Marathon, affair or suicide? Do I have to choose just one?

As another year comes to a close and my 40th birthday lurks just over a week away, I feel it’s inevitable for me to sit down and write a reflection on this milestone birthday and what 2015 might have in store. Please bear with me as I purge my thoughts on this subject, as I know it’s been done countless times before by any number of people who I’m sure had deeper and more important thoughts on the matter than my own. But fuck it, if there’s one thing I’ve finally learned after 39 years on this planet, is there’s nothing quite so fun and liberating as saying fuck it, I don’t give a damn what people think. Of course, I’d kind of be lying to myself, as there will always be some opinions out there that I hold dear to my heart. But, overall, what the world thinks in general doesn’t really matter a whole lot to me. Certainly not as much as it did when I was in my twenties.  

Fuck it, I'm 40.

I recently read an article regarding a study that found people living in the last year before beginning a new decade — age 29, 39, 49, etc. — tend to make a big life altering decision in, “an ongoing or failed search for meaning.” Unfortunately, I was filled with dread when I read this article and realized I only had a month to figure it all out and find some meaning. Shit, what’s a girl to do! The research found there was an apparent increase in the number of people running marathons, having affairs and committing suicide at those ages. Well, damn, why limit myself to just one of these life altering decisions? If I’m going to find meaning as I head into my next decade here on Earth, I ought to up the ante and try all three. If I was truly ambitious, I would run a marathon, stop at mile 12 for a quickie with a race official, then fall over dead at the finish line since running a marathon for me is akin to suicide. Unfortunately, I can’t run to save my life and even if I could, a month would never be long enough to train for a marathon. That leaves me with having an affair and committing suicide, but I have to admit that neither of these options sound very appealing to me. Maybe the guilt of the affair would make the act of suicide easier? I doubt I’m going to find a whole lot of meaning in the arms of a stranger or by ending my life prematurely, so I’ve decided to explore other options.

What major life altering decision can I make that isn’t cited in this article? Does it have to be one major life altering decision, or can I make a list of goals for 2015? I’d rather not fall down the rabbit hole of New Year’s resolutions, yet I’m tempted to reflect upon the ways I can become a better person and possibly even find more meaning in my life that doesn’t involve running, sex or death. Lord knows, I already have way too much of those things in my life as it is. For the sake of possibly succeeding in self-improvement, I’d like to keep the list short and simple. Someone please remind me six-months from now that this list exists so I can check-up on myself and see how I’m doing. I am going to keep my list to three items, all of which are interrelated.

1. Work on my technology addiction
2. Work on being a better parent
3. Be more active

I won’t lie, I love the internet and spend a hell of a lot of time online. It is my number one time waster in my average day. True, much of what I do online can be justified as being necessary for my work as a photographer, but percentage wise, I know most of my time spent online involves Facebook, reading sometimes interesting, but mostly irrelevant articles, and taking insipid quizzes to find out what state I should be living in and what Game of Thrones character I am. I use the internet more for entertainment than for business and personal growth. I don’t see this fact as necessarily being a problem in and of itself. However, I would like to cut back on the amount of time I spend online. Right now, it’s just always on in the background, especially now that I have an iPhone. I know that I would have a very difficult time going a week without internet access. I think I’d have a hard time going a day or two without it. Ultimately, it interferes with my physical and emotional presence with the real people in my life. It’s time to cut back.

Step one to being a better parent to my four-year-old son is dealing with my technology addiction. Too often I find myself reading another stupid parenting article online and not paying enough attention to my actual child playing in the room beside me. Too often we’re at the park and I find myself trying to take a fun picture of him so I can share it with Facebook friends. In the meantime I’m missing out on actually just being with him and interacting. Step two to being a better parent is working on my patience. Too often I get frustrated with his behavior and my temper flares and I need to step back and remind myself that he’s only four-years-old. Yes, his behavior can be trying at times, but it’s completely normal for his age. I love the kid to death, but he can drive me nuts at times. I find it important to talk to him after I get particularly angry and explain to him that I dislike his behavior, not him. I hope to have less talks like this in the coming year as I work on being a more patient parent and he grows out of some of his behaviors.

Finally, I want to be more active in general. Once again, this can be tied back to my technology addiction. I love the ability to communicate with friends and family on Facebook. Being a stay-at-home mom can be lonely at times, as I find I really miss adult interaction. Facebook has provided me with a great way to connect with the adults I love most in my life. However, as entertaining as spending a whole evening online can be, I would really like to concentrate on spending more physical time with the people in my life and doing more creative and active things. I’ve had a guitar since August, but have I found the time to even begin to learn how to play it? I love writing, but how often do I actually sit down and make myself write? As tempted as I was to start watching season two of, “The Newsroom,” tonight, I made a conscious decision to sit at my computer and write, and I’m glad that I did. I hope to spend more time with friends and family in 2015. I wish that so many of the people I enjoy the most didn’t live so far away. That would make this goal much easier to accomplish.  

