hyperemesis gravidarum, Joni was there with beautiful salads, steak and chicken fresh off the grill, bowls of berries and cherries, and thick slices of multigrain bread with peanut butter. Had I not this nest on their farm, I would likely have had to go home. Not sure I could have survived a summer of cacophony on the Interlochen campus — hundreds of musicians woodshedding orchestral parts and practicing vocalizations for musical theatre. A beautiful cacophony it is, yes, but I needed serious rest. I was no spring chicken, mind you (36!), and was busy making a baby.
Sadly, Joni is among those I had waited too long to visit, as was Uncle Bob. I was not there for her in those final years when she was suffering from congestive heart failure — something I greatly regret. At the time, it seemed an impossible task, leaving California even for a long weekend. I was newly divorced and had a challenging child custody arrangement, and was running a busy event design business. Add to that a vindictive ex, who was taking me to court every other week for everything from baseball uniforms to braces. All of this was difficult to juggle, as I never knew when I’d have the money or time to visit the people I loved. One thing was clear: my kids had to come first. And so I stayed put. I like to imagine Joni understood this and would have done the same if wearing my shoes.
The best part of my stop in Honor was seeing my cousin, Brett. The 7-year age gap between us, which back in the day seemed huge, was no longer a thing, and perhaps it never had been. There we were — grown ass adults with a similar sense of humor and perspective on life. The connection was good, very. We are clearly cut from the same cloth (burlap, I believe), and on this go-around, it was like finding a long-lost friend, someone I’d been waiting for my whole life. I would say this, were they my words: “…let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.” That is what Brett and I offer each other at this juncture in our lives. Though each of us went in different directions after high school, pursuing unique adventures, there is something deep that resonates between us. My hope is that we will now make a habit of having some time together every summer — sharing our stories, rehashing politics, solving the problems of the world and perhaps I can lend a hand during cherry harvest. Keeping each other company as we turn into old fogeys… pretty sure that’s what Joni had hoped for.
The other leg of the Benzie County tour involved connecting with Cheryl and Alan, who, although not actual cousins, are 100% family. They are the niece and nephew of the aforementioned Uncle Carl. So, I guess that makes them cousins-in-law. Is that even a thing?
Like Carl, Cheryl and Alan are cherry farmers, but they also have second careers: Alan in construction, Cheryl in social work. Fun-loving, both are on the same page with me politically and in almost every other way, and damn if Cheryl can’t spin a yarn.
By the way, Cheryl has informed me that BITCH is the acronym for Being In Total Control of Herself. So sprinkle it generously throughout your conversations going forward. And, by the way, this is the place to do pick-them-yourselves-BITCH sweet cherries: North Star Organics. They’ll be ready soon!
After a couple days with the Koberniks, it was on to East Lansing, where I was slated to see my cousin, Heather, and former flute student, Ginny. Along the way, we stopped by Interlochen to take a gander at my old stomping grounds, then we swung by the family homesteads in Grayling, including Danish Landing at the beautiful Lake Margrethe. Sadly, the Nelson family’s lakefront property, which at one time included bucolic summer cottages on the shore and was surrounded by thick woods, is now crowded with all manner of summer homes, each vying for a tiny piece of lake access. This congestion on the lake is attributable to my great uncle’s having to sell off parcels of the family estate throughout his life to stay afloat. I much preferred the peaceful setting I remember as a child.
Grayling — an interesting place that to this day is still a bit hard scrabble. Back in the days when my great-grandfather’s family settled there (having come from Denmark), it was a challenging place to make a go of things. The ground was rocky and not fertile enough for farming, which in turn, also made it less than ideal for logging. Add to that a severe climate and the picture is clear: proper forest regrowth was difficult. The patchiness of the forests in the area speaks to this issue and is a contrast to the rest of the state, which is so lush and green. And damn if this region wasn’t completely MAGA. Yikes. We decided not to dwell too long, but had a hankering for Mexican and decided to take a chance on the only Mexican restaurant in town, Mi Mezcalito Mexican Grill.
