Category: Reflections and Memoir

I survived school pictures, always held the second day of school and often an oppressive ninety degrees. My co-workers and I meet, sweaty and stressed, before school to have our annual shot for the high school yearbook and school IDs.

This event causes my palms to sweat and my blood pressure to rise. (Okay, I’ve never experienced permanently high blood pressure, but I suspect if there were a friendly volunteer with a cuff, checking staff in the waiting line, I would certainly register temporarily in the concern range)

My disdain for school pictures began long before middle age and the emergence of the extra chin that appears in a rushed photo.

It’s all about my tragic school-picture-legacy.

In kindergarten and 1st grade, I was nervous, concerned about remembering the envelope, remembering where to go, remembering to keep my special outfit clean. (typical, right?)

In second grade, my mom began a new pre-picture routine: washing my thick hair the night before and applying the amazing aqua-enhanced Dippidy-Do, so popular in the late 60s. She then wrapped my gooey locks around those pink foam rollers. (The pink rollers were an improvement from the torturous gray-mesh tubes with the pink pins in first grade. Those were ridiculously uncomfortable, and most of mine fell out during the restless pre-picture-night.) I guess most little girls with straight, lank hair were coaxed into those pink curlers–our moms surely envisioned their little Shirley Temple’s dimpled smile the next day.

Remember those black combs, gifts from the photography company our teachers passed out right before the big shoot? Well, in third grade, our poor substitute teacher, Mrs. Bach, distributed the combs, and my friend Larry passed mine to me.  (I don’t think I had ever used a comb, only a brush, as my hair was always so full of snarls.) I ran my fingers several times across the stiff plastic teeth. Then, I held the comb horizontally and began wrapping a long front portion of my hair around and around, pressing pieces between the teeth, resulting in a tight, huge chunk an inch or more above my eyebrows. (Why did I ever think this was a smart idea? I truly wasn’t an impulsive kid, and I tested well above average in IQ…)

I wiggled my head—no change. I tugged at it–no luck. I tried unrolling it–no movement.

I lowered my head and turned towards Donna. Quietly, trying not to panic or catch the eye of the teacher, I whispered, “Donna, do you have any scissors?”

Donna looked at me, puzzled, then gasped.

Mrs. Bach must have noticed our distraction. “Kathy, is there a problem?”

I slowly raised my head, revealing the new comb-sausage. “Oh….my…” she said, her eyes widening in surprise.

She tried unraveling the mess, gave up, and sent me to Mrs. Jager–our principal’s wife AND school secretary–to receive her scolds and her best attempt to remove the impossible tangles. (She ended up CUTTING it out of my hair.)

But my POSITIVELY WORST school picture experience happened in fourth grade. I stood in line behind my friends as they stepped forward for their pictures. The photographer–big voice, big glasses, big belly—gave each of my girlfriends a title: he announced Donna as Snow White, Dawn as Sleeping Beauty, and Darlene as Cinderella.

What little girl doesn’t dream of being such a famous princess?

I smiled, handed him my envelope, and wondered what name he would give me. I wasn’t sure what Disney princesses were left, but certainly he had a whole inventory of charming labels. I looked up at him and smiled sweetly.

“Well here she is…Mrs. Potato Head!” he trumpeted, laughing loudly.

Whaaaat? I quickly went from a princess-wannabee to a plain, little, freckle-faced spud.

This year, I handed the polo-clad photographer–also a middle-aged woman–my paperwork, pressed the top of my hand underneath my sweaty chin, and asked her if she could do anything about this…

“Yup,” she winked, “I know…I’ve got a couple tricks.”

And after her coaching and adjusting of my stance and head angle, she partially concealed the fullness of my mature mug.

So next year, I’m going to skip the annual school picture taking event (and the inevitable angst) altogether.  I am breaking the cycle. This current shot will remain in our annual yearbooks until I retire.

It’s a Fine Life.

By Kathleen Oswalt-Forsythe © September 26, 2019

I have just returned from my annual trek to our family retreat, a camp on the northern shore of Lake Superior.  

The place never seems to change. Sagging a bit, the old log cabin sits with a beautiful view of the river. Brown, tannin-colored water flows slowly to the bay, past the dock where the pike and bass glide between the water lilies and beneath the logs, teasing our young ones.