Examining the list above, I realize maybe it would be easier to run a marathon, have an affair or kill myself. But I think as I turn 40 and face whatever mid-life crisis society tells me I should be facing, I’m ready to make some changes for the better. And if I fail? If I fail . . . I’ll just remember the wise words of one of Minnesota’s most famous denizens — “If you don’t like the world you’re living in, take a look around, at least you’ve got friends.” I’ve got a lot of friends who love and accept me for who I am — failings and all. And being a lazy, technology addicted parent is a hell of a lot better than being an adulterous dead marathoner.

Please note that the irony of this blog post and subsequent Facebook post with link to said blog post is not entirely lost on me.

I will be celebrating my birthday, December 29th, in New Orleans this year. Any suggestions on fun things to do?

Kuplink, kuplank, kuplunk . . thoughts on berry picking

Aside from a mutual love of berry picking, I doubt I have a lot in common with the mother in the classic children’s book “Blueberries for Sal.” For one, she dragged her young child along with her to pick berries in the woods, while I left mine with his grandmother in order to get some much needed time alone. Sal’s mother plans to can her blueberries for winter and repeats this fact multiple times in the short book, to the point that it becomes annoying. Me? I plan on making a blueberry pie, blueberry muffins and maybe just eating some tremendous handfuls in the style of baby bear. You won’t find me wasting these precious, tiny, tasty berries on canning. I want my reward for the tedious labor of wild blueberry picking and I want it now  — or at least within a few days of the hours I spend picking.

As a kid my mother use to drag me with her to pick strawberries at a local farm. My memories of this tradition involve back breaking work in the hot July sun while horse flies buzz around my head and bite big chunks of flesh from my arms and legs. I’m fairly sure it wasn’t that bad, but I know for certain it wasn’t a favorite childhood activity and it felt like torture. Like most kids, I did not appreciate the strawberry pies and jam my mom would make with the fruits of my labor. Now, as an adult with a love for baking, I have a new-found respect for the hard work that goes into berry picking.

There’s something wonderful about using your own hands to gather the raw materials for an amazing kitchen creation — namely pie. I had this in mind when I recently set out to pick wild blueberries while I was home visiting my parents in the Keweenaw Peninsula of Michigan. My husband and I have a patch of strawberry plants and raspberries growing in our backyard and take full advantage of the berries they produce, but it has been years since I picked wild blueberries. Growing up, I spent a lot of time at my friend Kristin’s family’s camp along Lake Superior where a lot of wild blueberries grow. We’d spend some time picking berries, but our attention spans were fairly short, so we did more blueberry grazing than anything else. Now and then I’d pick enough blueberries to bring to my Grandma Norma, who would in turn take the berries and create one of her delectable pies. Ultimately, memories of her pies would be my motivation to pursue the challenge of wild blueberry picking once again.

The harvesting of wild blueberries is certainly the Everest of the berry picking world. I am reminded of this when I reach the picking spot recommended by Kristin’s mom Jill. “Damn, they’re so much smaller than I remember,” I think to myself. I walk along a sandy, logging road that is bordered by short pine trees and a flat swampy area. The day is overcast and gloomy, with a slight on and off again drizzle. Aside from some pesky mosquitos, it’s perfect picking weather. The ground is covered with ferns and lichen, and of course, wild blueberry plants.

As I start to pick, it feels like forever before the bottom of my little plastic white pail turns completely blue with the tiny berries. The plants are very low to the ground, so picking requires constant crouching. I try to spy patches plentiful with berries, but as time goes on, I find I’m being less careful about avoiding the leaves and the tiny stems that come off with the berries.

“I’ll worry about those later,” I think to myself.

I spend about two hours walking along the road and then back again toward my car all the while picking. Along with my berry pail, I carry a small bag containing bug spray that my mother thankfully reminded me to bring, and some ziplock bags to fill with my excess berries. I was overzealous and packed three of the gallon sized bags. I was way overzealous. Once my bucket is nearly full, I transfer the berries into one of the ziplock bags and what I picked fills about half of the bag. Following one little spillage accident, I wasn’t going to chance losing anymore berries. The only thing more tedious than picking blueberries is trying to pick-up spilled berries from the underbrush on the ground.

