Category Archives: family

Author Profile: Anne-Marie Oomen

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Michigan author Anne-Marie Oomen visited Saginaw Valley State University
and the surrounding area in April.

Anne-Marie Oomen

I am ashamed to admit it, but I have yet to fully read one of Anne-Marie Oomen’s memoirs or books of poetry, even though I own two of her books (signed) and have attended a couple of her writing sessions (one for teachers and other, this past spring, open to the general public), as well as a reading from her latest book, As Long As I Know You:  The Mom Book.  I’ve only read and heard snippets of her work … so far.

What I’ve read and heard thus far is wonderful, and knowing the topics/subjects/genre included in many of her books, I know that I will love them.  How could I not purchase a book titled Love, Sex, and 4-H?  Then there is As Long As I Know You:  The Mom Book.  I can’t wait to read it.  The passages that she read during her author event, along with the anecdotes she shared about herself, her mom, and writing the book, definitely left me hooked.

What I really want to discuss today is her capacity as a teacher.  Just over a month prior to the shutdown orders signaling the official start of the pandemic, I had the opportunity to attend a day-long writing program aimed at teachers.  Titled “Homecoming:  Coming Home,” it was sponsored by the Saginaw Bay Writing Project.  Anne-Marie Oomen happened to be one of the presenters that morning.

During her allotted time, she taught us the term ekphrasis – a method of using different works of art to create various forms of writing, whether poetry, personal essay, or short story.  Imagine studying a painting and then creating a poem from your experience.  That is ekphrasis.

After explaining the process and providing us with examples of her own work, Anne-Marie Oomen had us create our own art inspired piece.  She brought with her a large collection of postcards.  I chose one with a portrait of Annie Oakley on the front, “little sure-shot.”  I enjoyed the experience and still have a digital copy of her presentation from that day.  I left realizing that I could easily create vision boards on Pinterest to gather my thoughts and ideas for various writing projects.

Anne-Marie Oomen used the painting Nighthawks by Edward Hopper
to demonstrate the process of ekphrasis.

As wonderful as that experience was, a few months ago I learned that Anne-Marie Oomen was to be a guest scholar at Saginaw Valley State University.  During that time, she conducted a similar writing session open to the general public at the Marshall Fredericks Museum on SVSU’s campus.  I am so glad that I attended.  It made me look at one of my favorite museums in an entirely different light.  I left with a notebook full of ideas and even a rough draft.  The following evening, Anne-Marie Oomen held a reading at the Wirt Public Library in Bay City, sharing snippets from As Long As I Know You:  The Mom Book.  I’m so glad that I attended as I brought back so many memories of the short few months I had living with Grandma Reid before she needed more care than I could provide.  It is never easy watching someone you love age and decline.

I took something away from each of Anne-Marie Oomen’s events.  On top of sharing her love and knowledge of writing, she is a wonderful teacher.  Better yet … she is a Michigan author willing to help aspiring writers and teachers.

Anne-Marie Oomen’s latest book As Long as I Know You: The Mom Book details her experience dealing with her relationship with aging mother.

Living History

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In March 2020, during Lent, this piece of art featured prominently outside my classroom door.
When we left school that fate Friday, March 13th, no one realized that we wouldn’t see each other in person for months.

A Journal of a Plague Year

Growing up, I always wanted to live through a historic event.  Unfortunately, little did I know what life had in store for me.  Now in my early 40s, I am amazed when I stop to think about what historic events I have lived through already – and how different the world is from when I grew up.  I vividly remember the Cold War; the fall of the Berlin Wall; both the first and second Gulf Wars; September 11th, 2001; the War in Afghanistan; and of course, the COVID 19 pandemic.

A year after September 11th, 2001, that somber anniversary inspired me to write about my experiences on that fateful day.  That entire morning is etched in my memory.  At the time, I had just started my semester studying abroad in Quito, Ecuador a couple of weeks before.  I was still learning my routine and adjusting to my new host family.  September 11th colored that entire experience as there was no way it could not.  While I didn’t write much for the 9/11 digital archive, what I did write sets the scene and provides a glimpse into what US exchange students were dealing with all over the world.  My full story can be found at The September 11 Digital Archive, story6757.xml.

This past spring, a conversation with a fellow writer made me realize that I could do the same with my experiences throughout the pandemic.  I found a place to archive all of my writing relating to the pandemic, past and future – A Journal of a Plague Year.  I may include some videos I have from that time frame as well.  It may become a cool little side project.  I’m definitely looking forward to it.  Maybe I’ll be able to finally put all that the pandemic disturbed and disrupted behind me.

There are SO many things that stand out.  That first awful week of the shutdown during which I had to go to school, alone, and pack up all of my 6th graders belongings (pictured below).  The conversation that I had with Norma and Ashley as school dismissed that awful Friday, March 13th of Lent, not realizing that we would not see each other in person for months, will always be remembered.