Our eight-year-old twins learn patience as they watch their bobbers, finding such joy with even a bite or the landing of the smallest fish. They grin with delight, excitedly holding their catch for a quick photo, then gently release their prize into the murky water below the dock.

We spend late afternoons at the sandy, Lake Superior beach, and our little ones engage in timeless activities: jumping the waves, building castles, collecting driftwood.

Black fly bites line their hairlines.

New sprays of freckles span their noses.

We are disconnected from all technology. In the evenings, three generations play games around the table, read books under the old lamps, and make S’mores around an evening fire.

Our grandchildren are the fourth generation of children whose toes have dipped hesitantly in the frigid Lake Superior water, whose fingers have pried loose a shiny stone, whose sweet voices have risen in the cathedral of pines and birches, their joy a hymn to the summer stars and skies.

I am thankful to those who came before, those who made this place of retreat possible for us.

I feel their presence everywhere:

My grandparents’ warbly whistles.

My uncle’s craftsmanship and commitment  

My dad’s energy and laughter.

I am thankful for this legacy for our family, for the time together, for this opportunity to regenerate.

How lucky I am.

How lucky we are to have another year in this place.

My heart is full.

It’s a Fine Life.

Do you remember your first bike? Mine was a Schwinn, nearly full-size. (No little bikes for the first three of us children. I’m not sure those pint-sized bikes were even available in the 1960’s.) I still remember the day: my seventh birthday. My mom asked me to go get the milk from the front porch. (Our reliable Roloff Dairy Milkman delivered eight gallons of milk, two pounds of butter, and a quart of cream each week.) I reluctantly left my cereal bowl, trudged slowly through the old house, and tugged open our stubborn front door. I stepped towards the milk crate, and there she was: a beautiful blue bike, complete with a bell, basket, and handle-bar streamers. My mom and dad stood behind me, smiling in the doorway. I was so surprised, stunned, SPEECHLESS.

I had entered the world of a “big kid.” I thought it would be seamless, but it took weeks and several serious crashes–which I survived with minor scrapes and teeth intact–for me to get the balance right, to smoothly pedal, to brake without tipping over. It became a nightly ritual in the grassy front yard: my dad clomping along in his work boots, holding my bike seat with his right hand, steadying my handlebars with his left. Dad ran along again and again, coaching and inspiring me—wobbly and terrified—until I finally broke free of the support and fear, bounced down the hill, and pedaled up the road.  

Once my brothers Scott and Steve received and mastered their own bikes, we spent hours riding up and down the street. We had to stay within sight of the house, which meant we could travel to my grandmother’s driveway to the west, and to the east, we could journey about a quarter mile to a culvert where the gravel road began.

Oh, the joy and the freedom of bike riding–pedaling hard, then coasting, then pedaling hard again. As soon as our breakfast was finished, we lifted our abandoned bikes from the grass (where they had been slumbering since the night before) and began cruising. It seems like those childhood days were perfect:  the robin-egg sky, the fluffy cotton-clouds, the cool breeze beneath the roadside trees. And the anticipation of filling my Dixie Cup again and again with icy red Kool-Aid, our generation’s childhood classic. Eventually, with our mother’s permission, we could pedal around the country block, go visit our cousins and neighbors, or travel several miles to buy ice-cold pop at Keeney’s, the closest mom-and-pop store.

We gradually “souped up” our bikes–buying glittery banana seats and flags from the selection in Gambles–and even convinced our parents to allow us to ride in the summer parade. Dad tossed our bikes in the bed of the pick-up where we rode to town, decorated our bikes with red-white-and-blue streamers, and joined the group of town kids in the slow processional down Main Street.

Biking was fantastic. It was freeing. It was one of the best parts of our childhood summers.

Let’s brush off the bikes and pedal hard, loosening the ache in our knees. Let’s cruise the village, rallying to the convenience store for a frosty Orange Crush. Let’s leave our adult responsibilities at home, feeling once again the freedom and joy of summer.

(I confess, I have never adjusted to wearing a bike helmet, introduced and encouraged during our adulthood.  I know I should, and I know it is important. But I just love cruising down a hill with the wind ruffling my hair, not feeling the sweat trickling beneath a helmet. I did wear one when we were raising our children, and I’m sure if I ever bike with our grandchildren, they will insist I wear one. And, of course I will oblige.)

