Blog Posts - MARY T. WAGNER

Finnigan Vol. 2 is now LIVE!!

10/22/2017

JUST IN TIME FOR THE HOLIDAYS...

The second book in my Finnigan series, Finnigan and the Lost Circus Wagon, is now LIVE on Amazon and the Barnes and Noble website!

I knew when I started the series, about a tiny "rescue kitten" who finds a happy home flying under the radar at a small town circus museum, it would be just a matter of time before I worked my fascination with circus wagons and imagery into one of these stories. I've been going to the Circus World Museum in Baraboo, Wisconsin, for years, admiring the imagination and craftsmanship of these gorgeous wagons that brought the wider world to folks watching the extravaganza of circus parades in the days before TV and internet and even movies, when nothing was instant and the age of being jaded wasn't so young!

I even worked some sketches into the book that are drawn straight from the wagons at the museum--the pair of Swans, the King of Beasts, and the small ornamental tiger heads that are the clue to the origin of the mysterious wagon that turns up at the Farnsworth Circus Museum.

The story features Finnigan and his two "circus mice" pals, Maximillian and Leroy, as they plot to keep the family from being fleeced by a pair of swindlers who turn up just after the wagon arrives. Leroy even has to go undercover as a rat!

From the back cover... Finnigan and his "circus mice" pals Max and Leroy are puzzled when a broken-down old circus wagon mysteriously shows up at the family circus museum. Finnigan, who arrived at the museum as a "rescue kitten" smuggled in by little Lucy Farnsworth, is still flying “under the radar” because Lucy's dad is allergic to cats.

At first, nobody knows that the wagon really comes with a valuable secret. Nobody in Beechville that is. But when two shady characters come to town with plans to fleece the family and steal the treasure the wagon holds, it’s up to Finnigan the Circus Cat and his friends to find it first and then send the crooks packing!

Chock full of charming illustrations by the author and circus history from the Golden Age of circus parades, Finnigan and the Lost Circus Wagon will charm young readers and the grownups who love to read with them.

The Starter Cat

9/2/2017

It was such a small request, in the face of such cataclysmic and wrenching upheaval.

I had just broken the news a few days before to my children that a divorce was imminent after twenty-five years of marriage. The oldest three were not surprised, and offered their good wishes and moral support. But it had hit my youngest son, then only thirteen, pretty hard.

For the next two days he looked ashen, a sad shadow of his usual cheerful self. But on the third day, I noticed he stood a bit straighter and there was color in his cheeks again. I asked him how he was doing.

Better, he replied with a hint of a smile. He was adapting to the new world order. But, he added, he was trying like heck to find a silver lining in all of this turmoil. And so came the eternal question.

“Mom, now can we get a kitten?”

I had raised a family of animal-lovers. I had rarely known any time in my life that had not been accompanied by a dog or two. I got my first horse when I was sixteen. I’d had a cat for a pet for a as a child.
But for the quarter century I’d been married, a cat had been impossible. My husband was deathly allergic to them. But that was then. Faced with the dissolution of the family unit, the wheels in my honor student son’s head had started to turn.

“You know, honey,” I replied. “I think so!” I reined in his enthusiasm almost immediately. We would certainly have to wait until his father was no longer under the same roof, I cautioned. My son took the qualifier in stride. But…that didn’t mean that we couldn’t start looking!

I called around to local humane societies, inquiring about kitten availability. Nobody seemed to have any right then, and suggested that I call back in a month or two.

As the formalities of marriage unraveled and my husband moved into an apartment nearby, my son’s enthusiasm for a kitten only grew. I finally handed him the newspaper and suggested that he start looking at the classifieds.

He took the advice to heart, and soon afterward ambushed me in the middle of a painting project. A small ad was circled in red. “Mom, would you call this lady about this kitten?” I put the paintbrush aside, pulled off my rubber gloves and made the call. The woman lived twenty miles away. She had just one kitten left, but another person wanted it first. If that buyer didn’t show, we would be welcome to drive over and take a look.

A few hours later, my husband arrived to pick up the kids to take them out for dinner. My son stayed home with me, ostensibly to keep me company. In fact, he’d had his eyes on a bigger prize. Twenty minutes after they left, the cat lady called—the other buyer had not shown up. My son could not stop grinning at his good luck.

“I just really thought that she might call tonight,” he explained, “so I wanted to stay just in case.” As we drove, a plastic carrier for the family rabbit in his lap, he was nearly quivering with excitement. I tried to dampen his anticipation. We were “only going to look” and there was no guarantee that we’d bring this kitten home.

Inside, of course, I was praying hard that this kitten would turn out to be a good one, because I knew in my bones that unless it had three legs and a bad case of mange, it would be coming home with us.

The kitten was perfect. Tiny, friendly, inquisitive, a dynamic eight-week-old short-haired fluff ball of black with white accents. He had long white whiskers, a white tuxedo front, and white front paws that looked like they’d been dipped in heavy cream. Mottled black and white fur on his hind feet made him look like he was wearing “footsie” pajamas.

Money changed hands, and we raced back to the house, stopping to buy a litter box, some food and a few cat toys. Then we whisked it all inside and hid the evidence.

Dad dropped off the kids and left, none the wiser. It took him two weeks to catch on.