In the weeks following our last in-person day of school (March 13th, 2020), as a teacher, I had to pack up my students belongings and prepare them for pickup by parents. Each teacher had an assigned time to be in the building. Doing so in the middle of the stay at home order, not knowing when I would see students, teachers, and staff again, was nothing less than surreal.

That weekend, my mom had had several old high school friends over for a get-together.  The venue changed from a friend’s house to my mom’s in order to limit contact with her friend’s disabled and susceptible son.  All so very strange and new.  Keep in mind that this is just before the stay at home order was issued for Michigan. 

After I learned that we would not be going back to school the following Monday, I just packed clothes and headed to my parents’ house.  I didn’t know what else to do.  I would stay there with them well into May/June.  What I remember most is that I happened to catch some of my mom’s friends, some of my favorite people, before they left.  It would be the last time I would see them for several months.

I could easily keep going.  The spring of 2020 also represented the end of my first full year of teaching, my first 6th grade class.  Definitely not the way I wanted to start off my teaching career.  Personally, I believe the education system is still reeling from the shutdown.  Students and teachers are still trying to pick up the pieces.

This is just a glimpse of what I plan to share and document.  I hope that I inspire others to do the same.

Book Review:  Storyteller by Dave Grohl (Audiobook)

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I admit, it took me a little longer than usual to get through Storyteller:  Stories of Life and Music by Dave Grohl, but it certainly didn’t disappoint.  It is one of the best memoirs I’ve read.  Considering his current stature in the world of pop rock/alternative, whatever you want to call it, as a drummer, his humble nature shines through.  It all started with his pure love of pop rock, namely the Beatles, moving on to the punk scene of the late 70s and early 80s, and making it big with Nirvana and grunge.  Today, it seems as though Dave Grohl has settled in as drummer and girl dad extraordinaire.  If planning on reading the book, I highly recommend the audiobook version as he reads his own memoir.  There is nothing quite like hearing about Nirvana’s early days and the danger of their exploding fan base from the drummer himself.  Then there are the well-placed expletives in his internal monologue as he meets his musical heroes and juggles world tours with daddy-daughter dances and musical projects with Joan Jett.

There is so much that stands out that it is hard to know where to even begin.  First, the unwavering support of his teacher mother is undoubtedly one of several keys to his success.  She supported – or put with – his love of music and his decision to drop out of high school in order to tour the United States with a band.  Dave’s description of his discovery of punk rock at the hands of a formerly “preppy” family friend is memorable, as is his realization that she was in a punk band herself.  It sets the stage for what is to come.

His description of his life between dropping out of high school and eventually joining Nirvana is as hazy and transient as his life at that time.  It’s great and easy to imagine.  Opportunities to fill in and drum with his idols Iggy Pop and Tom Petty standout as it is clear that Dave was as star-struck as can be at the time.

Frankly, the section in Seattle with Nirvana is just sad as we all know how it ended.  Dave’s descriptions of Nirvana’s meteoric rise to infamy is gut-wrenching to read and full of danger.  He describes in spectacular detail playing venues far too small for how big Nirvana had grown in such a short amount of time thanks to MTV and “Smells like Teen Spirit.”  After Kurt Cobain’s death, Dave understandably took some time to process everything and ground himself once again.

Given the timeline, it appears that Dave developed Foo Fighters and started his family at roughly the same time, both growing together.  For me, the best part of the book involves Dave’s descriptions of juggling life with his three daughters and superstardom.  Stories involve things such as Paul McCartney giving his eldest daughter her first piano lesson and Joan Jett reading his daughters bedtime stories.

The Joan Jett story is one of my favorites.  It starts with Dave in the Barbie aisle helping his daughters pick out a doll and coming across a Joan Jett doll.  His girls didn’t realize that Joan Jett was a real person.  Soon, Joan herself was over to their house working on some musical project with Dave, when his oldest daughter asked her if she would read them a bedtime story.  She did .. in her pjs.

Then there is the story of the daddy-daughter dance.  It involves a whirlwind trip to Australia and back to make the dance, the Australian tour itself, and a horrific bout of food poisoning.  Yet, he made it and didn’t break his little girls’ hearts.

Above all, it is a series of stories about following your dreams, hard work, fame (or infamy), family, and music.  Dave’s descriptions of conversations with his dad are touching in the end.  In the beginning, it seemed as though Dave hated his dad due to his conservative politics and his parents’ divorce.  While much of Dave’s relationship with his dad remained complicated prior to his fame, it does seem as though they made up in the years before his father passed away.  It also appears that Dave took his dad’s financial and career advice.

While I didn’t outline it here, there are plenty of rock star stories from the road in the book as well.  They are just as good.  Dave appears to have found a balance between his career and family both in the memoir and in real life.  If you love music at all or just enjoy memoir, check it out.