Being from California, where there is amazing and authentic Mexican food everywhere, the bar was high. And the folks at Mi Mezcalito made the mark — it was a great lunch and we had great servers. The main reason I wanted to eat there: that storefront had been my grandma’s favorite 5 & dime and I’d been there many times as a kid. Not sure she would have appreciated its transformation into a restaurant with spicy food, but there you are.
What stuck in my memory from childhood visits to Grayling: snow drifts higher than my father was tall and having to carve out tunnels to get from my grandma’s front door to the road. Some years, this was Grayling’s normal during the winter. It’s no surprise grandma became an accomplished organist. What else could she do to entertain herself, besides snowshoeing and dancing the night away with guardsmen on Saturdays at Camp Grayling?
Pushing on, our next stop was East Lansing, the first evening of which would be spent with my former flute student, Ginny, and her family. Ginny was not only my favorite student of all time (shh… don’t tell the others, please), but she is like family to me, having lovingly tended to my little ones for weeks after both of their births.
From those first lessons with Ginny, we were tight, connecting on every level — musically and artistically. And we’ve always been in sync in our world views, our tastes in food and tea, our seeking out of healthful regimens, our love of children, and as I would soon find out, our passions of gardening and raising a family. This was my first time meeting Ginny’s brood of three and her handsome, kind-hearted hubby. I’m so proud of the life Ginny has carved out for herself (though I can take no credit for that — that’s her’s and Ron’s doing). Ginny has made a wonderful (and musical) home for her family, and she will soon be a doctor (!!!). What a remarkable woman she has become. Truly.
The highlights of the evening: watching Ginny’s kids scarf down huge (and I do mean HUGE) plates of Pan-Asian food and exploring her gardens. At dinner, I was positive the kids would be bringing back leftovers, but boy, was I wrong. Every bite of food: gone.
Ginny and Ron’s lush yard, with its multiple garden patches, was planted with every manner of vegetable and medicinal herb. Her children’s love of healthful food clearly stems from their connection to what they grow as a family. If I lived nearby, I’d want to be over there regularly to plant and weed, and to just hang with those kids. Oh yeah, and to play duets.
Ginny’s progeny… smart, funny, full of life, talented, musical, and kind — just like the parents. A beautiful bunch. I am totally in love.
The following morning and afternoon were devoted to my cousin, Heather, who John seemed genuinely shocked to discover was very much like me (perhaps “exactly” was the word) — both in demeanor and appearance. I’d never thought of Heather that way, as my twin, but I do think John could be right. Poor girl. Seriously, though — Heather’s father and my mother were brother and sister, and grew up in an exceptionally dysfunctional household with an alcoholic, abusive mother, and no father (he had skipped town when both kids were very young). We are the next generation in this multi-generational drama. Both of us were left to our own devices for a good portion of our childhoods, and both of us have somehow, not only survived, but flourished.
Heather is a remarkable woman who had to go it alone, not only through much of her childhood but also in her marriage, as her husband (now ex) was deployed to Afghanistan three times and then checked out emotionally with PTSD on his return. Heather worked hard to keep a roof over her family’s head and had made a beautiful home for them. She’s also raised an adorable, spunky daughter, who at this moment is putting her through the paces as she begins the adulting phase of her life. Oy vay! And Heather has a cool new beau — sexy, fun, and gainfully employed. The trifecta. Who says being an empty nester is sad? FYI, I noticed the wastebasket in the bathroom was full of old vibrators — hey, maybe you don’t need those anymore, but aren’t they recyclable?
I could not ask for a better cousin. She’s so good, in fact, I’ve upgraded her officially to being a sister. I’d always wished for a larger family, so why not?