The rest of us, however, were enchanted. We spent the next two days passing the kitten, who we named “Smokey,” from lap to lap, and watching him leap and pounce chasing a cat toy with a bell and feathers. I immediately hid the Easter tree that traditionally sat in the bay window, festooned with fragile eggs I had blown and hand-painted myself.

After Easter, the girls returned to college, my older son was occupied with tennis practice and a job, and I went back to the office. I had worried about how my youngest would cope with the loneliness of an empty house during spring break. In fact, he couldn’t wait to have the house to himself. It meant that he could play with Smokey all day long without interruptions.

From being a wee, short-haired bundle of fluff, Smokey grew…and grew…and grew. His white paws, which always seemed oversized, became enormous. The short hair grew out to be a three-dimensional coat of gossamer fluff as soft as goose down, and shed fur balls the size of tarantulas. And at sixteen pounds, he turned into a very big boy.

When, after five more years, my youngest son finally left for college, Smokey became my personal lap anchor. And I let my heart expand to love this perfect, miniature predator, and all the personality quirks that he brought to the table.

What I didn’t know when we brought him home was that the one small purchase of one tiny kitten would open the floodgates for more cats to join the family. First my younger daughter and her college roommates adopted a kitten. Then my older son brought home a rescue cat of his own. And then my younger son—the one who I’d bought Smokey for!!—and his wife adopted a tiny rescue kitten as well. I can’t complain, the kitten that they named Finnigan later became the inspiration for my first children’s book, Finnigan the Circus Cat.

But now, twelve years later, Smokey the “starter cat” is still with me, a fluffy constant through thick and thin. He has outlasted the family dog; the family rabbit; my former car; two other cats; a move from the country to the city; and the motorcycle-riding, cat-phobic boyfriend I kept company with for seven years after the divorce.
Smokey still leaves fur balls the size of tarantulas around the living room. I haven’t knitted a stitch in twelve years. And those hand-painted Easter eggs are still in storage.

But at night, when the lights are out and I am about to fall asleep, Smokey leaps to the side of my pillow for one last round of purring, one last reassurance that we’re still in this game together. And I think, as I smile and drift off to sleep, that for a “starter cat,” he sure has proved to be a keeper.

Walking the Meatball

5/16/2017

I wrote this essay a few years ago, and anchored it in a lovely Scottish website called "Shortbread Stories." Alas, Shortbread Stories has perished...as has the beloved Meatball of legend. Still, he was an incredible feline, and he changed my world vastly for the better, and so, without further ado, let us once more go "walking the Meatball."

A year ago in August, my son asked if he could park his eleven year old cat “Meatball” at my house for a couple of weeks while he sorted out some new living arrangements in his college town. I said “yes,” of course. If I look at a calendar, I can discern without eyestrain that that was quite a long while ago. Kids and pets, they are really never predictable.

This is not Meatball’s first “stay” here. Michael has been bringing him home for short vacations for several years now. This middle-aged feline, who my son picked out at a shelter largely because the cat stuck his tongue out at him, was the essence of Christmas for me on a day when the holiday itself involved driving 250 miles and visiting elderly relatives in two hospitals and a nursing home. He has, alternately, been amusing, infuriating, annoying and purely a pest. While the man in my life can be laconic to the point of muteness, this cat never shuts up. Colored black and white like a Holstein cow and with all claws intact, he has bullied my dog, wrestled my other cat leaving large tufts of fur on the carpet, and sprayed the dog’s favorite blanket in retaliation for my shooting him with a water pistol as he trekked across the kitchen table. And all this came AFTER the warnings that he likes to chew on electrical cords and “mark” piles of unattended dirty laundry.

Still, until now, Meatball has been a short-term guest whose psychological similarity to a stalker and garrulous vocalizing (he can chirp like a canary and trill like a pigeon) could be considered transitory adjustments.

However, as two weeks stretched into four, and one month became two and then three, somewhere along the line Meatball went from being just a houseguest to being one of the gang. The rest of the gang consists of Lucky, the border collie mix, and Smokey, the twenty-pound housecat who used to claim my lap in the evenings until Meatball jumped aboard and said “mine!” In “cat,” of course. Over time, the four of us have adjusted to co-existing within the contours of the house, with certain expectations governing morning treats, clean litter boxes, and playing nice. Indoors, I am the arbiter of good manners and affection.

In the great outdoors, though, things have taken a much more unexpected turn. I often take Lucky out for a walk around the property, which passes up and down hills, through woods and around a meadow. There are delightful smells and no end of wild animals to encounter and for Lucky to chase. For the record, he is fast…but not quite as fast as a full-grown deer. Not that he didn’t give it his all for nearly the length of a city block. No one day is exactly like the next as the seasons change, and forests turn green, then gold, then leafless grey with winter’s approach.

One day last fall, though, serendipity skipped to another level as I glanced behind me on the trail, and discovered that Meatball was trailing behind Lucky and me on one of our daily walks. I tried to keep a close eye on him—there are things in these woods, like coyotes (and possibly cougars), that might enjoy a tender house cat for dinner—but Meatball was going to travel at his own pace. Sometimes he kept a few feet behind me, but at other times, he would lag behind by a couple of hundred feet, only to race to catch up…and then start the cycle of straggling all over again. I’d never seen a cat gallop before. He looked, crazily, like a little piebald cow pony hustling home at the sound of the feed bucket. The sound that he makes on the grass as he comes up behind me at full speed and shoots past is a faint “thippity, thippity, thippity.” I felt like the Pied Piper.