Book Review:  The Reading List by Sara Nisha Adams

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The overall message of The Reading List by Sara Nisha Adams far outweighs anything else I can say about the book.  Are the characters relatable and well-developed?  Yes.  I found myself cheering them on throughout the entire book.  Would I say that they are the best or most important aspect of the book?  No.  The relationships they develop with one another are much more interesting.  Above all, the role that the local library and the reading list plays in the plot and the development of the relationships between various characters is the real story.

The main protagonists, Aleisha, a young teenage girl with a troubled home life who works at the library over the summer at the suggestion of her older brother, and Mukesh, a widower who struggles to regain his sense of purpose after the loss of his wife of decades, Naina, meet at the local library.  The unlikely friendship that unfolds after their first unpleasant meeting sets the stage for all that follows that fateful summer, changing both of their lives irrevocably.

Set in the quiet London Borough of Ealing, the local library serves as a focal point for the community, even if it is well-loved and in search of additional patrons.  The reading list Aleisha finds, labeled “just in case you need it,” ultimately brings several people together in unexpected ways.  It is this list that I find to be the most interesting aspect of the book.  It is obvious that The Reading List was written by a bibliophile for bibliophiles.

The following reading list is found in the book:

In Case You Need It …

The Time Traveler’s Wife * (discussed in the book, but not included on the list)

To Kill a Mockingbird

Rebecca

The Kite Runner

Life of Pi

Pride and Prejudice

Little Women

Beloved

A Suitable Boy

______________________

From the Author …

Jhumpa Lahiri, The Namesake

Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

Zadie Smith, White Teeth

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Americanah

Katherine Heiny, Standard Deviation

Rohinton Mistry, A Fine Balance

Hiromi Kawakami, Strange Weather in Tokyo

Angela Carter, The Magic Toyshop

Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Attia Hosain, Sunlight on a Broken Column

Ali Smith, There But For The

Ultimately, The Reading List is about how books and libraries can bring us together.  It is a great message that more people need to hear.  While I don’t often hear it anymore, there are still some people who do not recognize the modern importance of libraries.  Personally, I believe that they are more important than ever.  I am grateful that my local libraries appear to be doing well and have a lot of local support.  I can’t imagine life without them.  What makes The Reading List so powerful is the demonstration of how various characters connect over books and how those connections impact their lives.  The right books seem to appear at just the right time.  I feel for anyone who has not had that experience.  I cannot recommend The Reading List enough.

Yes.  I do intend to eventually read through both lists.

Omer, Michigan

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Recently, I realized that I mention my hometown extensively without providing many details.  Unfortunately, many readers – even seasoned Michiganders – might have no idea where Omer, Michigan is.  It is just under an hour north of Bay City.  If you take the 188 Standish exit off of I-75, you will likely end up on US 23 north in Standish.  Omer is the next small town, approximately 7 miles north on US 23.  A bridge over the Rifle River, a caution light, and a set of railroad tracks are all landmarks to let you know that you have traveled through the city.

Being from Omer, Michigan isn’t for the faint of heart.  For decades, the city of Omer has held the distinction of being Michigan’s smallest city, boasting a population just shy of 300 souls.  Living in a small town does not come without its hazards.  Nothing remains private for long.  Both of my parents grew up in the area as well, with both of their families having ties to the area going back generations.  Growing up attending Standish-Sterling Community Schools, not only was I a teacher’s kid as my mom spent most of her teaching career at Standish Elementary, our family business, Russell Canoe Livery, meant that my family was well-known in both Omer and Standish.  In fact, Omer has no school, aside from a Head Start program aimed at preschoolers.  When Omer’s school burned down in the early days of the 20th century, it was never rebuilt.

Sadly, despite its location in the heart of Arenac County and its one-time status as the county seat, little remains of a once thriving city.  Today, the Arenac Country Historical Society works to preserve the Old Courthouse, the lone remaining structure to tell Omer’s cautionary tale.  During the early part of the 20th century, roughly 1905-1918, Omer experienced a series of natural disasters (namely fires, floods, and tornadoes) that nearly destroyed the city.  Throughout the 80s and 90s, the local diner, first known as Cody’s and later Ziggy’s (now a Dollar General), had disposable placemats outlining Omer’s history, including the natural disasters.

