Everything Works Out Perfectly

 

We sing lots of made-up songs, my daughter Iris and I. Since she was an infant, I’ve made up silly little tunes, as I’m sure most mothers do, to teach her the steps of getting dressed or to remind her how much her papa and I love her or to just keep my worrying in check.

EWOP is one of our favorites. The concept isn’t mine, but the tune is. “Everything works out perfectly,” we sing. “Everything works out per-er-fectly.” Over and over. It’s soothing and catchy and reminds me that I don’t need to control the world because however it goes, it’s going to be fine. Continue reading “Everything Works Out Perfectly”

I Will Be

A journey through the grief of miscarriage

I had the makings of a child in my womb for eight weeks and five days.

On the Friday before Thanksgiving, the pain and bleeding started, and I knew. I didn’t want to know, but there it was. It was the beginning of the end of a pregnancy I had longed for and rejoiced in. It was over before we even got to speak of it, and there was absolutely nothing I could do. Continue reading “I Will Be”

Angle Outpost Resort Celebrates 60 Years

From its very foundations, family has been central to Angle Outpost resort. Through four sets of owners, 17 children have been (or are being) raised there, beginning with Harold and Irene Peterson’s five.

Peterson’s Camp was formed as a hunting and fishing outpost in 1957. That was in the pre-electricity days of the Northwest Angle, before there was much for indoor plumbing or even a road to get there. Raising a family and running a resort in those hardworking times took fortitude. “Money was pretty scarce and I ‘worked out’ eight hours a day,” Harold said of the early times, his faded yet still musical Norwegian accent catching on the hard consonants. Continue reading “Angle Outpost Resort Celebrates 60 Years”

Nourishing Choices

First time ever – my four year-old requested vegetable soup for lunch. This was after I told her three times that No, she could not have the leftover waffles from her breakfast. I offered her my home-canned tomato soup and she countered with vegetable soup. I’ll take it.

She helped get everything out of the fridge, chopped, stirred and seasoned the soup. It was SALTY, but when we sat down to our quiet lunch, she was engaged and made up a blind tasting game where we had to guess which vegetables were on our spoon just by taste.

It was a good way to get a daily dose of bone broth into her, and I haven’t enjoyed such a peaceful meal in quite a while. She ate well.

Celebrate the small victories, right?

Precious Life

Resorts are shuttered or getting close to it, now. Traffic has slowed. Boats are being pulled. And the leaves fall like manna for hunters and 4-year olds, though the end of our fall color is already nigh. We raked the biggest pile simply for her diving delight one day, and within minutes I found myself in it as well. I have fond memories of playing in the leaves as a child and it seemed only fitting to give her that same experience.

The portly black bears are braver now, scavenging closer and closer for their final meals. We smiled one morning to see our compost pile dug through and muddy black paw prints across our deck.

“Mom, do bears eat people?” she asked me on one of our dusk walks. Continue reading “Precious Life”

Mea Culpa

 

We walked today, picking fall flowers, dried seed pods and colorful leaves. Chattering like a busy chipmunk, she found pretty rocks in the gravel, drew line after line for us to race from, and marveled at the troops of soldier mushrooms. It was more a meander than a walk, but definitions matter not to a four-year-old. Her thoughts bubble over into words like a flowing well in the flat lands; there is no filter, no pause and the music of it all soaking the earth is innocent and pure.

And it never stops. Ever.

Even in her dreams she is talkative and loud. A social sleep talker, telling her stories and voicing her fears.

But it is a respite to tune into her world, letting it drown out my restless mind that takes eternal practice to quiet for even the rare millisecond. She is my practice. Continue reading “Mea Culpa”

Saying Goodbye to Grandpa Dale

 

On the day that he died, a swift storm front passed over the west end of The Angle. The winds came first, readying the earth like an invisible pumice stone that picks up all that’s loose in order to clean beneath. Then, with the music of the leaves, the wind announced the rain. I stopped my work and raised my eyes to the wild treetops and beyond to the rushing clouds. The sudden drops hit my upturned face, and I stood there for many moments, letting it run down my cheeks like tears that didn’t know to come.

All I could think was that it was him. Continue reading “Saying Goodbye to Grandpa Dale”