“Walking the Meatball” has now become a daily routine for me when the weather cooperates. Technically, I’m walking both Lucky AND The Meatball, but really, dogs pretty much have a happy-go-lucky sameness about a walk in the woods. It’s the cat that’s the wild card here. Since I still worry about him running into something in the woods that might eat him, our excursions take on the “hurry up and wait” quality of walking with a curious toddler. Sometimes my waiting stretches are longer than others, and sometimes I end up backtracking half the usual journey just to make sure that he rejoins the caravan at some point.

And while I’ve been on these “catwalks,” there are a few life lessons that have occurred to me as I'm waiting...and waiting.

Things are not always as bad as they look. A while ago, Lucky flushed a turkey hen from the meadow, and the dog and the bird sped toward the edge of the woods like cannonballs crashing through the brush. Movement on the left caught my eye, and I turned to see tiny turkey chicks—backlit by the afternoon sun and still too small to fly—popping straight up out of the tall grass in the meadow, then fluttering down a few feet forward, away from the sound of drama. Meatball was nowhere to be seen, and I started back down the trail, thinking “I wonder if Meatball saw those chicks.” He was crouched off the path, with a “WHAT???” look on his face, and when I caught up with him I found that indeed, he had found one of those baby turkeys. It lay on the ground, its head mashed under its body by a pristine white paw, neck bent in what suspense novelists invariably describe characterize as “an unnatural angle” when they’re writing about a corpse. Still, ever the optimist, I gently peeled the cat’s paw from the fluffy little body…which then unfolded its neck, stood up and shook itself off, and hopped straight up like its siblings and glided toward some nearby trees. I picked up Meatball and said “you’re coming with me,” and carried him under protest for the next hundred yards. It’s never over until it’s over.

If you have to slow down…you might as well look around. To be honest, I’d valued getting some real exercise on these wooded hikes with Lucky. Let’s face it, the dog can run so much faster than me and covers about five times as much ground as I do in the same amount of time. Walking briskly was my goal, and he never slowed my progress. With Meatball in the mix, though, the equation changed from go-go-go to stop ‘n’ go…and then stop again. I ground my teeth at these interruptions at first, bemoaning the fact that my cardiovascular workout plans were going down the tubes. And then I finally just simply… surrendered. Instead of focusing on putting one foot in front of the other in efficient fashion, I focused on the bark patterns of the pine trees at one of my usual “wait for the Meatball” rest stops. I started to use a familiar tree at the end of a glade as a stretching point, doing leg lifts while Meatball picked his way along the trail, stopping to use a tree trunk or two as scratching posts. I brought my camera along and took pictures of wildflowers and leaves. I savored the smells of wild roses and bergamot and evergreens and green grass and melting snow, and located another couple of stands of wild asparagus near the trail. And considered myself thankful for the opportunity to stand there in the arms of nature and just soak it in.

He ain’t heavy, he’s The Meatball. Somewhere along the way in this new routine—I think it was when the snow was melted in patches in spring—I started to give Meatball a lift from time to time. This started when he was dragging his heels at the thought of crossing a stretch of snow or slush, and I didn’t feel like waiting around in the cold, fingers turning to ice and nose turning numb. So I portaged the cat across the cold, soupy stuff. And lo and behold, Meatball clearly understood, because he didn’t squirm to be set down until he could tell that there was going to be grass under his feet again. Well, the snow finally melted away, and I’m still portaging the cat from time to time. My usual motivation for sweeping him up in my arms, rhetorically asking him whether I should “sherpa the kitty?” is that I don’t feel like always taking every single golden opportunity to wait for him. And if I can make a hundred feet’s progress without worrying that he’s behind me getting eaten by a coyote, I’m happy. It’s a win-win proposition—I keep the game moving a little faster, the added ten pounds amounts to a little weight-training, and judging by Meatball’s purrs as he drapes himself across my shoulder, he’s getting something good out of it too.

Hearts expand to fit. When I said I’d let Meatball bunk with me for two weeks that turned into more than a year, I had absolutely no idea how much affection I would come to feel for this eccentric small-scale predator. I could not possibly have predicted how much laughter he would generate, or drama, or worry, or tenderness as the days and seasons and miles of walking in the woods have passed. There is no such thing as having a completely full heart. There is only a heart that has room for more. In the children’s classic “The Grinch That Stole Christmas,” there’s a scene where the Grinch feels his crippled heart grow three sizes bigger. I felt that happen to me several year ago when I called my son as I was heading out on my dire Christmas Day odyssey and told him that I’d changed my mind, that he could bring his problematic pet home for the holiday. I think it’s grown yet another size in this chapter, to make room for this middle-aged cat who talks all day long, makes me laugh, brings me live mice from the garage, and follows me through the woods. I know that if and when he ever leaves again with my son, there will be a hollow space left open, waiting for him to come back.

Love in the Time of Cupcakes

2/5/2017

Since February is a month where signs of love and Valentines Day are everywhere, drenching the landscape with red hearts and satin, it seemed a good time to bring this out of the archives, since love takes many forms. This essay was a finalist in the 2010 Royal Palm Literary Awards for "creative non-fiction"!!

