Category: Reflections and Memoir

Firm handshakes seal a deal, honor friends and family with enthusiasm, and greet new people with intention.

My brothers and I were taught early to greet people with a smile and a steady handshake. I remember lining up behind my little brothers, taking turns shaking Dad’s hand until he was satisfied. He would soundly correct us and have us try it again (this is surprising and demonstrates my father’s belief in the importance of a solid-shake because he rarely got worked up about anything.)

My dad’s grip was crushing—even when he died at 83. He would grab on to a hand and place his other hand on the person’s shoulder. He would look them in the eyes and greet people with enthusiasm. People anticipated his greeting and spoke to me of it after his funeral. “I looked forward to seeing your dad. I always felt like I was the only person in the room when I saw him.”

There’s not much worse than a weak handshake—those people who just touch the last third of your fingers with their thumb and first finger and release your hand before you’ve had a chance to commit. These handshakes are so much worse than the sweaty-shake which leaves you discretely running your right hand down your skirt or pants when the sweaty-palm-owner turns the other way.

For a good portion of my life I’ve been a hugger, but in the last few years I’ve re-introduced the handshake when I meet someone new. It’s sometimes uncomfortable in our paranoid, germophobic society: hand sanitizing wipes are stationed near the carts at grocery stores and hand sanitizing wall dispensers wait every few feet in hospitals. My girlfriends have fragrant, travel-sized hand sanitizer in purses and my high school students have them clipped to their monstrous backpacks.

I confess that during cold and flu season I am reluctant to extend my hand and offer a friendly greeting. (I do shake hands firmly, its’ true, but I often follow with a secret-squirt of hand sanitizer.)

It’s a Fine Life

Where would we be without the many wonderful women in our lives who have helped us along the way, who have taught us important lessons, and who have pushed us to be better?

Where would we be without our mothers? My mom, the most influential person in my life, embraces every day and remains positive even in difficult times. She raised the five of us to be kind and to always treat people with dignity. She made everyone feel welcome in our home. We “always had room for one more” at the supper table, on a trip to the cabin, or even around a game board. She definitely has strong opinions and believes in making a difference in our community.

How about daughters and granddaughters? Mine push me to be a better person. They call me out on antiquated attitudes. They help me slow down and savor the moments. They are beautiful and compassionate, and my life is so much better because of them.

And where would we be without our girlfriends? I have been blessed by so many wonderful friendships throughout my life–cousins, schoolmates, adult friendships–each relationship has helped me feel rich and whole.

I am thankful for all these women.

It’s a Fine Life.

If you have ever spent much time in Vicksburg, Michigan, you know how frequently trains pass through our little hometown. Going in or out of the village, we must regularly wait at a crossing. A few years ago, my friend Sue Moore heard me complain about it. She suggested that this is something positive–that more trains mean the economy is doing well. Well, I do my best to be patient and remember her optimism–but I’m not always successful.

When we waited as children, we loved counting cars and watching for the caboose which occupied the end of many trains. My mom would beep her horn as it passed, and my brothers and I would wave at a conductor, often standing and smoking at the back of the caboose. To me, that seemed a fantastic life–traveling cross country with a cheery, red car to sleep in. I imagined the engineers warming themselves around a cozy coal stove; at day’s end, the tired workers would crawl into tightly-made bunks and be rocked to sleep by the gentle swaying of the rail cars.

When I was in elementary school, we occasionally traveled by train to our grandparents’ home on the other side of the state. We watched the Michigan countryside from the windows and ate snacks which magically appeared from my mother’s bottomless tote bag. My amazing mother–our personal Mary Poppins–kept the five of us happily occupied and seated.

With the warmer nights, the sound of the late-night-trains travels to me across Sunset Lake. I am thankful that I am safe in my warm bed and think about those engineers and conductors sounding the whistles as they ride and rumble towards home.

It’s a Fine Life.