Originally named Rifle River Mills, Omer’s identity has always depended on the Rifle River.  In the late 19th century, lumber from dense northern Michigan forests traveled rivers such as the Rifle to the sawmills in the south, namely in Bay City and Saginaw.  In fact, our main location in Omer, our smaller campground, is the remains of an old mill pond.  In fact, it becomes easy to imagine the pond if you look at the current topography of the campground.  Today, the Rifle River is used exclusively for recreational purposes – fishing, canoeing, kayaking, rafting, tubing, and more.  One day last summer, I saw two young girls in bathing suits walking down Carrington St. carrying their canoe.  It is forever frozen in my mind as the most “Omer” thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

Today, Omer is home to three campgrounds, two of which are also canoe liveries, Russell Canoe Livery and Campgrounds, Inc., being the largest.  In addition, Omer is home to Meihls Mechanical, a self-storage business that is continually growing, Dollar General, the Sunrise Side Senior Center, a library attached to city hall, a post office, a small park with basketball hoops and playground, the Old Courthouse, and not much else.  While not exactly thriving, the city itself looks better than it has in decades, closed Rob’s Auto and Greg’s Market aside.

Today, Omer is relatively well known for two things:  the local sucker run and witchy wolves.  The sucker run deserves it own post.  As it will be starting soon, stay tuned.  My piece on the witchy wolf legend, dating back to right after the US Civil War, can be found here.  Omer will never be perfect, but it will always home.

Paul McCartney and Wings – Give Ireland Back to the Irish (1971)

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Picture used as the album cover of Wildlife (1971), Wings’ first album. Photo Credit: Barry Lategan

Paul McCartney and Wings – Give Ireland Back to the Irish (1971) (Video) (Lyrics)

(Written March 19, 2023)

Paul McCartney never disappoints, and “Give Ireland Back to the Irish” can be considered a perfect demonstration of the breadth and depth of his talents.  This past winter, December 2022 to be exact, The 7” Single Box Set hit stores.  This monster encompasses 80 seven-inch vinyl singles dating from his Wings and solo careers, spanning over 50 years of musical history (1971-2022).  Easily retailing for hundreds of dollars, the idea works as vinyl continues to come roaring back thanks to collectors and the lack of a better medium.  What could be better than listening to music the way it was originally intended?  As I have no vinyl collection and my days of collecting physical music (my CD collection in the 90s, early 00s) are long over, it never occurred to me to find the collection digitally.  Fortunately, that is precisely what I did, and for that, I am grateful.  “Give Ireland Back to the Irish” shines in the collection as the gem it is.

Rediscovering my favorite Wings hits, along with Paul McCartney’s extensive back catalog of solo work, made listening to The 7” Single Box Set a guilty pleasure.  “Give Ireland Back to the Irish” definitely caught my attention.  First, I had forgotten how much I love the song.  It also hit me how easy it is to forget that Paul McCartney can actually rock all on his own, silly love songs aside.  I still consider it among the best protest songs of all time.

Then there is the significance of the song.  Growing up in the 80s and 90s, I devoured the news daily.  I learned about “the Troubles” at a young age, and it is still something I will never understand.  Hatred between Catholics and Protestants?  It didn’t make sense.  Differences of opinion and belief?  Yes.  Hatred?  No.  It went against not only everything I had experienced as a child in my daily life, it also went against everything I had been taught to believe.

First, my father’s extended family is roughly half Catholic and half various Protestant denominations.  While my family and I belong to the Methodist church, my paternal first cousins were raised in the Catholic Church.  As a toddler, I attended cousin Nicole’s first Communion.  When my Russell grandparents married in 1943, my Protestant great grandmother, Dad’s Grandma Russell, supposedly didn’t originally like the idea of her youngest son marrying a Catholic.

Next, Standish, Michigan, the site of my entire K-12 education, is largely Catholic.  I spent my early childhood watching my classmates attend Catechism on Wednesday evenings.  My Catholic classmates knew my beloved Joyce – my neighbor, babysitter extraordinaire, and adopted grandmother – from 3rd grade Catechism as she taught Catechism for nearly three decades.  I watched in envy that spring as the Catholic girls dressed up as miniature brides to make their first Communion.  Later, as an adult, Mom shared with me that she’d felt the same way watching her Catholic best friends make their first Communions decades before.

Finally, our neighbors were Catholic.  Not only were they Catholic, they were the most devote Catholics I’ve ever known.  It is no secret that my brother, sister, and I adored Joyce and Carl.  On Saturday afternoons, Joyce could often be found ironing all of the linens about to be used in Mass later that evening.  Earlier in my childhood, my parents actually used to go out from time to time on Saturday evenings.  Joyce could babysit, but there was one catch: my sister Erica and I would be attending Mass with her family, as would our brother Garrett years later.

Much to my Methodist grandmother’s amusement, her Catholic friends would comment on seeing my sister and I, dressed up and on our best behavior, in Mass with Joyce and her family, looking cherubic.  Erica and I may have attended the local Catholic church more than our Methodist church in our earliest years.  Those Saturday evenings are among some of my best memories of time spent with Joyce, Carl, Karla, and Joelle.

Even as a young child, I recognized the cognitive dissonance required for me to hate Catholics.  It would have meant hating many of the very people closest to me throughout my childhood – friends, family, teachers, etc. – solely based on religion.  Considering my paternal grandmother’s Ukrainian/Polish heritage, it would almost demand some level of self-hatred.  I will never even begin to understand.