The last of the "tennis ball" cupcakes set sail this morning, a small but telling harbinger of the fact that I'm going to be facing an empty nest in the fall. Twenty seven years of "hands on" mothering symbolically reduced to two dozen clumps of devil's food cake in little foil baskets. They swooshed out the door with my youngest son, for what would turn out to be his last tennis meet of high school. He graduates in another couple of weeks, heading for college in the fall and instantly turning any use of the words "high school" into the past tense.

I've been making cupcakes decorated like tennis balls--light yellow frosting with the slightest tinge of green, arced with curves and swoops of white icing--for fourteen years now, ever since my oldest daughter signed up for high school freshman girls tennis before the school year even started. Call me OCD, I don't mind! I consider it a badge of honor.

There are fundamental differences between "girls tennis" and "boys tennis" and only some of them have to do with testosterone levels. Girls tennis season starts in late summer and continues barely to early fall, guaranteeing splendid and warm afternoons and entire weekend days watching budding young ladies flit around on the court in bouncing pony tails and miniskirts, suntanned legs flying. Girls tennis, from my experience on the sidelines, has involved matching hair doo-dads with color coordinated ribbons, team posters, lots of conversation, and a great appreciation for cute snacks. Hence the tennis ball cupcakes, a big hit for both my daughters and their teams for a bunch of years.

Boys tennis, on the other hand, starts just on the cusp of very early spring, when winter hangs on for dear life. And here in the upper Midwest, winter's claws are deep. More than one tennis season for my sons has started its first practice as snow flakes were falling. The weather leans more toward rain, and cold, and wind, and if there's coffee involved for blanket-wrapped spectators under grey, stormy skies, it's been hot, not iced. Very few boys sported pony tails, and nobody wore matching barettes. The guys still appreciated the cupcakes...but I don't know that they even noticed the decorative flair right before they inhaled them.

And still, despite the fact that for years my cupcakes have been nearly vaporized in haste (and without a single squeal of how "cute" they were) by their entirely masculine patrons, I clung to tradition. At least once a season I needed to send those sweet, fluffy treats along to a meet, even if, as the years went by and my job schedule got less flexible, another tennis mom would actually have to deliver them for me. Call me crazy, it's been done before.

While the tennis ball cupcakes stretch back fourteen years, the cupcake thing has actually been a fixture for something more like twenty four. Long ago enough that my oldest daughter would have needed to bring a birthday treat for kindergarten. Or preschool. So through the next two and a half decades, the miniature confections were a constant and a comfort amid the multi-tasking, crisis-response mentality that goes into raising four kids with a minimum number of trips to the emergency room. There were cupcakes with sprinkles for birthdays, cupcakes with candy dots for art shows, cupcakes decorated like little ghosts and jack-o-lanterns for Halloween.
This last tradition--the Halloween cupcakes--nearly drove me into the ground once. I had three kids in the same grade school at the same time. The youngest wanted Halloween cupcakes for his second grade class party. I signed on for two dozen, half of them orange and half of them white, with little ghost outlines and pumpkin smiles drawn on with melted chocolate, eyes made from chocolate chips. Then the fifth grader chimed in. I signed on for another two dozen. And then as I started the baking, when I thought of my daughter's class in eighth grade going without my cupcakes on this festive day, I threw caution to the wind. Halfway through decorating seventy two little ghosts and jack-o-lanterns with dribbley chocolate I rethought my enthusiasm...but it was too late to turn back.

I was planning to dress up for the second graders' party, and I tweaked my daughter with the thought of showing up in costume to deliver the goods. She's got a dark, sultry beauty to her, and she warned me off. "Mom, don't you dare!!" she said ominously, her eyes flashing like the fiery gypsy in Carmen. I filed that thought in the "hmmm..." pile. Made some soothing mention about bringing a change of clothes.

The next day I dutifully and precariously loaded six dozen cupcakes into the minivan, and set off for school. Fifth grade cupcakes were dropped off and put out of mind. The second grade Halloween party was so cute it could make your back fillings hurt. I think that was the one where I'd made my son a little royal blue cape with fake ermine collar, for his part as the "king" in a teeny tiny little play.

And then the lunch bell rang. I grabbed the last two dozen cupcakes from the van and walked them down the length of the school to my daughter's eighth grade classroom. As I stood in the doorway, her back was to me. A friend she was chatting with looked up, and announced slyly, "Sarah, your mom is here." Slowly she turned... and there I stood, a shallow cardboard box filled with treats utterly overshadowed by my appearance in a Pocahontas style beige fringed tunic with red embroidered trim, black leggings, and a feather in my hair. I bit back a grin, but it was really hard.

My daughter flashed daggers at me with those dark brown eyes. If looks could have killed, I'd be writing this from the great beyond. But at the same time, despite her fourteen year old peer-reviewed fury, I could see the corners of her mouth start to turn up in a smile in spite of herself, at the sheer perversity of my guest appearance. I delivered the goods and quickly exited stage left, fighting back a laugh.

Eight years later we were chatting on the phone as I drove to drop off yet another batch of tennis ball cupcakes for her younger brother's meet the next day. I was going to have to miss this contest too, and so once again the cupcakes were going to stand in for me, making me feel like I was still sharing a part of the adventure. We shared a good laugh about the day I showed up looking like Pocahontas at her eighth grade classroom. At the age of twenty-two, you develop a lot more perspective and forgiveness for antics like that.

