Grand Marais

It's been too long since I got off my beaten path, so after Uncle Dennis' funeral, I took advantage of my status of a lady of leisure (sounds just a little decadent, no?) and went on up to Grand Marais for a bit of rest before returning to the heat of Missouri.

I was born and raised in Minnesota, but my family didn't travel much. While I'd heard the north shore was beautiful, I'd never seen it with my own eyes. I have a good friend who moved there a couple of years ago, so with the problem of lodging a moot point (rooms to rent can be hard to find during August up there, where typical summer daytime highs are in the seventies, lows in the sixties - go figure!), I headed north.

The drive was all it was advertised to be. Grand Marais is on the north shore of Lake Superior, about 45 minutes from the Canadian border. To get there, you follow I-35 north to where it ends in Duluth, then take Highway 61 on up the coast. The road snakes along the shore of the lake, offering tantalizing glimpses of the water. There wasn't a lot of traffic, so I was able to relax and enjoy the scenery as I moseyed along. Trees to the left, the ribbon of road unspooling in front of me, the lake to the right - I was content.

I was only able to spend a couple of days up there, and followed the advice of my hostess, Christie, on how to spend my time. Her friend Denise was in town, and was a willing guide as we visited the best of the local art galleries and shops, took a walk along the shore near the lighthouse in town, and drove on up the coast the rest of the way to Canada to see Grand Portage Falls. (Canada is on the right side of the river in the photo.)

We took time to go out rock picking one evening after dinner. OK, Christie searched the shore for actual good rocks, while I sat there gazing across the water to where it merged with the horizon. I listened to the whoosh of the waves and played with the rounded stones directly beneath my hands. I made a small pile of the prettier ones, and entertained myself by throwing some of the others at a nearby rock jutting out of the water. Sometimes, if they hit just right, the lava rocks would split into pieces with a satisfying clunk, arcing through the air at seemingly random angles before plopping back into the water. It was a good place to sit and ponder life and death and the meaning of it all.

I slept like a baby while I was there. The air cooled rapidly after sunset, so I was able to snuggle under the covers and breathe the fresh air wafting in through the open window all night long. The morning sun warmed the air perfectly, and I was able to spend a few minutes after opening my eyes just admiring the quality of the light filtering through the trees in the wild area at the back of the house. 

I hadn't seen Christie in a couple of years, so we had a lovely time catching up on each other's lives. Like me, she's gone through a LOT of changes in the past few years. She's clearly started to come to some calmer waters; it shows in her face. Listening to her stories gave me hope I will come to some sort of peaceful cove in the unsettled seas of my own life.

Home again for several weeks now, I am SO grateful I took the time to meander her direction. The trip helped to remind me it's the journey, not the destination, that's the important part of life. I don't need to worry so much about where the road is going. I do need to remember to enjoy the beauty I find along the journey.

Stop. Breathe. Relax.

It'll Just Take a Coupla Days

On and off this year, as my energy and mood both lean to the positive, I've been giving the rooms in my house a face lift. Nothing major; I've been taking 3-4 days in each room to fill in nail holes, fix a few plaster cracks, and give the space a fresh coat of paint (using the same colors to minimize the work).

A couple of weeks ago, I decided to tackle the last room, the living room. I had a few days open, and though it would feel good to be able to check the project off my to-do list. I moved out a bunch of the furniture, clustered what was left in the middle of the room, and covered it with sheets to protect it from errant paint drops. I still had a little time and energy left when I finished up, and convinced myself to take one more step.

"Just dig out those few cracks", she said.
"It won't take long", she said.

(she = me, talking to myself)

So, I got out my scraper, and started to work on the walls. As I was digging out the first crack, the edge of my scraper slipped under the paint next to where I was working. "huh.  What's that about?" I let the tool slide up and under just a little, then pulled at the corner of the loose paint. A large patch of paint peeled off the wall, like peeling a sticker off its backing. "uh oh. not good"

I stopped there for a moment, trying to convince myself it was just an anomaly. Surely, I could just pretend I hadn't seen what I'd just seen, and move on without pause. Surely, I could just patch over the edge of the patch I'd peeled, and call it good. But good sense prevailed. If I didn't want to be doing it over within the year, I needed to buckle down and do it right. And I HATE doing things over.

*sigh* I gotta admit - I aimed a few choice cuss words in "her" direction as I put the scraper down and called it a night. (I've learned that some tasks are best tackled after a good night's rest.)  "She" never has learned how to properly guesstimate how long any given project will take. *sigh*

The next morning, I set to scraping and peeling in earnest. Within a couple of hours, a good 80% of the paint had come off the walls in good-sized, easy-to-peel sheets. Turns out someone had spent a lot of time doing a pretty darn good job of skim-coating the walls, but then had skipped the step of priming the raw plaster before slapping on a coat of paint. That, and they'd put the skim coat over the old plaster cracks without digging out the soft plaster first, and when I peeled off the paint, the repairs gave way. What a mess!

Fast forward a couple of weeks, and it turned out to be not all THAT bad. The plaster repair skills I honed last year at the castle served me well - the plaster repair part went WAY faster than it would have two years ago. And while you know I didn't skip the primer step before I put the two coats of paint on the walls, the job still didn't take as long as I was afraid it was going to, back when I peeled off that first square of paint. (I am certainly grateful I don't charge me by the hour for the work I do - this one would have totally blown the budget!)

I finished putting the room back together last night. After I'd placed the last tchotchke back in its home, I took a step back, admired the clean look of the room, and gave me a pat on the back.

"Good job", she said.

Goodbye, Uncle Dennis

Dennis John 
December 6, 1937 - February 1, 2021

Uncle Dennis was my dad's youngest brother, and I want to be just like him when I grow up.

I know I can't QUITE be like him - it's too late to have a long and loving marriage like the one he had with my Aunt Lou; they were married for 58 1/2 years. I loved it when I got to spend time with the two of them. I enjoyed watching their interplay; they'd long ago settled into a delightful rhythm. They'd found ways to love both because of and despite their differences, and it showed.

But I can work on being a person who looks for the good in life; someone who is a good neighbor. I can stay active and remember to notice the beauty of the world I am passing through. I can work to be a touchstone for my children; someone they can rely on and turn to for advice.

He and Aunt Lou were snowbirds, and stayed in Tucson, AZ each winter. I stopped to see them when I ran away from home for a few weeks after getting diagnosed with cancer nine years ago; a sort of coda to the dream life I'd been living. I loved the few days I was able to spend with them. They wouldn't let me lift a finger; fixed all my meals for me, wouldn't even let me help with the dishes. We went hiking and to yoga. We took naps and shared stories. When I left, I left with a heart full of their love and support. 

And I know that's how he tried to treat all the people he met. He worked hard to change the world for the better. At his funeral, we heard of one of his last accomplishments - he brought the game of pickleball to his home in Amery, WI.

During the eulogy, they told the story of how he'd decided some long-neglected tennis courts would be the perfect place to set up pickleball. He worked with some of his friends and the city to clean up, resurface, and repaint the courts. Got new nets installed, fixed the fencing. His work was appreciated, and at his funeral, they showed us the sign they'd gotten made and planned to install. Yes, the courts are to be officially known as the Dennis John Pickleball Courts.

Not a bad legacy, if you ask me.

Goodbye, Uncle Dennis. The Dennis-sized hole you left behind in the lives of we who loved you will be hard to fill. I will miss you. Rest in God's Peace.