It’s a Fine Life

By Kathleen Oswalt Forsythe © July 4, 2019

My dad was a storyteller, and the five of us children were always a ready, enthusiastic audience. Through these stories, he helped to create a sense of place for us and a feeling of being part of the story of our farm and of our family.

He told stories of his boyhood, of country school, and of his grandparents, but my favorite stories were of the adventures he and his little brother John had growing up on the family farm on which we lived.

He and John had a pony of their very own, a pony who changed names as their Uncle Jimmy moved up in the Army Ranks during WWII. The boys listened to the radio for their news and learned of Uncle Jimmy’s experiences through letters he wrote to the family. The pony began as Lieutenant, then moved to Sergeant, and ended as Major. And the summer before Uncle Jimmy came home from the war, Dad and Uncle John packed up their tent, sleeping bags, and campfire provisions; they headed through the pasture and cornfields to set-up camp on a rise at the eastern border of the farm.

According to my dad’s legends, this rise was once the shore of a lake where years ago Native Americans lived, fished, and hunted the woods–a place where arrow-heads could be found. The boys set up camp, set a fire, cooked their supper, and slept beneath the Michigan stars.

I loved that story and imagined those sweet, young brothers cooking their hot dogs and listening to the sounds of the night insects and animals around them as their fire’s embers glowed and faded to the gray of a January sky. I considered those brothers walking the same lane and road, sitting in the same cool barn, climbing the same maple trees as my brothers and I.

When my dad died last summer, we buried most of my dad’s cremains in the village cemetery, but each of us–including my dear Uncle John–received a small plastic bag of his ashes. Uncle John told me he knew just where he would put his portion–on that small rise of their boyhood camps.

But I still have my bag of his ashes tucked safely in my top dresser drawer. I still struggle with where to place them: in the river where he taught me to fish, patiently baiting my hook and untangling my snags time after time? On the edge of the fields where we took coffee and cookies to him when he worked the ground he loved? Under a lovely hydrangea bush he gave me after a family wedding?

These memories and the story of my dad, of our place in time, and our love for one-another will never end.

It’s a Fine Life.

By Kathleen Oswalt Forsythe © June 23, 2019

A favorite book on Amazon.

 As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases.

Good friends of ours gave us this book when our children were small. Set in the rural 1940’s, it tells a beautiful story of the love of place and of family. The illustrations are just beautiful.

I need to live like Nala, our two-year-old lab-pit mix grand-dog. She spent a month with us last summer, enjoying every second of her dog-day. Her needs are simple—food, water, giving and receiving affection—and she has reminded me of some important aspects of life.

If I’m not hungry, leave food alone. (she doesn’t mindlessly snack, she simply eats when she is hungry) I think I used to practice this, but her sleek coat and well-muscled body convince me to return to the lower-calorie habit.

Love the people in my life unconditionally. (she doesn’t hold back—she licks and rubs us as if she will never see us again.) I find nothing easy about unconditional love. We let each other down. We say and do hurtful things–intentionally and unintentionally. Nala prompts me to let it go and simply love, And she broadens her affections to include visitors, neighbors, or anyone she sees me greet happily. My people truly become her people, too–another challenge and reminder.

Stop whatever I’m doing and welcome my family and friends home. (even if she’s napping, Nala gets up and joyfully welcomes us home each time we enter the front door) She wags her tail and looks me in the eyes, convincing me that I matter to her. For that moment I am the center of her little world. I want my friends and family to feel my affection as simply and completely as this, to feel the joy of coming home.

I hope she comes again this summer. I need a few more dog lessons.

It’s a Fine Life.

By Kathleen Oswalt Forsythe © June 17, 2019

I miss full-service gas stations—where I could swing our old Chevy in, roll down the window, and greet a reliable mechanic. He would cheerfully fill my tank, wash the windshield, and even check and add motor oil if needed. When I tell my students about the way it “used to be,” they look at me like I have two heads.

Anywhere we traveled fifty years ago, there were dependable, staffed stations. If our engine started making a noise, or if we suspected a tire was going flat, we could coast off the highway where a mechanic was usually on duty. Back in the day, there were even mom-and-pop stations at rural intersections with a pump and small store for bread and other essentials. If folks ran out of gas after hours, they could knock loudly on the shop door, and eventually the drowsy owners (who lived above or behind) would answer.