Two hours of picking and I do not see or hear another person. The only thing I hear are crickets chirping and the distant sound of Lake Superior waves hitting the shore. My mind wanders and I think about how theraputic the berry picking experience feels. Picking the tiny berries requires a lot of patience and restraint. As your bucket goes from being half-empty (or half-full depending on your temperament) to teeming with berries, you feel a great sense of accomplishment and begin to really look forward to your reward, your motivation . . . the pie you haven’t tasted since you were a child.  

Dollar Bay — Not a Dump — Part III

Avenue G — Neighbor Street

Avenue G, the street where I grew up, was also known as “neighbor street.” It got this moniker from the Wuebben family, who lived one street over. They were a large Apostolic Lutheran family with 13 kids who lived across the alley from me. Their street did not have sidewalks, so they spent a lot of time riding their bikes on neighbor street. Picture tiny kids riding bikes three sizes too big for them, and you’ll be picturing any number of young Wuebben kids along Avenue G. The street is now known as Granite Avenue. When the area finally got a 911 system put in place, many of the small towns had their streets renamed due to confusion from similar sounding addresses. Most streets in Dollar Bay were renamed after trees — Dogwood, Cedar, Elm, Fir — but apparently they couldn’t come up with a tree that starts with the letter G. Incidentally, Avenue H, where the Wuebben family lived, is now Hellman Avenue, named after a state legislator who was one of Dollar Bay’s more famous residents.

I park my car by First Lutheran Church on the corner of Third Street before starting my walking tour. My block is bookended by two large white churches — First Lutheran and Bethany Baptist. As a kid I would complain a lot about the fact that we attended neither church and instead belonged to the Catholic church a few blocks away. However, I enjoyed spying on the cute Baptist boys from my bedroom window using binoculars. What can I say . . . it was a small town and most of the Baptist congregation came from neighboring towns, which made them exotic.

I first saw the new mobile home sitting on the corner of Granite Avenue and Third Street, across from First Lutheran Church, when I was in Dollar Bay for the Fourth of July parade. It’s located smack dab on the edge of old Jack Champion’s prized vegetable garden. I knew Jack’s been dead for years and the garden was long gone, but it still strikes me as an odd place for a mobile home. Between my memories of his glorious garden, all the attempts we made as kids to raid it , and the landscape itself, it just seems an odd location.

When a friend of my mother’s mentions the murder that took place there, I’m shocked. I knew all about the terrible domestic assault that resulted in the murder of a brilliant 27-year-old Iranian woman back in December, but had no idea it happened just down the street from my old house. Sanaz Nezami had recently moved to Dollar Bay and was about to begin a doctorate program in environmental engineering at Michigan Technological University in Houghton when she was brutally beaten by her husband Nima Nassiri and died a few days later. The couple had only been married a few months and the murder received quite a bit of media attention due to the compassionate response by the medical community, the use of technology to connect with Nezami’s family in Iran and the donation of her organs used to help save seven lives. You can read about the case here —

Iran Times Article

Huffington Post Article

When I first learned of the of the story, I was saddened that such a thing occurred in the small town where I grew up. But even more shocking is finding out it happened right down the street from my house. I know I haven’t lived there in 20 years, but I’ll always think of it as my house, my street, my town, and something about the proximity of such a terrible crime to MY house feels personal. Upon looking and photographing the mobile home, it is difficult to not tear up a bit knowing what happened there. Such an act of violence in a place that holds memories of my youth and innocence is difficult to fathom. I can still make out the faint outline of the dirt bike path that once cut through the front yard of the mobile home. I rode my bike down that path countless times on the way to my friend Shannon’s house.

I make my way up the street from the corner toward the house in the middle of the block with the white vinyl siding, then hear a voice call out in a questioning tone, “Chrissy?”

I’m surprised to find our old nextdoor neighbors, the Hebners, sitting out on their front porch.

After realizing they think I’m my older sister Chris, I reply, “No, it’s Michele, the youngest,” making sure to capitalize on my incredible youthfulness.

“Oh, we knew it was a Jokinen for sure,” said Audrey.

It’s nice to see familiar faces, to stop and chat for awhile and share some old memories of the neighborhood. I mention something to them about the murder and we share our shock and disgust.

“Old Jack must be rolling around in his grave,” said Skeeboo. His real name is David, but he has gone by the nickname Skeeboo for ages. I have no idea why.