Friday I tripped and fell like a tree–a five foot ten, slightly overweight, sixty-year-old tree. I broke my pinkie, scraped my knee, and messed up my face. (I look like I spent the weekend in some senior MMA tournament–battered and bruised)

How do these things happen so quickly? I was upright greeting a friend (ironically our favorite local attorney) one minute and was flat and hurt on the sidewalk the next.

I wish I could have a do-over. Wish I could press the rewind button and try it again. Wish I had kept my dang eyes on the sidewalk where I would have noticed the uneven piece of sidewalk before the toe of my shoe found it.

So, I guess the lesson is to pay attention to where I’m going and to appreciate the use of both hands when my left hand is eventually released from its cast.

And despite the inconvenience…

It’s still a fine life.

When we were in first grade, my friends and I sat cross-legged, watching the sixth graders sing and wrap ribbons around a makeshift pole in the tiny Fulton Elementary School gymnasium. Our patient music teacher, Mrs. Morley, played some brisk, cheerful number on the old upright piano, and the smiling, pony-tailed girls and the embarrassed, blushing boys ducked and wrapped and circled in time to the music as they sang their springtime song. It was the first time I had heard of a Maypole, and we were mesmerized by this May-Day-Drama. It seemed so intricate—the boys circling one way, the girls the other. And how I loved those May Day ribbons, and how I longed to be old enough to join in this dance.

I had no idea this tradition existed: May Day to me was all about flowers and “surprising” my mother and grandmother with little May Day nosegays.

Flowers can be scarce in Michigan on May 1st. Some years we have heavy snows the first or second week of April. Spring frosts can nip tender flowers, and cold weather can delay even the buds.  Some years it was a challenge to gather enough blooms. My tiny bouquets were mostly wild purple violets, perhaps crab-apple blossoms, sometimes sweet Lily-of-the-Valley, and, of course, brilliant yellow dandelions, which quickly wilted in my little hands.

Perched like a queen on top of the hill, my grandmother lived within sight of my bedroom window.  I loved walking to her house—quail hid in the tall grass at the end of her driveway, a pussy willow bush awaited the pinch of my fingers, and the gravel crunched delightfully under my shoes. Up her driveway was the only place I was allowed to walk alone, and my grandma’s smile—and sometimes a raspberry-filled Archway cookie–waited.

My brothers were never interested in leaving flowers on Grandma’s doorstep, knocking sharply, and running to hide behind a nearby tree. (If it had involved rigging water-balloons above her doorway they would have been all in.) I remember my grandmother’s exclamation (loud enough so that I could hear it around the side of her garage) “What is this!” and my excitement in surprising her.

I didn’t pass this tradition on to my own children, and I’m not sure why. Perhaps, as a society, we aren’t as comfortable running on property uninvited—even if the homeowner might be a relative or close neighbor. Perhaps, there are more things children are involved in today. Or perhaps, I simply forgot.

But I just might encourage my grandchildren to embrace this forgotten practice. Oh how I love a dandelion bouquet collected by sweet little hands. Don’t you?

It’s a Fine Life.

Today I am thankful for three specific things: working indoor plumbing, helpful neighbors, and my handy-man husband.

Last Sunday, the pump in our basement sprang a leak and began spewing water into the basement. So for twenty-four hours, we were without water in the house: that means no showers, laundry, or functioning toilet. (Working plumbing is something I just take for granted. It’s only when I don’t have it that I realize its convenience and importance.)

I am thankful for neighbors who offered their shower facilities–which we gladly accepted.

I am also thankful for my handy-man husband who stopped the leak before significant damage occurred, diagnosed the problem, and fixed the pump.

Life is normal again.

Thankful Thursday.

Tonight, I ready our home for the monthly meeting of the Lake Effect Writers Guild, and tomorrow I will light the candles and welcome my writer friends to my table. I love the preparations: the laying of the tablecloth, the polishing of the glassware, the arranging of each place.

There is something spiritual in this for me–a deliberate focusing on these relationships and an honoring of our friendship through the planning of this time together. I use my special things–table linens, my grandmother’s pressed glass, my parents’ china–and I think about each of my beautiful friends who will sit in the candlelight, enjoying a glass of wine and fellowship.

I love to set the table.