Supposedly Paul McCartney’s family was a mixture of Catholic and Protestant as well, which would explain “Give Ireland Back to the Irish.”  Even given his level of fame, the song took a certain amount of courage to write and record, particularly in the aftermath of the Beatles and the formation of Wings.  The lyrics say it all:

Great Britain you are tremendous

And nobody knows like me

But really what are you doin’

In the land across the sea?

Lyrics:  Paul McCartney/Linda McCartney

Character Study – Gwen (The Condition by Jennifer Haigh)

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I’ve been fairly open about my struggles with Turner Syndrome over the years (you can read my story here), but it still amazes me to see Turner Syndrome – along with certain aspects of myself – depicted in popular culture.  Lately, I’ve been thinking about how those representations influence perception and so much more.  Both well-known depictions of Turner Syndrome, one a “victim” in the Law and Order:  Special Victims Unit titled “Clock” (hint:  turns out she isn’t a victim at all) and the other, Gwen, the protagonist in the popular novel The Condition by Jennifer Haigh, have issues and inaccuracies, and yet, there are certain truths that shine through.  Personally, I have yet to meet a woman or girl with Turner Syndrome who isn’t as stubborn as we are portrayed in popular culture.  It is quite simple, actually:  We have to be.

Even though these images of women and girls with Turner Syndrome, along with their accuracy (or lack thereof), have been analyzed to death in the Turner Syndrome community, that isn’t my intention here.  No.  My intention is to describe my experience of seeing aspects of myself in relation to Turner Syndrome in Gwen in The Condition.  I am discussing my experiences only.

Frankly, while I enjoyed The Condition, it isn’t a book that I would necessarily reread in its entirety.  Yet, there are scenes, plots, and subplots in which I couldn’t help but see myself mirrored in Gwen – not as a woman, but as a woman with Turner Syndrome.  It is those pieces and depictions that have stayed with me for well over a decade at this point.  There are several things Gwen is faced with in the novel that most women will, fortunately, never have to face.

The opening scene still takes my breath away.  In it, Gwen’s father, who later becomes almost obsessed with the fact that she has Turner Syndrome, watches Gwen tag along with her slightly older female cousin at the beach.  He observes them as they run into the ocean.  The difference in their height and body structure is noticeable.  Gwen’s body remains almost childlike while her cousin’s decidedly does not.

Growing up with older female cousins, particularly my cousin Abby (10 months my senior), I couldn’t help but compare my body to theirs.  I always wanted to catch up but never could.  I distinctly remember one December shopping with my aunt, cousins, sister, and mom.  I desperately wanted to be able to finally buy clothes in the misses section (not kids, not juniors …) like my older cousins.  Nope.  Not yet.  Even though I was now in high school, it would have to wait.  In that opening scene of the novel, I could distinctly visualize Abby and I swimming somewhere as preteens.  In my head, I was the one comparing.

Later, Gwen is described as hiding herself away from the world in a job in which she remains in the background.  Now in her late 20s/early 30s, she wears jeans, t-shirts/sweatshirts, and sneakers everyday, all often too big for her.  Given the choice, I’d be right there with her (and am when I can).  Quite simply, it is often difficult to find clothes that fit correctly if you are a woman with Turner Syndrome.

A few years ago, I tried on a top while shopping with my mom.  I loved the color, the style – everything – except the fit that wasn’t quite right.  I came out of the dressing room to ask her opinion.  My mom almost mumbled under her breath:  “Damn Turner’s body!”  I found it hysterical because that is precisely what I was thinking.  I just needed it verified.  As much as I love the button-downed look, I could purchase blouses three sizes up and still suffer from gap-osis.  Sadly, fashion is a struggle at times.

At the end of the novel, I can’t help but root for Gwen.  She is so fed up with her family members’ actions and reactions to the life she has created for herself and the fact that she finally met someone that she runs off to the Caribbean to be with her new boyfriend.  Considering how her family treats her and reacts to different aspects of her life, I can’t say that I blame her.  Her new life in the Caribbean sounds fantastic.

I admit, I am extremely guarded about my personal life as well.  It is just that I’ve always needed space.  Throwing infertility into the mix is never easy.  The idea that someone you love would have to give up having biological children of their own to be with you …  Well, unfortunately, that is reality in many cases.  I pray that it will get better with age, and in some ways, it already has.

When I finished The Condition all those years ago, my immediate reaction was one of wonder.  Did Jennifer Haigh have Turner Syndrome herself?  Did her best friend?  Who did she interview to get into our heads so well – or at least my head?  I loved the title of the book.  One may think that “the condition” references Turner Syndrome, but in reality, in the book, each member of Gwen’s family battles demons of their own, even without a diagnosis.

