A mini-adventure, Part 1

This past weekend we went up to Northern Michigan for a mini-break. I booked us rooms at a hotel in Mackinaw City, at the northern tip of the Lower Peninsula.  This is the point where the Mackinaw Bridge connects the Lower Peninsula to the Northern Peninsula (known as the U.P. to us locals). If you research it online, you will find the Mackinaw Bridge is the longest suspension bridge in the Western hemisphere – or the third longest, depending on which way they measure it. It is five miles across the point where Lake Michigan meets Lake Huron.

It was a beautiful day for our drive up, which took around four hours. Bright blue skies hung over the deep greens of the pines, burgundy maple leaves and soft yellows of the birch trees. Dusk was approaching as we neared the top of the mitten and as we came over the rise near the coast we could saw a wall of fog hanging over the water obscuring our view of the lakes and bridge. We descended into the fog and town and made our way to the hotel. Our balcony afforded us the perfect view of the straits and the bridge which eventually appeared as the winds blew the bank of fog to the east.

After dinner we drove out to the International Dark Sky Park. It was a beautiful night and the stars were almost close enough to touch. It is weird how just sitting in a car when you travel can be so exhausting, and even though the bed was a slab of concrete, I slept deeply.

When I awoke in the morning I sat out on the balcony drinking my coffee and, watching the ferry boats carry tourists back and forth to Mackinaw Island, I was reminded of Istanbul. The parallels between these two places are almost surreal. Both have huge beautiful bridges over busy bodies of water and dozens of ferry boats which take people to islands where motorized vehicles are prohibited, where tourists get around on bikes or in horse-drawn carriages. In one place minarets pierce the sky, in the other it is steeples, lighthouses and wind turbines. In one place there are millions of people using the ferries to get to work each day, while in the other they carry mostly tourists. In one place the centuries of history of the spice trade waft through the light breezes, in the other, a wooden fort stands against the harsh Chinook winds. Both places have huge ships passing beneath their bridges on their journeys to supply the world, but in Mackinaw the ferries are quiet and modern and don’t puff out black smoke which then settles as soot on the window sills. The relatively new and the relatively old… so many similarities and differences, on opposite sides of the world.

More on our adventure will follow…

On Persistence

     I woke up this morning thinking about my mom. It has been three years this week since she left us so I have been thinking about her a lot in recent days. I miss her. But this morning I was thinking about how she would have reacted to my “breaking up” post. I think she would have shook her head at me and, after a rant about how the academy is an “old boys club”, she would have asked me if it was a good idea to close the door on any possibilities.
     Raised on a dairy farm in upstate New York, my mom followed in her mother’s footsteps, graduating from Cornell with a degree in Home Economics. She once told me that only “rich kids” got a liberal arts degree, and most of those girls were only there to find a husband. She would say this with great contempt, which I now find ironic as she did find a husband while getting her degree. She worked for a brief time for the extension service before she began to have children, but then, sometime after I was born, while my dad was working at MSU, she decided to get a masters degree.
     While I was in school she worked as an instructor in Family Ecology at MSU, I think she was an adjunct as she also taught classes at Eastern from time to time. She worked in a few different areas at the academy and eventually she moved into primarily doing development work. (Much to my chagrin, in the early 1970’s, she and my dad taught the first class on human sexuality at a public university – with a great deal of fanfare, so EVERYONE in my little high school knew about it.) I know that she always felt like a second class citizen in the academy, because she didn’t have a PhD – and only people with a PhD got any respect. I am paraphrasing here, but I know that the wounds ran deep. She did a presentation at a conference once and when she got home she was livid. Some man had commented to her that “it was nice that her husband let her present his work”. But it was HER work, HER research, findings and paper, not his.
     So what is my point? I guess that she found her own path within and outside of academia. She didn’t want to take the time to get a PhD because she was too busy helping the women of developing nations. She was out there doing the work; spending long hours getting to those who needed the help most, while others were getting their PhDs. She worked all over sub-Saharan Africa, Central and South America, and Asia helping women to become self-sufficient.  
     And when she wasn’t out of the country, she was sitting in her favorite chair, with sports on the television and someone’s dissertation draft in her lap, glasses perched in front of her sparkling blue eyes, red pen in hand, helping others to get their PhDs. Yes, she would have shook her head at me and told me not to give up. That I can do anything I set my mind to, despite what I might think right now. And that I have a roof over my head, shoes on my feet and food on the table. End of story. All of this despite her disappointment that I am not, nor have I ever been, a star singing on Broadway.