“That’s exactly what I said when I heard the news,” I reply. We go on to recount Jack’s amazing garden, and how he chased the kids out of it whenever we attempted to get a midday snack. I wish I could remember that little corner of Dollar Bay for the innocent childhood crime of garden raiding instead of the heinous crime that took place so many years later. RIP Sanaz. I’m sorry your short time in Dollar Bay met with such a terrible conclusion.     

Shit Watch: A Tale of Class and Refinement

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Okay, really, it was just a weird time in my life.

I had recently graduated from the University of Michigan with a bachelor’s degree in biology. The lease on the house I shared with my three closest college friends was quickly coming to an end and my friends were all moving on. I had finally secured my first post-college job, as a laboratory assistant sequencing DNA for a U of M service lab. I can’t say I was too excited about joining the workforce, in part because by my junior year I had realized that biology was not the major for me.

I felt lost. College was over, my best friends were all moving away, and yet I was still in Ann Arbor spinning my wheels. The one bright spot in my life at the time was my new found love of photography. I had just completed a basic black and white photo class at a community college and couldn’t get enough of it. The only thing I wanted more than my own darkroom was a way to make a living as a photographer.

But, first thing first, I needed to find a new place to live. Thus, begun my apartment search.

It didn’t take long to realize finding a place by myself was going to be near impossible based on my meager starting salary at the lab. Rent in Ann Arbor was out of my reach, so I began to look at some of the neighboring towns, including Ypsilanti, home of Eastern Michigan University.

I found myself in the leasing office of an apartment complex with the unfortunate name of Schooner Cove. It was exactly the kind of apartment complex I hoped to avoid. Situated on Ford Lake in Ypsilanti, the complex consisted of 15 -20 identical looking apartment buildings with light blue vinyl siding. As happenstance would have it on that fateful day in the leasing office of Schooner Cove, I bumped into an old acquaintance I had known from my high school swimming days back in the U.P. of Michigan, some 500 miles away.

Jon had been a very good competitive swimmer for a high school team two hours away from the town where I grew up. We had known each other since we were kids participating in YMCA swimming and got to know each other a little better when our high school teams competed. He was in the leasing office with his mother, who I remembered quite well, since she was one of those rather outspoken and involved swimming parents.

Upon catching-up, we found ourselves in similar situations. We were both looking for an affordable living option in a rather expensive college town. After touring the complex, we decided to go for it and rent a two bedroom apartment together. Sure, we hadn’t seen each other since high school, but what could it hurt. We were both adults who would be working most of the time and just needed a roof over our heads. We were both born and raised in the U.P. and he was engaged to a woman named Erica, so there was never a romantic prospect. I mean, really, what could possibly go wrong?

Upon moving into the apartment, I found the biggest problem was our address — Spinnaker Way, Schooner Cove, Ypsilanti, Michigan. This was back in the day when ordering things over the phone was fairly common. I can’t tell you how many times I found myself awkwardly spelling out every word of my address, on top of my uncommon Finnish last name and unconventional spelling of my first name. That’s Michele (with one L) Jokinen, that’s J-0-K-I-N-E-N, at 1580 Spinnaker Way, that’s S-P-I-N-N-A-K-E-R, at the Schooner Cove Apartments, that’s S-C-H-O-O-N-E-R, in Ypsilanti, Michigan, that’s Y-P-S-I-L-A-N-T-I. You get the picture. Just ordering a pizza could take half-an-hour.

I provided most of the furniture for the apartment. I had inherited most of it from my college house, since I was the only one from the house staying in the area. That said, the quality of the furniture was strictly college grade — nothing worth writing home about. I had told Jon about my love of photography and excitement at the prospect of using the bathroom as a makeshift darkroom. Considering how much I hated my lab job and the fact that most of my friends had left the area, photography was my one little piece of joy. Jon didn’t seem to have a problem with me using the bathroom to develop film and make prints. Afterall, I was responsible enough to clean-up after myself and certainly would get out of the way if he needed to use the facilities.

It seemed like a good idea at the time . . .

I can’t remember exactly how long we were living together before the subject of Erica moving-in came up, but it couldn’t have been more than a few months. I can’t remember where she lived when Jon and I signed the lease together, but I’m assuming she didn’t live in the area. When you’re making $20,000 a year, the prospect of cheaper rent never seems like a bad idea. However, living with an engaged couple, and an engaged couple you do not know very well . . . well, it’s just not a good idea. There is no easier way to become the odd man out in this kind of living situation. It did not take long before Erica made my little piece of joy a very big deal.