I am a firm believer that everyone has something – some huge hurdle he or she needs to overcome in life.  Everyone has a story.  As The Condition lingered in my mind, I couldn’t help but feel “seen” in a way I’ve never experienced in a book.  As a teacher, it reinforces the need to expose students to as many diverse books as possible. Unfortunately, when we talk about diversity in literature, we too often just focus on race, religion, and sexuality.  The reality is that there are so many other stories out there and so many other ways to view diversity. This is one reason why I wish everyone would share their story in some way, shape, or form.  No one is ever truly alone.

By the way, if you happen to be the parent of a girl with Turner Syndrome, I can’t recommend the National Turner Syndrome Camp enough.  I attended two years, and it allowed me to meet others with Turner Syndrome for the first time.  It also boosted my confidence in a way that nothing else ever has.

Joan Osbourne – One of Us (1995)

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Joan Osbourne – One of Us (1995) (Video) (Lyrics)

There are one hit wonders, and then there are one hit wonders that reside on Grammy nominated albums.  While I’ve never been a fan of award shows, even the Grammys, I did pay some attention to the Grammy albums that came out each February as a teen – just in case there was something I’d missed the year before.

I don’t remember when I first heard One of Us, but I immediately fell in love with the song.  It was the perfect song to belt by yourself in your car when you think no one is watching.  Half the fun of getting your driver’s license as a teen is the anticipation.  I couldn’t wait to be the one behind the wheel, belting whatever I pleased.

Growing up, the only thing better than waiting to get my license was waiting for my older cousin Abby to get hers.  We are only ten months apart in age and grew up together.  We shared a first Christmas at Grandma Buttrick’s house in 1980 – and every one thereafter until Grandma passed away in 2014.  Now, at Christmas, we bring the party to Abby, even in the middle of blizzards.  We did elementary school, junior high and high school, and even college together.  We, along with her older sister Emily, studied supply chain management at Michigan State.  Freshman year, she was my ride home.  Safe to say, my childhood would have been much different without Abby J.  She was very much the older sister I never had.

In February 1996, the Grammys were over, we were celebrating all of the February birthdays at Aunt Robin’s house, and Abby was just about to turn 16.  Her first car was similar to mine.  I ended up with my beloved ‘89 red Grand Prix and hers was a white ‘88.  Both of those cars ended up saving our lives.

I don’t remember specifically what Abby received for her birthday, aside from the car, but we ended up listening to One of Us on the CD player she had had installed in her car.   There is nothing to compare to giggling in the back seat of a car with your older cousin and younger sister singing along to a great song at top volume.  This image of the three of us singing One of Us with as much emotion as we could muster continues to haunt me.  In a few months, everything would change.

The day started out normal enough.  A typical beautiful early June day not long after school ended for the year, it was to be my first day of driver’s ed.  I had just enough time to down a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats before Mom was to return from the gym and drop me off at the high school.

I met Mom in the kitchen after I heard the door to the garage open.  I knew immediately something awful had happened.  Mom couldn’t stop crying, and generally, Mom wasn’t a crier.  On the way home from the gym, she had heard that Abby had been involved in a tragic car accident.  I don’t know for sure, but I have the idea that she heard it on the radio on her way home.  However it was reported on the radio, it made it sound as though Abby was at fault.  That certainly wasn’t the case.  In reality, Abby was hit head on by a drunk driver.  Another car had been immediately in front of Abby and swerved out of the way of the drunk driver, leaving Abby with no time to react.  Tragically, the other driver died.

Abby was OK but certainly not unscathed.  Once she was home from the hospital, I remember visiting her with my mom, sister, and brother.  My younger brother Garrett, 5 at the time, made her laugh so hard that he had to stop.  It made her stitches hurt.  He still has that effect on people.

My intention here isn’t to tell Abby’s story as I could never do it justice and it isn’t mine to tell.  Instead, it is to finally admit just how deeply Abby’s accident affected me.  Keep in mind that her accident happened on my first day of driver’s ed.  Shortly after learning the true story of the accident and that Abby would be OK, I was sitting in a classroom listening to the driver’s ed instructor talk about her accident.  I wouldn’t feel comfortable behind the wheel for years.   It would take two road trips well into college – one to Minnesota and one to Texas – to make that happen.

In the end, Abby and I joined SADD (Students Against Drunk Driving) the following school year.  She went on to suffer braces all over again and became class president her senior year.  Eventually, we both ended up at Michigan State.  It is thanks to Abby, who still didn’t feel completely comfortable driving the expressway, I learned the back roads home from State.

Everyone always seemed to chalk up my issues behind the wheel – fear, basically – to Turner Syndrome (TS).  Most women with TS do not get their license on time due to depth perception/spatial issues.  Fortunately, I’ve learned how to deal with those.  No, it was my fear and anxiety after Abby’s accident.  One of Us will always take me back to a much simpler time.