Pumpkin Cookies

A couple of weeks ago I bought 2 pie pumpkins at the grocery store. (They were on sale, buy one get one free.) I cleaned them, roasted them and pureed the flesh. I put two cups of the puree into freezer bags and froze two of them so we can have fresh pumpkin pies in November. (Like we do!) The trick to this technique is to cut the bags off the frozen pumpkin before thawing it, or it is just a big gloppy mess.

The other two cups I used to make cookies. I am trying to be healthier in my baking endeavors so I have been lowering the amount of sugars and adding more fiber. Anyway, these came out really yummy so I thought I would share the recipe here. Enjoy.

Pumpkin Cookies
An autumn favorite, these cookies are soft and chewy.These are fabulous with a glass of fresh apple cider.

3/4 cup butter
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup sugar
1 egg
1/2 tsp vanilla
8 oz solid pack pumpkin (or 1 Cup fresh pumpkin puree)
2 Cups flour
1 1/2 cup oats
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp salt
1 cup mini chocolate chips

Cream butter and sugars until well blended. Add egg and vanilla. Mix in pumpkin. Stir in dry ingredients. Add chocolate chips. Drop by rounded teaspoons onto cookie sheet. Bake in a 350 degree oven for 10—12 minutes. Cool on wire rack.

TIP: microwave for 15-20 seconds to re-melt chips!

 

On Guns

     I was thinking about writing about a variety of different things this morning. Then I ran across an article in the Sunday paper that struck a bit too close to home. The article itself isn’t available online yet, but it was written by one of my favorite Flint Journal writers, Andrew Heller. Over the years his articles have often made me laugh out loud as he has commented on the trials and tribulation of raising a family, living in the Flint area, and other social issues. 

     Earlier this week I heard about two men who, following some kind of road rage incident, pulled into a car wash in a small town in Michigan and shot each other to death. Both were legally carrying concealed weapons. What a couple of idiots, I thought. I hope it was worth it, to be right – to not only die in order to be right, but to kill another human being, in order to be right. And what a stupid legal system we have. And, shaking my head at the stupidity of it all, I set the whole story aside.

    Today, in reading the Sunday paper, I saw the names of the two men who lost their lives for no good reason. One of the names jumped off the page and punched me in the gut. I went to high school with Robert Taylor. He is one of my facebook friends. Yes, I have known that he owns guns, he is a Michigan boy who hunts deer – many of the people I went to school with participate in this tradition here in the mitten. Robert and I were never close friends, but he has often put kind words of encouragement on my posts. And he was one of those idiots. He took another man’s life, and lost his own, over some stupid bad behavior on the highway. What a waste.

    This incident was in the wake of the shootings at the Naval Yard near our Nation’s Capitol. Yes, another mass shooting. This time, thankfully, no children were involved. That incident was followed by a journalism professor at KU being suspended from his job because of a hateful response tweet.

    I try very hard not to be judgmental. I try to accept other people’s decisions about how to conduct their lives. But I simply do not understand how anyone feels it is necessary to own, much less carry, a handgun. Owning a riffle so one can go hunting, or protect themselves from wild animals is one thing. Owning and carrying a hand gun is something different.

    Having lived in West Africa as a child, having a gun pointed in my face at the age of 8, and having seen what life is like in countries where hand guns are forbidden, I do not understand what would make anyone think that a populace armed with hand guns is a good idea. This is beyond stupidity.  I really don’t know what to say. But I am pretty sure if Robert and the other driver hadn’t had hand guns, they might have knocked each other silly, they might be in the hospital, or in jail, but I am pretty sure they would both be alive today to read my post, and try to talk me out of my beliefs  and that “guns don’t kill people”.

Nesting

     It has cooled off in the Mitten and the urge to stock up yummy supplies for the winter has hit me hard. Last weekend we went to the Flint Farmer's Market and I bought some tomatoes which I cooked into spaghetti sauce and froze.  I also bought raspberries and blackberries, some of which somehow disappeared from my kitchen, but others made it into cobbler and others were cleaned and frozen. This weekend I bought pie pumpkins. I roasted them, mashed and pureed them, and put the pumpkin into freezer bags - 2 cups per bag, so that I can make pies this winter. There is also container with roasted pumpkin seeds, but I doubt those will last long. Next up, apples from the local orchard and then a freezer full of apple sauce for the winter.
     Doing all this reminded me that I owe a special someone in Kansas my recipe for Raspberry Razzle:

For those of us who love raspberries, this is the perfect side dish or dessert any time of the year.