I bemoaned the fact that with her in college, I didn't have the opportunity to bring festive or seasonal or downright ridiculous treat to her classes anymore. "Mom, you can bring cupcakes to my class any time!" she assured me. "We'll eat 'em!" I could resist pushing the envelope. If it was around Halloween, could I wear the Pocahontas costume again? There was just an instant of hestitation, then..."okay!" I could just imagine her eyes rolling across the miles between us. Maturity comes in many forms, and learning to humor a mother during a fleeting moment of insanity is a remarkable milestone for a daughter of any age.

I never did drive eighty miles to a college classroom after that to bring a sugary treat to a bunch of accomplished and sophisticated college students. Life just got a little too busy, it seems, though in hindsight I wish I'd grabbed the opportunity. But I still remember laughing at the memory with her, and the beautiful thread of give-and-take the offer and acceptance held, binding us tightly and preciously with love and affection despite the distance.

They were just cupcakes. And then some.

Angels in the Snow

12/16/2016

I wrote this essay several years ago, but remembered it during the current blizzard. Angels can take many forms...

I can still remember the snow falling in buckets and clumps, drenching the landscape, cloaking the interstate and obscuring any sense of where one lane ended and another one began, muffling the brightness of the far-off street lights like a scrim on a theater stage.

We could see the street lights above empty, wind-swept streets as we passed by the highway exit that was our best hope of finding a motel and waiting out the storm. We drove past because we had been in the left lane of the highway when the exit finally came into view, and the road surface was too slippery to change lanes quickly enough.

Surely, we thought, we’d get off at the very next exit. We weren’t in the middle of the Gobi desert or Antarctica. This was the American midwest. There had to be a motel somewhere nearby, somewhere with central heating and clean sheets and a bathroom, where we would admit that a blizzard in northern Wisconsin had proven that there existed some times you should just stay home and wait it out. I cautiously and slowly edged the minivan into the right lane—or what seemed to be a lane—and kept watching the dark side of the highway for a snow-covered green blur that would be the next road sign.

My daughter pored over a map of Wisconsin by a tiny reading light above the dashboard. If that last exit was Menomonee, there had to be smaller towns up ahead.

We had started the journey hours earlier, a familiar three hundred mile trek from our home in southern Wisconsin to the Twin Cities where my daughter was a college student. Sometimes her dad drove and I stayed home with the rest of the kids, and sometimes I drove. The trip one-way took a good six hours in good weather.
The weather had indeed been good when we started, that much was true. There were a few snow flurries going on as we pulled out of the driveway, but four-wheel drive will make you cocky. The weather forecasters were predicting snow in our path, but who ever expected total accuracy from the weatherman? We blithely set out in daylight, with the goal of making it to the Twin Cities not far off our usual schedule.

As daylight faded, the snow picked up. For about an hour we vacillated over whether it was getting heavy enough to justify benching ourselves at a motel until morning, or whether it was starting to lighten up. Wishful thinking can be so disarming. And with every mile we drew closer to our destination, the more tantalizing the thought of completing the journey without interruption.

As we sailed past the exit and watched the street lights get swallowed by a blanket of white, we finally knew we’d overreached. Still, we were confident that a room for hire would be ours soon. I drove cautiously, slowly, along the set of tracks cut in the snow by the drivers ahead. There appeared to be only one lane left to use, and every car on the road that night seemed to be following an unspoken rule to stay in that single lane, guided by the faint pinprick of taillights in the distance assuring that there was still a road to find, like hikers traversing a narrow ledge.

There are instants in your life when you don’t know if you will live or die, and we suddenly had ours. From out of the swirling, snowy blackness, a set of headlights perched higher than ours came up on our left. A semi-trailer whose driver had less patience than everyone else on the road inexorably crept up on us, bearing closer and closer. I could see the headlights casting their glow through the driving snow, and I focused totally on keeping the minivan straight and completely in its lane. The truck never touched us. But as it passed, the wind force it created caught the minivan like a giant hand and sent us sliding off at an angle, completely out of control. I remember that the sides of the truck were yellow and white as our headlights turned toward the giant machine while it passed methodically, implacably, like Leviathan cleaving the silent, wine-dark sea. As the truck drew away from us and disappeared into the dark, a drift of snow swirled off its roof and plunged us into total whiteout. We slewed and yawed blindly out of control. I turned the wheel desperately back and forth, trying to get some purchase beneath the wheels, but my efforts were useless.

After a couple of seconds that felt like a lifetime, we felt the front of the minivan hit something hard. A guardrail had kept us from sliding into a ditch or worse. “Honey, are you okay?” I asked. “Sure,” my daughter replied. “How about you?” I was fine too…but as I looked toward her, I could see the pinpoints of light signaling the approach of the next car in the single snow-covered lane. We realized instantly that our minivan, positioned crosswise across the lane of traffic, would be invisible in the storm to oncoming traffic until it would be too late to stop. I slammed the van into reverse and hoped that luck would go our way. If it didn’t, we’d be out of the van and over the guardrail before the next accident happened.

The wheels caught, and we pushed back into the lane of traffic. Slowly we drove on, and took the next exit. The road had barely been plowed. The map showed a small town a few miles north, and we aimed the damaged van that way with hope in our hearts. We were deep in the middle of nowhere. The few driveways that we passed were unplowed and uninviting. No sign announcing a town ahead was anywhere to be seen.