Then there’s Aunt Tonya and Uncle Dave, with whom we enjoyed dinner in Grand Haven that same evening. Tonya is my mother’s only surviving sibling, that I know of. The older three siblings are deceased, and the other two have long been out of touch and, from all accounts, have been living very rough lives. I hardly knew my mother’s family, minus Tonya, and she was the only of my mother’s five siblings who led a normal life, and a really good one at that. She is a survivor extraordinaire.
Tonya and Dave married just out of high school, then went on to raise three children. They now have an extended brood of beautiful grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Tonya could not be more of an inspiration to me — she is strong, intelligent, and determined, and she kept her head on straight, which is remarkable considering the hand she was dealt as a child.
Now… on to the friends part of my Michigan journey — a combination of the adults who guided me through the fray, if inadvertently, and then the amazing friends I had growing up, who to this day remain in my heart and who remind me of who I really am and of what I am capable. Over the years, they have drowned out the negative voices, replacing them with caring, loving voices. Add to that a large dose of fun and hilarity.
On the fourth day of our journey, it was off to see Carole, a woman for whom I babysat for years. Many of my late afternoons in grade school through high school were spent at Carole’s house, which was just up the block from ours. I loved escaping to her peaceful home, which was full of beautiful plants and often smelled of blueberry muffins. My being there allowed Carole to go jogging, do a bit of yoga, or run errands. Sometimes she just wanted an extra pair of hands for getting the house in order or loving arms for little ones who were feeling a bit jealous when she was nursing the new baby.
Carole was an especially caring person who was deeply bonded with her children. She taught me everything I needed to know about what being a good mother was all about — how to prepare healthy meals, the importance of breastfeeding and reading to children, and how to meet all their basic needs, including providing plenty of TLC. Carole practiced compassion in everything she did, and what I saw in her household stuck with me. It’s what I fell back on when raising my own children.
The point of visiting Carole was to let her know how essential she had been in my life and to express my gratitude for all she had taught me. I also wanted to share with her that I had breastfed both of my children, something I had learned about from her, and how this had positively impacted Ben and Ellie’s early years.
Carole had, for years, led the La Leche League in Battle Creek, and I was often there to help at their meetings, some of which were held in Carole’s living room. I would assist in getting her house in order — cleaning up the powder room, setting out food and beverages, and greeting the arriving mothers and babies. Carole believed wholeheartedly that breastfeeding was vital for babies in helping them achieve optimal mental and physical health.
The lessons I learned from Carole were invaluable — she needed to know that. I secretly also wanted one of her fantastic hugs. There was quite a bit of crying on my part as we backed out of her driveway at the end of the morning — she was the mother I had always wished for.
Then we were off to see two people who bring a smile to my face whenever I think of them — Bob and Joanna, the parents of one of my best friends, Rebecca. I fell in love with these two the first time I met them, which was when I was in second grade, and they had just moved their family into the house a block down. Though their brick house looked similar to ours on the outside, their household could not have been more different. Everything was for the children — rooms for creating art, making music, and doing projects, as well as a kitchen nook where we could discuss the world while Joanna cooked up a delicious and nutritious lunch. The Learners were engaged, not only with their children, but with everyone else who walked through their front door. When you visited their house, you were part of the family.
Bob was the person-in-charge at Battle Creek’s natural history museum, while Joanna was an artist, as well as a teacher of art in the public schools. Both were dialed in to life, to the world, to parenting. They created a beautiful life for their children — one full of art and music, nature, and every creative and intellectual endeavor. And Joanna — well, she gets to take credit for pointing out the obvious to my parents (obvious to her, at least): that I was really smart and musically and artistically talented. In no uncertain terms, Joanna told them they needed to see to my having music lessons and going to music camp. How could they say no to this passionate and determined woman? They couldn’t.
And that, friends, was the start of things for me. I really have to give Joanna a huge amount of credit for my taking a creative path in life, and in more than one of my careers. Not only did she have the talk with my folks, but she was encouraging to me whenever I was at her house and after concerts. It was many times she said, “Christina, you are so talented!” And I believed her. Joanna gave me the confidence to forge ahead, to trust my creative instincts, something I imagine she passed on to the many students she taught over the years.