Hitting the Road

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I’ve always loved traveling, no matter how short or long the trip.  This wanderlust has taken me on so many wonderful adventures over the years, and fortunately for me, so many of my best childhood memories were made hitting the road with Grandma Reid.  The woman just loved to go.  She rarely spent time at home, at least until age caught up with her.  In fact, she spent over forty years selling women’s clothing from a variety of catalog companies.  So many of her customers were housewives who lived out in Michigan’s Thumb.  She’d drive to her customers, bags and bags of clothing samples in tow.  She quit selling in the early/mid-1990s only due to the fact that she could no longer find a quality company to represent.  The last company she carried sold more home goods than clothing.  Unfortunately, the quality was nothing compared to the companies she worked for during the 1950s-1980s.  Even as a teenager, I loved to go clothes shopping with Grandma.  She had a way of helping you find the right fit and could be brutally honest if need be.  I learned to love the road and basics of business, at least in part, at my grandmother’s knee.  

During my preschool years, Grandma would pick me up from time to time.  At the time, I was used to her late ‘70s/early ‘80s blue Chysler station wagon, the same one that I tried to make Grandpa Reid promise to take care of as it was now his.  If you knew Grandpa Owen, it was a futile effort, even if asked by his adorable granddaughter.  I can still envision the station wagon parked underneath the old apple tree at the canoe livery – or as we always called it, the park – Grandpa napping in the backseat in the heat of a Michigan summer.


The Chrysler minivan on display at the Henry Ford.

“1984 Plymouth Voyager Minivan by Chrysler – The Henry Ford – Engines Exposed Exhibit 2-22-2016 (1)” by Corvair Owner is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Then one day, I couldn’t find Grandma’s station wagon in the preschool parking lot.  Grandma’s new vehicle was one for the books.  She purchased one of the first Chrysler minivans, and what a vehicle it was!  I have no idea how many miles she put on the thing, but I do know that she replaced the engine at one point.  She finally totaled it in the early 90s in an accident on her way to one of my sister’s softball games.  That iconic tan minivan, when it was finally put to rest, represented the passing of an era.

What makes certain vehicles from our childhood so damn memorable?  I wrote a piece about my first car, which my mom drove for a large chunk of my childhood.  I could write something similar about my dad’s ‘77 Freewheelin’ Ford Bronco, his green Jeep Grand Cherokee that my sister inherited as her first vehicle, or even the lemon fullsize blue Ford van with the squealing fan belt that hung around the canoe livery forever – the one we drove to Florida to Walt Disney World.  It isn’t the vehicles so much as the journeys and times they represent.

Last spring, touring the Henry Ford Museum for the first time with my middle school students, I was taken back by a veritable wave of nostalgia seeing one of first Chrysler minivans (in this case, a Plymouth Voyager – almost identical to the first Dodge Caravans) at the end of a long line of evolving family vehicles.  It stopped me for a moment.  All it needed was a tan paint job/interior and Dodge badging to be Grandma’s minivan of my childhood.

More than anything, that minivan represents, at least to me, countless trips to the movies, Lutz’s Funland in Au Gres, putt-putt golf in Tawas, ice cream runs, and the Bear Track.  I think of the infamous trip to Kings Island in Ohio where Mom and Grandma tried to remain calm as we were caught in an awful storm.  We were parked, Grandma had her foot on the brake, and the van was still shaking.  How many trips to weddings, family reunions, and showers did I take with her in that van?  Last, but not least, we took Grandma’s van to the airport on our infamous trip to Aruba with Dad, Erica, Emily Lammy, Grandma, and Dean Gillette (Mom was too pregnant with Garrett to fly) for New Year 1991.  On the way home, something was wrong with the van, and we could only travel in 15 minute spurts.  I thought we’d never get home, but eventually, we arrived.

Grandma knew how to make any trip fun.  It wouldn’t be a summer adventure if we didn’t stop for ice cream.  On one such occasion, we’d stopped for ice cream after hitting a local amusement park for putt-putt and go-karts.  Per usual, Grandma had a van full.  In addition to my sister and I, cousins Michael and Linda were there as well, and I may even be forgetting someone.  As we are enjoying ice cream on the way home, suddenly my sister’s ice cream falls off of its cone squarely into Michael’s hand.  We had to pull over we were laughing so hard, especially Grandma.  Now well into our 30s and 40s, the ice cream incident is still mentioned from time to time.  Something about it was so incredibly funny, or as Grandma would say, comical.

Now, I’m the one who is rarely home.  I’m the one “running the roads” as my dad would say.  I hope to make the same kind of road memories with my niece and nephews as they grow up, but that is more my mom’s territory, for now.  I normally tag along in her car, playing navigator if need be.  Maybe one day they will reminisce about all the Buick Enclaves in our family at the moment (3 and counting) or Uncle Garrett’s Avalanche.  