We finally drew near what seemed to be a farm, with a tall yard light silhouetted in the snow, and a large sign out front that gave it an air of respectability. The driveway looked as if it had been plowed at some point during the storm. We drove up to a small house. I left my daughter in the car, and knocked on the door.

A young woman answered, her eyes cautious and wary. We’d been in an accident on the interstate, I explained, and were trying to find a place to stay. The map said we’d find a town in this direction. Were we on the right track?

No, she answered. The town ahead no longer had any type of lodging. More important, she said, there was a dangerous and winding hill not far ahead of us on this road, and we should not try to navigate it in this storm. Well then, I replied. My daughter and I clearly needed a place to stay in this storm. We were easy keepers. Could we just pay her forty dollars to sleep on her kitchen floor?

She was sorry, she said, but she would have to refuse. She had young children in the house, and her husband was away from home, and she just did not feel comfortable with letting two strangers in the door while he was away. We would just have to get back on the interstate and keep driving.

I returned to the car, crushed and stunned. Ahead of us lay a road we had no business being on. Behind us lay the interstate where we had nearly died. The seaworthiness of the van was a wild card. My daughter busied herself with brushing and scraping the snow from the windows as I tried to inventory the damage to the front end and tell whether or not the van would be able to make it much farther. I called my husband to report on the night’s events and tell him that we were safe so far…but uncertain as to where we would end up.

A man with a beard and a dark snow-covered jumpsuit came up to my side of the van as I said goodbye on the phone and tried to figure out what to do next. I was startled, but rolled down the window and explained our situation. He thought for a minute, then had us follow him to the trailer located behind the home we had just been turned away from. His wife was out for a little while, and so he couldn’t commit just then to letting us stay the night…but at least we could get out of the cold.

We followed meekly…and when the pair of them were finally together, they must have decided we posed no hazard to them and folded us into their tiny, cramped home. As the snow continued to mount outside and we finally tucked into some warm food, we exchanged our stories. The young woman who had turned us away was in fact their daughter-in-law, they said. Until recently, the man with the beard and his wife had lived in a state farther east. But their only son was a farmer. And when it appeared that he needed help to keep the farm running, they had left their comfortable life behind and moved here to help him keep his business and his family on solid ground. It was not the life they had predicted, but it was the one they chose without hesitation.
My daughter and I slept in their bed that night, exhausted but warm and safe. By morning, the storm had ceased and the skies had cleared and the sunlight positively glistened on the newly fallen carpet of snow. We scraped the heavy coverlet of white off the van and said our goodbyes and heartfelt thanks. I slipped a fifty dollar bill on to a nearby shelf before we left.

My daughter and I retraced our path eight miles back to the exit we wished we had taken the night before and dropped the van at an auto repair shop to get checked before continuing on. The whole world seemed swept clean, a glorious radiance and purity to the snow cover that extended to the horizon. The highway surface itself, plowed clean in the middle of the night, looked as well-maintained as if Martha Stewart had been running the road crew. We chowed down over pancakes and sausage and pondered the strangeness of fortune and the kindness of strangers.

It has been a good eleven years since that desperate night in the snow. A snow- covered road still frightens me more than it used to. When I look back, I know that I have never been closer to being dead than at that instant when our car spun out of control in blinding snow in a blizzard on the interstate. I wonder at the workings of fate, and the hand of God, and the presence of angels. There’s a lot that I’ll never know.

But I know for sure that every so often angels appear without wings or halos, celestial choirs or golden flutes or harps. Once in a while, they just show up wearing a watch cap and sturdy Sorel boots and a snowmobile suit

WALDEN...in a smart phone world?

5/30/2016

Would Henry David Thoreau have written Walden if he’d had an iPhone? I think not.

This random thought occurred to me one afternoon when I discovered, on a routine run to the store (for sundries) and then to the lake shore (for sanity), that I had left my cell phone behind at the house.

I felt unnerved. I felt anxious. I felt unmoored from my familiar electronic tether. I briefly considered turning the car around to retrieve it, but discarded the idea. For heaven’s sake, I’m from a generation that grew up not only without smart phones, but without phones that traveled any distance further than the spiral cord they were plugged in to the wall with. If I wanted to have a phone conversation with my best friend when I was in grade school, I had it while talking on the black rotary dial phone in my grandparent’s foyer, about ten feet from where my grandfather sat smoking his pipe and doing the crossword puzzle.

I pressed on, crossing my fingers that no disaster requiring my immediate response would happen before I got home and go to voicemail. God only knows, I have initiated and received my share of awful news on my portable phone over the past couple of decades—illness, death, auto accident, arrest, house fire, elderly relatives in distress. Some involved family members, others were calls from friends in my orbit. But there have been many, many times I have blessed the advances in technology that have made us instantly reachable in times of disaster and emergency.

I made it through Walmart without phone and without incident, my valiant quest for what… Dog food? Toilet paper? Bananas?...both successful and short. And then I turned my attention to the state park nearby, whose sandy beaches and tossing birches and aspens have always been balm to my soul.

Time was, even when I had my phone along, the reception quit before I reached the shore, putting me in a zone of splendid unreachability and physical and emotional seclusion. But that was a couple of smart phones ago. Either the coverage has improved or this new iPhone gets better reception, to the point that the only problems I have being instantly available involve Instagram and Twitter.

