WordSisters

Category: Uncategorized

  • The Season Flies In

    This week climate change, in small letters, has had people’s attention. After days of steadily increasing temperatures,  humidity and Canadian wildflower smoke, a storm blew in with rain. Not enough rain to make up for dry conditions, but far better than none. The rain dragged in a weather front that returned days to cool temps. Kids wore light jackets for their spring field and track events or school picnics. Luckily in the Midwest bugs appeared to delay opening shop even though Memorial Day had passed.

    Lake Michigan adds unique weather games into the seasonal change. Seventy some degrees near Green Bay’s shoreline and ten degrees cooler on the Lake Michigan side. A wardrobe in your car’s trunk is not a bad idea. Kids are paddling around in Lake Michigan’s bay area waters while parents, bundled in long pants with long sleeve shirts, watch. All water surrounding Door County’s coast need to warm before humans should spend more than minutes with wet feet.

    In the Midwest spring turns to summer when bugs challenge enjoyment of outdoor activities. Now small black flies and mosquitos flex their biting powers in the time between real day hours and evening. People wrap bare legs in blankets, slip on long-sleeve tops, bum bug spray from others. Or they retreat to a screen porch or escape indoors. One day bugs were not present, then they fill the air in buzzing fronts of tiny air forces ready to sting humans.  

    Mid-fifties temperatures along with a stiff breeze changing everything again in morning. Sundresses and flip flops disappear. Jeans, sweatshirts and shoes come back. Once red bumps and itchy lumps come home from an after dinner walk and ant hills cover sidewalk cracks, spring is over, and summer’s dominance has begun. Try not to begrudge days slathered with sunscreen and topped with bug spray. It’s what we accept for not grabbing something warm to wear every time stepping outside a home or car. 

  • To Louis and Octavia

    An enthusiastic three-year-old ran craft materials to the kitchen table. She had a project in mind, a puzzle to build out of tongue depressors. 

    I was not enthusiastic about the project which, as many projects, would lead to painting which might lead to painting herself. In fact, I was tired and working hard to be gentle as she taped sticks together. When a washcloth became necessary, I got it damp at the sink, looking at her head bent over a row of painted wooden sticks. 

    The oak table where she worked on a protected area was made in 1902 when Louis Cravillion married Octavia Orde, my paternal great grandparents. How I miss my Grandma Tavy. My grandmother died following childbirth, so Octavia cared for her grandson. As a woman of the age, I am now, she cared for me. I sat on one of these chairs while she braided my hair, ate meals she cooked, or colored. My mother worked in town.

    After my great-grandfather died, we had moved in with her. My parents remodeled the kitchen and dining area storing this oak table for a new Formica and metal model. Eventually an apartment was finished upstairs so she would have her own place. The table returned. Eating breakfast in my designated chair, it was possible to watch everyone come to the new post office across Main Street. Patterns were cut to make clothes, cookie dough rolled out, homework completed.

    After her death, the table was refinished and set up as my parent’s game table. As they downsized, it came to be mine. Our children ate and did homework and projects on a glass surface that protected the oak. Today’s artist is one of their children. 

    Stories of six generations of my family have been exchanged here. Men have returned from wars to a first home meal, baptisms and weddings celebrated, hard decisions made, children loved. Great grandma’s quiet and calm presence participated in half of its history. I see her hands now show in mine; her brown eyes look back from our mirrors. I can only hope I carry some of her wisdom to those who sit at this table, her blood mixed in their veins. I am not so tired.

  • Spring Break

     During spring break 2024, we explored Hilton Head and Savanah. Southern sunshine made summer clothes the right choice for a couple of days, otherwise we wore jeans and layers of shirts. Spring break 2025 we hunkered down during a Midwestern winter storm that included freezing rain, a quarter to half inch of ice, snow and wind. 

    A small generator, water stored for at least two days without an electric well pump, battery-powered lights and our propane grill awaited a human emergency. Nothing could be done about ice coating trees. With each wind gust, the clacking of iced tree limbs created a loud, grim sound. As the rain changed into sleet then then heavy snow, the original ice threatened to take down anything delicate. Birch trees bent gracefully. Pine trees looked tortured. One froze to other trees before they all dipped to our driveway to solidify there.

    A large oak fell, its branch canopy crushed a garden area of plants transplanted from my deceased mother-in-law’s home, rose bushes and other lovely perennials. Its heavy fall and bounce over the septic system startled the dog and me. He barked. I wished I could howl.

    Other years forsythia buds are tightly closed on early April branches. Daffodils poke out of the ground and hellebores send out leaves. This year, for a few nights of spring break, we kept emergency kits near our beds and tried not to think about whether we’d be awakened by a tree busting through windows or crashing on the roof. 

    When an actual sunrise brought an end to additional layers, walking remained ill-advised as large twigs or even larger branches jettisoned down around the clock. Birds sang in away, safer places. For days, the sound of falling ice and breaking tree parts filled the outdoors. Two more trees behind our house gave up the struggle. 

    Ten miles away trees remained free of ice, but water covered farm fields. Ducks bobbed about as if everything was normal. On April Fool’s Day, the day for a variety of elections in Wisconsin, we needed to clean up messes many folks only knew because of television coverage. Iced treetops looked like diamond decorated holiday trees, but the sound of the melting and dropping branches didn’t stop from Saturday until later Tuesday. 

    My first spring ice storm was less dangerous than a tornado or wildfire whipped by winds, but a few days of stretched nerves does not make for a vacation. Add the unknowns of trade war tariffs and mid-term elections to 2026 spring break weather surprises and we’ll hold off on making plans.