Thank you, Joanna.
And thanks to both Joanna and Bob for raising Rebecca to be so very cool — she is one of my favorite people on the planet. Rebecca and I were not only classmates from grade school through high school, but we also spent summers together at Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp, both as campers and as orchestra members on one of their European tours. The two of us would go on to become camp counselors for BLFAC during college. After college, while I continued on as woodwind faculty, Rebecca decided it was time to get a proper paying gig, one that could actually cover a person’s living expenses. Turns out that was probably the better path to take, if, in fact, one was interested in becoming a full-fledged adult, which at the time I wasn’t.
There’s some serious history there, between Rebecca and me, as well as some not-so-serious history (i.e., our PhDs in class clowning, and an impressive rap sheet of the pranks we pulled over the years). If you meet her, you’ll notice a constant twinkle in her eye… don’t be fooled into thinking that’s some cute granny twinkle. It means something’s up — something funny. The-joke’s-on-you kind of funny. Fair warning.
Then there’s Debbie, who recently fell off her bike and, in one swell foop, broke BOTH of her arms. I, for one, was impressed by this. I mean, right there is an excuse few of us will ever have, one that gets you out of doing all the normal tasks that require two arms, as well as those one could be expected to pull off with just one arm. Wash dishes? Nope, sorry. Carry laundry down to the basement? No can do. Make the bed? No way!
After her boo boo, Debbie became an advocate for recumbent bikes, much like I became an advocate for walkers and elevated toilet seats after my hip surgery.
The first time I met Debbie was in fifth grade. Both of our parents were late to hockey sign-up, and by the time we made it through the line, every team’s roster was full. That left six of us future Wayne Gretskys dangling in the wind, and six barely constituted a team (god forbid one kid got the flu — game over). And so it was suggested by the head honcho at the rec center that the league allow one more team to be created if one of the parents would volunteer to coach it. Before I could swallow my gum, my father’s hand shot up into the air. Oh, to be the hero in front of hundreds of kids and their parents — my dad’s wet dream. Of course, no forethought whatsoever was put into making this decision, and I would say this — pretty sure my dad’s prefrontal cortex had a cracked engine block, as his executive function always seemed way off. Watching him volunteer to coach hockey, a sport he had not once played or watched… well, my face turned crimson at the stupidity of it. And, I would have to play on his team. A nightmare made real.
When asked what the team should be called, my dad blurted out, “The Million Dollar Babies,” no doubt in reference to that tune sung by Bing Crosby, an old-timey record my dad played repeatedly on the stereo at home. No one my age knew that tune, and the name was confusing to the kids in the league, who imagined it was in homage to the Six Million Dollar Man, the most popular television show at the time. What could we do? Nothing. We were stuck.
Ours was a ragtag team of only marginally-interested-in-the-game players who had, hands down, the stupidest team name in the league, and a coach who knew nothing, and I mean ZERO, about hockey. As you may have guessed, that first season we lost every. single. game. It was humiliating, though as the season wore on, we began to own our mediocrity, and then, our situation generally became immensely funny to us. Not sure my father, who had only briefly been our coach, understood he was the brunt of many of our jokes. Wearing our stupid hockey jerseys to school and acting butch on game days (even though all of us were boy-crazy) became our trademark.
The MDBs took pride in their epic failure as a team and enjoyed bragging about losing yet another game every Monday when they lined up outside at school. Each of us was uniquely bad at something — Cindy was always high-sticking, Connie shooting the puck toward the wrong goal, and Debbie was an expert at making the puck airborne, causing it to hit other players in the face. As our designated goalie, I was superb at letting the puck slip right past me and into the net, sometimes over and over in a single game, until the other team was scoring in double digits. As one of the founding members of the legendary MDB team, Debbie had special rights to dissing my father and his horrible coaching, and it was in cutting him down to size that the two of us bonded.