I parked the car, pulled the plaid beach blanket out of the back, and parked myself near the water’s edge. It was all I had hoped for. The rhythmic lapping of waves. Sunlight dancing and glinting on the water’s surface. The call of seagulls and songbirds along the coastline. The rustle of wind through nearby branches and grass. It is a vital and necessary replenishment in my life, a detachment from the mundane and artificial and a reconnection to the magnificent, mysterious whole.

And yet…I realized as I sat cross-legged at the beautiful shore, if I’d had the phone along, I would have surely by now snapped a couple of shots and uploaded them to Facebook to share the beauty with my friends. And possibly tried to tweet one or two as well, complete with hashtags. I quelled my impatience, and dug my fingers into the sand, still damp from the rain the night before, feeling the smooth, cool texture. Phone-less, I quit thinking about angles of light and framing shots and instead stretched out full length facing the water. It rolled toward me in slow, undulating waves like molten glass. It was hypnotic.

Eventually I dragged myself and the beach blanket back to the car and reentered “reality.” And as I drove home, I thought about how life with a smart phone has changed the way I respond to nature. In the days of yore, if I visited someplace beautiful and inspiring like Washington Island, Wisconsin, or Lassen Volcanic National Park, I thought about it and then wrote about it later, hoping to share its grandeur and its effect on me through vivid descriptions.

Now, as I walk through a forest and admire a stand of birch trees I may eventually write about it…but half of my passion and enthusiasm has already been shared by “mobile uploads” to my Facebook page, posted instantly from some solitary spot deep in the woods.

I stewed on that thought for the rest of the ride home, and tried to imagine Henry David Thoreau out there in the glorious solitude of Walden Pond with an iPhone. It wasn’t a pretty picture. Would he have, instead of meticulously studying the battle of the ants, taken a few photos and then started comparing the two varieties of warring insects on Wikipedia? Would he have possibly become more fixated on capturing a good back-lit photo of a woodchuck in his bean field than reflecting on the give and take of nature and the eons of habitation that had preceded him? Would he have developed a minor obsession with taking a good “selfie” with his hoe? And would his distraction have derailed his focus and reflection that resulted in Walden?

Perish the thought.

I pulled the car into the driveway, entered the house, greeted the dog, and checked the phone. No voicemails, no texts, no emergencies, no loss. I thought back to the feel of the sand under my fingers, and the mesmerizing appearance of the molten glass waves in the sunlight, rolling slowly and repeatedly toward me, drawing me into the whole of nature and the world. It was a gift.

I have got to return to the past and leave that phone behind more often.

Enter my GOODREADS GIVEAWAY!!

5/11/2016

From now until May 30, you can enter my Goodreads Giveaway to win one of 15 copies of my new children's chapter book, "Finnigan the Circus Cat." The book, which revolves around a rescue kitten who finds a home in a small town circus museum, is inspired by the real-life Finnigan, who was a rescue kitten who joined our family several years ago. While the real kitty doesn't live in a circus museum, his fictional counterpart shares a LOT of the same traits--the mustache, the swagger, the "pouncing," the daring-do! And, of course, the need to fly "under the radar" because someone in the family is allergic to cats.

This book--the first of several that will feature Finnigan--is a total departure for me, and has been a total hoot to write. In the "fools rush in where angels fear to tread" category, I leaped before looking and decided to also draw the sketches that begin each book chapter. I have an entirely new appreciation now for all those artists who can put pencil to sketching pad and let the contents of their minds flow on to the paper without hindrance. There has been a definite learning curve in play. Luckily, Finnigan is so darn cute in his baby pictures!!

The Backstory about Blogging

3/25/2016

Nearly a decade ago, I thought that I had thoroughly switched over from being a writer to being a lawyer. I had, after all, been a happy journalist for nearly twenty years. When I entered law school at the age of forty, I had the tremendous certainty that the shift—which had been preceded by surviving a ghastly accident that put me in a body cast for three months—was permanent. I viewed it as a pretty exciting transformation! I had stepped out of that fiberglas body cast like a moth who had spun a chrysalis, and entered a new stage of development.

And my budding career as a prosecutor was—and continues to be, to this day—challenging, rewarding, incredibly varied, and incredibly satisfying. And yet…several years in, I realized that I still missed the siren call of writing. That act of sitting down at a keyboard, or slouching into a sofa with a pad of paper and a fountain pen, and putting thoughts into words for the sheer joy of it.

My yearnings may have stayed as just that—yearnings. But here is where the power of friendship comes in, and the valuable lesson that if you are lucky to have friends who believe in you, sometimes you should just shut up and take their advice.

A friend of mine who worked as an attorney in the same courthouse, and her husband who blogged about his adventures of being a stay-at-home dad of a preschooler, nudged, pushed, and prodded me to start blogging. It took months of entreaties before I finally took the notion seriously. One factor was that my life was entirely too haphazard to carry a long train of thought needed to write anything longer than an essay. My dreams of finishing a suspense novel featuring a plucky female prosecutor had been shelved by the necessity of keeping up with serial family emergencies, ailing pets, and three hundred commuting miles a week.