At this point, I doubt my love of the road will ever die.  Thank you, Grandma.

Cars We Love

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A1989 Pontiac Grand Prix similar to my first car.
The only thing missing here is the luggage rack on the trunk.

Funny how certain cars from your past just stay with you.  Where do I even begin with my first car, my 1989 Pontiac Grand Prix, a perfect cheery red?  My love affair with that car began right off the lot.  My parents purchased the car brand new in Gladwin, MI in 1989.  It was the first proper car my mom had since my parents married in 1977.  After my parents married, they sold my mom’s car to help purchase buses, and the full-sized vans that replaced it doubled as a canoe livery vehicles in the summer.  She definitely earned that brand new car!  I think I was just as excited as she was – almost.  If anything, I inherited my love of cars from Mom.  I even went to the dealership with my parents, an exciting new experience at age 8.

By 1995, a friend of my parents, who owned the GM dealership in town, happened to drive over the latest Grand Prix model – again, bright red.  The Grand Prix had just been redesigned, and few people in Arenac County, if any, had it at that point.  Soon, Mom had another new car and the old one, later mine, went into the pole barn, waiting for me to turn 16 and earn my license.

During the fall of 1996, I spent hours detailing it, getting ready for when I earned my license in December.  I carefully drove it through the campground, practicing backing up and avoiding things like fire rings and electrical posts, carefully storing it back in the pole barn, waiting not so patiently.  My mom had taken great care of it, and now, it was up to me.

A few features of that Grand Prix still stand out.  1989, frankly, was the end of an era when it came to cars.  My Grand Prix was probably one of the last models that didn’t include air bags and CD players.  Instead, it had a futuristic 80s electronic dash and a retro tape deck.  Later, we had a five CD changer installed in the trunk.  I could not have asked for a more perfect first car.

After much heartache, stress, and tears – another story entirely – my dad took me to the Secretary of State on my birthday to get my license.  He even let me pick out a new license plate for my car.  I ended up with a centennial plate commemorating the 100th anniversary of the automobile industry.  Somehow, some of my best memories with Dad always seem to involve vehicles, whether cars, SUVs, minibusses, or big ole school buses.

Car and license in hand, I now drove myself and my younger sister Erica to school and around town.  The biggest issue, of course, became control of the radio for the entire 10 minute drive to school.  We didn’t fight much, but we did argue over music and sharing a bathroom on the daily.  That first winter driving, Erica and I experienced our first accident.  A fender bender that could have happened to anyone, we both freaked out as only young teenage girls can.  Fortunately, no one was hurt and the damage was easily repaired.

I kept that Grand Prix well into college.  In 2001, I drove it to and from my internship with IBM out in Rochester, Minnesota.  Alone, I will never forget driving home along US 2 across the Upper Peninsula (UP) of Michigan in late August with incredible views of Lake Michigan along the way.  It is still one of my favorite road trips.  That trip finally helped me to become completely comfortable behind the wheel.

The following year, after a year studying abroad in Ecuador and Spain, I spent six months living and working in Austin, Texas.  I had landed the co-op with Applied Materials at the same time I landed the gig with IBM.  As I already knew that I would be studying abroad the following academic year, I convinced Applied Materials to bring me aboard the following summer, June 2002.  By this point, it was time to replace the Grand Prix.

The original plan was to sell my car in Texas, fly home in December for my birthday and Christmas, purchase a new vehicle, and return to Michigan State for winter semester 2003.  Well, best laid plans rarely work out.  On July 24th, 2001, on my way to work at Applied, a moving truck turned in front of me.  I had had the green light, and he hadn’t seen me.  I slammed on the brakes so hard that I broke my big toe and the metatarsal on my right foot.  I ended up in a splint and, later, a walking cast, up to my knee.

The entire front end of the Grand Prix slid under the truck, stopping just in time.  If I had had a passenger in the front seat, he or she probably would not have made it.  All I could think of was how many times I had had my brother or sister with me, usually shotgun.  I walked away relatively unscathed.  My only other injury, other than a badly scraped left knee from the dash, was a deep cut behind my ear from the window molding.  Somehow, the safety glass held.

Thank God that car didn’t have air bags.  First generation air bags later gained a reputation for killing shorter drivers.  At 5’0, I may have ended up a statistic.  That Grand Prix that I’d loved for so long had saved my life.  It was the end of an era.

I ended up with another Grand Prix, of course – a 2002.  Yet, nothing I’ve owned since could ever top my first car, not even purchasing a brand new car on my own.  So many childhood, teenage, and even young adult memories – way too many to share here – wrapped up in one vehicle.  I’ve even dreamed about it.  I dreamed that, somehow, it was still stored in my parents’ pole barn, waiting for me to drive it again.

Another view.