FYI… Debbie didn’t go to Fremont, my school. She was from Verona, a school on the other side of town. I’d use the expression “on the other side of the tracks,” but that expression is meaningless in Battle Creek, where the entire town is riddled with rail lines for the cereal industry.
Surprisingly, the next year, this same group of MDB girls, along with a few additional players (a couple of whom happened to be hotshots), and our great new coach, went on to win every single game we played, at least during the regular season. Our first loss was in the first game of playoffs against the Canadians, our winning season then officially over. Then it was back to social studies, algebra, and puberty.
Debbie was also in the flute section with me in band, in many of my college-prep classes, and we hung out with the same wonderful group of quasi-cool-quasi-geeky friends. A really nice bunch, all of whom went on to do great stuff, make money, and have families.
During junior high and high school, Debbie’s house was the best spot for sleepovers. The basement was carpeted, had a huge couch and some bean bag chairs, there was a TV, stacks of popular magazines, oodles of board games, and her mother, Bonnie, who worked at Meijer’s Thrifty Acres, always saw to it we had every type of junk food known to man and an assortment of sodas. She was the bomb. Oh yeah — and she let us shut the door to the basement and have PRIVACY. A hot commodity, especially in high school, when our boyfriends dropped by to hang out (and make out).
And another quick memory about Bonnie, Deb’s mom. Even when all of us were “slumbering” at Debbie’s (i.e., staying up the entire night doing prank phone calls), I would still wake up at the crack of dawn, something I did and still do every morning of my life. I’d sneak upstairs, and there would be Bonnie, in the kitchen, with a mug of Mr. Coffee and a cigarette, often already done up and dressed for work. But Bonnie was never in a rush. She’d have a smoke and I’d drink OJ and we’d shoot the shit. I loved that, I have to say. And on mornings when Bonnie wasn’t heading into work, she would teach me how to cook. And holy toots, could she make a mean omelette. I make that same omelette to this very day. Kisses to you, Bonnie.
Okay, okay… back to this trip. After a long evening of swapping anecdotes with Deb, Rebecca, and their poor spouses, Mike, Lee, and my main squeeze, John, it was off to Holland (Michigan, that is) to join my new favorite person, Laura, for breakfast. Laura and I were in school together, apparently, though oddly we were never in the same classes. I should mention that our schools were huge. At the time, Battle Creek Central was the second largest high school in the state, second only to Ann Arbor Pioneer. If Laura and I had been classmates, I can tell you this… we would have been fast friends. So, WTH, I’m hoping that going forward we will make up for lost time, because I already love her.
Looking forward to our next encounter, Laura 😂. I’m sure we will come up with a great prank for you-know-who. Isn’t there a class reunion on the horizon?
Next stop: Ludington. I had not seen my sister, Ashley, in god-knows-how-many years. A ridiculous number… 12? 13? Though we spend about 20 hours a week on the phone, neither of us had taken that next step (or 12 steps, as the case may be) of driving to an airport, waiting on three delays for our flight, getting on the plane, waiting for security to zip tie and remove the MAGA guy who had been arguing with the flight attendent, disembarking the plane at the destination, waiting for our luggage, which it turns out was accidentally sent to Anchorage, presenting our baggage barcode to the agents to get money for replacement clothes and essentials, standing in line for our rental car, which had been given to another customer on account of our being 8 hours late, waiting on the new rental, then driving several hours to one or the other of our houses only to find we had come on the wrong week and said sister was out-of-town. Yes. We both have anxiety issues.
But there I was, in Ludington, with John, driving right up to Ashley and Dave’s house. I was in their driveway. Hard to believe I’d actually made it there. Hallelujah.