And so, bolstered and buoyed by their encouragement—and the husband’s tech savvy—I cautiously dipped my toe into the water. We picked a name--“Running with Stilettos”—and bought the internet domain. I took a bag of my favorite high heels to the shore of Lake Michigan and lay belly-down on cold, wet sand in late December to capture a photo of my shoes by the water to post as the blog’s signature image.

And then I wrote my first essay, about my children decorating Christmas cookies to look like bloody axes that first Christmas holiday after the divorce. I had no idea whether any more essays would follow, but at least I took that first step, just as the old year was about to turn over to a new one.

Well, the essays followed. And it felt quite liberating to write about whatever I felt like writing about, without tailoring it to a market, or a magazine’s “style,” or an editor’s priorities. And so, as new chapters in my life unfolded, I wrote about them. About facing a fence emergency and buying my first power tool, a cordless drill, to deal with it. About taking my elderly father to Germany with my two teenaged sons so that he could see his sisters once more before he died. About dating after the divorce. I wrote about friendship and motherhood and chocolate and spike heels and riding “pillion” and gardening and moving on.

And a year later, I took what I’d written on that blog and turned it into my first book. Naturally, I called it “Running with Stilettos”! It won several awards, including a "first place" from the National Federation of Press Woman in their annual communications contest.

The adventures…and the books…continue. And I am so grateful to my friends who pestered me enough, and believed in me enough, to make me start down this new--and old---path.

Lake Moments

3/15/2016

The other day, I spent my lunch break at the shore.

This is nothing new.

You will usually find me there when weather permits, getting in a brisk half-hour walk to break up a work day spent sitting either at a desk or in a courtroom. This time was a little different. I wasn’t walking, since one of my knees had picked up a mysterious ache and demanded that I slow down for a while. I had no shopping errands to run either. So the lake nearby beckoned, and I followed its siren call to a parking spot overlooking a rocky shore and an endless horizon.

I was impatient at first. This was my usual time of day to move! To pound the pavement and get my heart rate up and my muscles stretched out. But the weather was too cold to even get out of the car and sit on a nearby bench, so I simply stared at the waves through the front windshield. And briefly, heretically, I asked myself “now what exactly am I getting from this?”

And then in short order words and impressions began to form. The waves were a dusty sage green under a grey and cloudy sky. They rolled toward me not in a riot of crashing, foamy crests, but in undulating swells whose crosshatched texture and pattern and sheen brought to mind silk fabric cut on the bias.

In that moment, and for the remaining time I had until duty called, I “got” what Lake Michigan shore has always given me. A source of peace, and nature, and wonder, and inspiration that is never, ever the same.

Driftwood shapes on the sand, polished by wind and water and resembling sea creatures cast up from the deep. A layer of swirling vapor rising from the surface in sub-zero winter temps, resembling a witch’s cauldron. Mosaics of light rippling crosswise across the sand ridges beneath crystalline water. Fog so thick that when you walk toward the lighthouse, you can stand on the breakwater and see neither shore behind you nor structure ahead. I could go on and on… Every visit to the shore is different, from moment to moment and day to day.

And so, without further words, here are moments of Lake Michigan.

The Milwaukee Domes and the "nick of time"!

2/6/2016

It was the kind of mid-winter day in Wisconsin where it's hard to remember anything outdoors that had green leaves at one time, much less flowers. And so my daughter and I decided to make a soul-restoring run to Milwaukee, heading to both the Mitchell Park Domes--an internationally known trio of beehive shaped botanical gardens under glass--and then the Milwaukee Art Museum.

We got what we were looking for, even though one of the three domes--the "desert" display--had been recently closed for safety reasons. Falling debris, linked to years of neglect, had posed a safety hazard. But both the "show" and "tropical" domes were still open to the public. And later THAT SAME DAY the entire complex was closed to the public because of those same concerns. A few days later there was a report that a complete overhaul, after years of deferred maintenance, would cost $50 million and its future was uncertain.

But blissfully unaware of any hazards at the time, we made straight for the tropics and breathed deep in the warm, moist air. Sunlight flooded the tropical dome through the glass panels above, but was diffused by the tall trees throughout. There were orchids in varieties that ranged from pretty and fragrant to mesmerizing in a is-that-a-spider-or-space-alien way. In the background, water tumbled musically down a fountain amidst diverse vegetation that included a banana tree, a rattlesnake plant and "elkhorn" epiphytes.

I've been going to the Domes for nourishment of the soul and the senses since before my four adult children were born. I had my wedding pictures taken there. I've been romanced at the Domes, pushed strollers containing babies and toddlers (and sometimes both) through the domes, brought out-of-town visitors there, and dressed my daughters in frilly dresses for pictures among the flowers. It provided a needed respite from the stress of law school nearby when I changed careers at the age of forty and embarked on a new personal journey.

Now it is vividly real that that the future of the Domes is in serious jeopardy. An recent article in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel notes that in 2014, the county board allocated a half million dollars for repairs, a drop in the bucket compared to the $32 million master plan to renovate the Domes that had been broached in 2000, but rejected. A local architect that had been involved in the larger renovation plan had told the newspaper in 2005 that while the Domes had been groundbreaking at the time they were created, by now "whatever magic was there is gone."

I couldn't disagree more. I've never failed to find "magic" at the Domes every time I've visited. And here is just a sampling from yesterday's visit, before the doors closed behind us.