While there were many full-service stations around the village, our family relied on Fred Hiemstra, who owned and operated the Shell Station on the corner of South Michigan and Prairie Streets. Fred also ran a towing service, and I remember how he hoisted himself into his tow-truck, which began rolling before he even closed the door. Always ready to help, he was like an uncle to many of us.  He took care of our cars, hauled a few vehicles out of the snowbanks or the ditches, and usually did not share that information with our parents. We sure appreciated him.

When I was about ten, my brothers and I perched in our station wagon at the top of the lift in Fred’s shop while he changed the oil. We looked out the windows, gripping the door tightly, and surveyed his garage: tool chests, racks of tires, and the garage floor sat nearly ten feet below. By some miracle, we managed to stay in the car and not fall to the oily concrete. Perhaps my mother was in the car? Perhaps she was in the waiting room taking a break from the five of us? Or perhaps my dad casually chatted below as Fred released the plug and the dirty oil ran from the pan? I don’t remember.

Like many business owners and tradesmen in town, Fred was also a volunteer fire-fighter. When the alarm sounded, tools were set aside, sales calls ended abruptly, and hardware customers had to wait, as these dedicated folks dropped everything and attended house fires, car accidents, or other emergencies.  Fred’s equipment, hanging in his shop, was a comforting reminder of the many people in our community who cared and could take care of us.

There is still a place for a full-service station—where we could pull in and smile at the mechanic. We wouldn’t risk spilling gas on clothes, windshields would be clean, and oil levels would always be within range. Of course we would pay more, but I would be a loyal, rewards-card-carrying customer, thankful for one more connection with another person in our hometown.  

I suspect many of you would be, too.  

It’s a Fine Life

By Kathleen Oswalt Forsythe © June 8, 2019

A bird died today—it broke its neck in frantic midflight against our living room window. From the shadow’s small silhouette, pattern, and quickness, I thought the fatal thud was a hummingbird. But when I looked through the windowpanes, a tiny wren lay inert on the concrete, her cheerful song forever silenced.  I examined her brown, compact body, contemplating her life and purpose.

How many bugs had she snatched from the bushes? How often had I heard her morning song? How many years had she returned to our yard after the darkness of winter?

Her end came so suddenly, so abruptly, so unexpectedly. Where was she going in such careless hurry? Were her fledglings waiting for her, their tiny beaks open, wings fluttering in anticipation of breakfast? Was her mate still waiting outside the nest in their desperate tag-team to feed their brood? Her stillness rings in the morning air.

Sometimes I am so distracted and mindless in my flights, forgetting that life on this earth is not forever. The sunrises and sunsets paint the sky, and often I am too preoccupied by tasks and responsibilities that I forget to pause and breathe in the moments.

Like the wren, our flight on this earth is brief and there is always the possibility that it might end as swiftly. For me, I find comfort in knowing that we have a chance to impact the future with more than our DNA.   Jazz musician Greg Adams suggests, “There is no such thing as a ‘self-made’ man or woman. We are made up of thousands of others. Everyone who has ever done a kind deed for us, or spoken a word of encouragement to us, has entered the make-up of our character and of our thoughts, as well as our success.”

How true. I remember the people who have helped me along the way, who have listened, who have encouraged me.

Lorraine and Merritt Harper, neighbors and retired farmers, who welcomed me for lemonade and cookies when I spontaneously arrived at their door, announcing confidently, “Hi, I was just out on my bike and thought I would stop by.”  They gave me their full, uninterrupted attention as we sat at their tiny kitchen table. They smiled at me, listening to my 10-year-old ideas and adventures.  How important and loved I felt. My choir teacher, Cinda Cramer, who encouraged fragile, awkward high school students to persist and take risks. My friends and I felt valued and noticed, something all teenagers so desperately need.

We can’t, of course, always recall the details, but such care and kindness become a part of us and what we find important. These wonderful people are gone from this earth, yet their influence remains in me and in all the other people their positive energy touched.

Opportunities for encouragement and helping others are all around. All we need to do is make the effort.

I pause and remember, respecting the brief life of Jenny Wren.

It’s a Fine Life5/26/2019

By Kathleen Oswalt Forsythe © May 26, 2019

Bird Watching Supplies on Amazon

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We have two pairs of wrens nesting in similar boxes in our yard. I love their sweet songs–and their occasional scolding of our calico cat!

This is very similar to our Oriole feeder. I do put oranges out, but grape jelly keeps them coming back again and again.