And there she was, I think, coming out the front door to see me. Her hair, now a completely different shade than her Facebook post from two days prior, was also super short. But it was her, I was pretty sure. Holy shit. I didn’t want to stop hugging her. Well, actually, I was pretty hungry, so I suggested that maybe we should get on with things. Into the house we went to meet kitty, pooch, and husband, Dave. I gave all three a quick tummy tickle, then off we went for a scrumptious lunch. Dave still hadn’t cleaned out the kitty litter box, so he stayed back. Not sure if that was a legitimate excuse or he knew there was only so much of me he could handle in one day, and since he’d be joining us for dinner, perhaps he’d skip the lunch part. Can’t fool me, Dave.
I did consider brushing up on my CPR and Heimlich Maneuver before our trip, but had run short of time. I regret that now, after the third incident of John nearly choking to death at lunch from laughing so hard, but we got through it, if but barely. All three of us agreed that going forward, we had to focus on chewing our food before cracking jokes. The toddler at the next table was fascinated by our antics, making it nearly impossible for his parents to get him to eat. He kept twisting around in his high chair to discover what we might do next.
The next morning, Ash had a great hike planned for us at Ludington State Park Beach — a gorgeous spot. As we drove through the park, passing something like fifty (50) amazing sand dunes, all of which would have made for a fantastic walk and afforded us incomparable views of Lake Michigan, I began to wonder if this was some kind of bad joke. And that it was. When we finally arrived at the designated trailhead, the “trail” turned out to be (literally) hundreds and hundreds of steps. STEPS. Not sandy dunes. Also: no view of the Lake. WTF.
The part I failed to mention earlier in the story was that the two weeks leading up to this trip, I had suffered a nasty bout of bursitis in my left hip that radiated down to my knee. On the 1-to-10 pain scale, I was hovering around an 11.5, and the week prior, I had to walk with a cane — until I got a magic shot right into my hip joint from the sports medicine doc. Pretty sure, ok, absolutely sure, I’d told everyone about this, including my man and Ashley. John had witnessed firsthand my limping and grimacing and my taking of pain meds, and I had called Ash after every one of my doctors’ appointments. Did anyone really think this was a great plan? Climbing hundreds of steps only a week after I’d been healed? I sure didn’t. And you know me, when I’m ticked off, I do not hold back.
Let’s say this… seeing all those steps did not make me a happy camper, even though I was currently pain-free and could technically have walked 12 miles in high heels. But those steps… holy shit. I panicked. Plus, I was feeling super pissy, which I’ll chalk up to my thyroid meds being off.
This 👇🏼👇🏼👇🏼 was not the wonderful hike my sister and I had been waiting 12 years to take. Nope. Yet, despite my trepidations, I did fly up those stairs, the whole time, praying the Stairmaster State Park wasn’t going to trigger that friggin’ bursitis. That would have brought my trip to a screeching halt, and I still had Rosaltha to visit. And I’d not seen her in 45 years!
Somehow, at the end of this excursion, my sis and I were still speaking, and I was starting to feel really sad to be leaving (and that I’d been so crabby). We’d had so little time together after having so much time away. This we had to rectify.
Back on the road John and I went, this time heading south to Grand Haven, where we would be meeting up with Rose and her handsome hunk, Steve, for lunch. For those new to my blog and life, know that Rosaltha was my best friend in grade school, and I’d not seen her since high school. I could not have been more excited for this encounter and for the revelations that would follow. Our getting together was a life-changing experience, one that warrants its own story, which I will soon share.
Per Joni Mitchell: “So many things I would have done, but clouds got in my way.” The clouds have cleared, thanks to you, dear friends and family.
Chris, your writing just flows along like a river and like life! A wonderful piece and what a blessing that you have all these people that love you and that you love back and all credit to being intentional about being intentional. It was very touching and what a trip! Oh my gosh, I think you named more people in this than I've ever known in my whole life. LOL.
Thank you Chris for a richly detailed narrative regarding your biological family and your intentional family. They are both very important. I hope we will learn more about the "spirited" Danes in Grayling, MI.