1 Package Raspberry Jell-O

1 10 ounce package frozen raspberries or 1 cup fresh
1 cup sour cream
3/4 cups water

Combine all the ingredients in a medium saucepan over medium heat using a wire whisk. Bring to a boil. Pour into a pretty bowl or mold. Chill until set. For dessert, serve with a dollop of whipped cream. Yum.

About Time

     Across the back of my yard there is a row of a dozen blue spruce trees.  Since we moved in to this house, I have marked the passage of the seasons by watching the sun rise behind those trees. This morning I woke up before six “enjoying”, as my sons would say “a personal tropical vacation”. Seeking relief, I made my way down to the deck, stopping off to make a pot of coffee on my way. When my coffee and I stepped out onto the deck, it was cool, dark, still, and silent. Peaceful.
     As I sipped my coffee and watched the sun rise I was amazed, once again, by the world awakening all around me. Oscar bin Laden, terrorist kitty, joined me on his favorite perch atop the covered gas grill. The sky began to lighten directly behind the row of trees and I was reminded that the autumnal equinox is quickly approaching. The breeze picked up, birds began to chirp in the maple tree, and the sun breached the horizon, spilling gently through the center spruce tree. In the distance the rumble of the first school bus approached the neighborhood.
     Then the sadness washed over me. This is the first time in my adult life that I am not involved in the start of a new school year in some way. Weird. My children are grown and the one who is still in school is on the other side of the country. I am not working in academia so there is no significance to the beginning of the year for me. There is no excitement at meeting new teachers, or classmates, or students. There were no trips to buy school supplies or the “cool” clothes. There is no need for the family calendar marking the dates and times of practices, games, and concerts.  Nothing.  Just the sounds of the endless stream of school busses coming and going from the neighborhood.
     This year I will not mark the passage of time by midterms or school breaks, I will not watch the syllabus for the next assignment. I will mark the passage of time as the sunrise moves across the spruce trees to the south and then again to the north.

On Writing Struggles

     When I was in school sometimes I had to write about something in order to understand it (think economic theory here). That has also been true in my relationships. Often if I have been upset about something, it doesn't matter if it is something important or something trivial, if I write about it, like in a letter, I can figure out why it is I am feeling the way I am feeling. It is easier to see the ideas which simply aren't true, and which ideas are really important. And then, once I have figured it out, I can face that problem head on and handle it.
     There is a story I have been struggling to tell since I was 9 years old. It is the story of how I came to be in the middle of a war in Nigeria, West Africa. Before my parents passed away they gave me all of their documents from that period. I have binders full of letters my father wrote to my mother, letters my mother wrote to her family, running notes from their research, essays they wrote years later, receipts, passports, and even my father's testimony before congress. There is plenty of fodder for this story, and yet I have continued to struggle with writing this story.
     One day I was driving to school on I-475 and the story flashed before me in movie form. I decided at that point that I should write it  as a screenplay and someone (God only knows who) would make it into the movie and the story would finally be told. The fact that I don't know anything about writing a screenplay, or getting someone to make it into a movie wasn't going to stop me. If I wrote it, somehow it would work itself out. So then I dove straight into the deep and murky waters of how to write a screenplay and from time to time, I work on it.
     A couple of weeks ago I happened across a post on my facebook feed about a movie which is to be released soon. "Half of a Yellow Sun" is based on a novel written by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. She is a wonderful author from Enugu, Nigeria. I am pretty sure her father was a student of my father. I suddenly felt as though all my years of work (albeit spotty work) was for naught. Here, someone has already made a movie about that conflict, so now what am I to do? My mother told me, "You are going to have to write this story", and I just didn't know what to do.
     Then last night the strangest thing happened. Again, I was looking at my facebook feed and I stumbled across a link to  Ted Talks with Chimamanda Adichie. At first I was hesitant to look at it at all, but then I decided I should see what this woman, who had done what I only "worked on", had to say. And what she said made me sure that I need to both finish the screenplay and write the book or books. "The danger of a single story" is why I need to write it.
     My father spent the better part of seven years, much of the time away from his family, to bring higher education to the Nigerians. Even as a 7 year old child, I felt guilt and shame at being white and privileged. Those feelings only grew over the years. But those feelings were unwarranted. He didn't dedicate those years to making the Nigerians "more like us" but to making the tools available so that the Nigerians could be more of who they were - a people for whom he had a great love and respect. His mistake was taking sides in a political struggle where the odds were stacked against those that he championed. And me, I was just a little girl doing her best to get through the 4th grade.