Erica wanted her bathroom to be used strictly as a bathroom. It ended up becoming a big point of contention between Erica and me, and Jon was stuck in the middle. I don’t blame him for taking her side, for he didn’t really have much of a choice in the matter. However, I felt very slighted. When I had signed the lease, I walked into the agreement with the understanding that I would be able to use the bathroom for my hobby. Of course, being young, stupid, and slightly depressed, it was more than my hobby, it was my passion. Passion damn it! How dare this woman come between me and the one thing that brought me joy!

I can’t remember how it all went down, but soon enough I found myself moving out of Schooner Cover and into my own studio apartment. This involved moving all of my furniture, including a big old couch that I had inherited from my best friend Kristin. It had belonged to one of her grandparents and was in pretty good shape. Having been the owner of most of the furniture, it made me happy to see how sparse the apartment looked after I left it. Feeling bitter? Maybe just a little.

After I moved into my new place, I found the watch buried deep within the couch cushions. It was a men’s digital watch, a big hunk of metal. The band had been detached and writing on the face told me it was waterproof. I had recently bought some second hand darkroom equipment and was in the process of setting up my darkroom in the bathroom. One thing I didn’t have was a reliable timer for processing prints and the next thing I knew I found myself using the watch. I figured I’d eventually return it to Jon, but saw no harm in using it for awhile in my creative endeavors. After all, didn’t he owe me something?

I’m not sure how long I used the watch for processing before it happened. One evening I went to develop some prints and couldn’t find it. The bathroom was small, yet I couldn’t find the watch anywhere. Finally, I looked down and something caught my eye. There it was, peaking out from the depths of my toilet bowl. Now I don’t know how closely you pay attention when you use the bathroom, but apparently I’m not the most observant while doing my business. Maybe if I was a man I would have noticed it was down there. Alas, I had no idea how long that hunk of metal had been sitting at the bottom of the toilet, but I was fairly certain at this point it had been shat upon on numerous occasions.

The watch was heavy. When the toilet was flushed, it barely moved an inch. Now any normal person would more than likely manage to fish it out of the toilet, soak it in bleach, and get on with life. But, I wouldn’t exactly describe myself as normal. At this point in my life, I’d describe myself as slightly crazy and very vindictive. And really, it was a bit gross — did I feel like dealing with a watch that’s been pooped upon? So, I decided to just leave it.

That night, while trying to fall asleep, I noticed a strange beep. A few hours later, I heard it again. Apparently the watch had some kind of setting that made it beep at the top of the hour. Why I had never noticed this before is beyond me. But, each night, as I drifted off to sleep, I would hear the beep calling out to me from the depths of my toilet and I’d giggle to myself in a slightly disturbing manner. Oh sweet revenge. Oh sweet shit watch.

All good things must come to an end . . .

One day I finally got around to calling maintenance regarding a slow drain problem with my bathroom sink. When I returned home from work, I found a notice on the door that the maintenance person had been by to fix the problem. Imagine my surprise when I walked into the bathroom and there sitting on the sink is the shit watch! The maintenance man must have noticed the watch at the bottom of the toilet and did what any nice maintenance man would do — fished it out of there. For a few moments I just stared at the watch. It had come to symbolize so much in my sad little existence, that seeing it face to face out of the water seemed odd. “You don’t belong here,” I said to the watch.

I found a plastic ziploc bag, turned it inside out and collected the watch like it was evidence. I then ran some hot water, poured dish soap in the bag and filled it with water. I let it soak in the bag over night and the next day I set the watch out to dry.

I had been talking to Jon about picking up some of my mail that hadn’t been forwarded to my new address. I can’t remember where we met up, but I brought the watch with me to give back to him. For some reason I wrapped it up in paper towel and placed it in a plastic baggie. Maybe on some level I felt it was forever contaminated. Who knows. I can’t recall his reaction to getting the watch back, especially in its oddly wrapped state.

I am curious to know what became of the watch. Does he still own it? Does he ever wear it? In the age of the smartphone, does he bother? I am happy to report that these questions do not keep me up at night.

Dollar Bay — Not a Dump — Part II

Copper Country Dairy and Three Pipes

I only managed to find about two hours to walk/drive around Dollar Bay and explore with my camera. I hope to do more in August when I return for another visit.

I started my exploration at the old Copper Country Dairy, which has been abandoned for many decades. I remember getting free ice cream treats from the diary when I was a kid before it closed its doors for good. After it shut down production, my friends and I would spend hours exploring the wooded area behind the dairy. There were old holding ponds filled with waste water that smelled like stinky old milk. Some of the older kids had built a rather elaborate fort known as “the shack,” complete with a wood stove. I recall a good high school friend getting quite drunk behind the dairy at the shack and getting in big trouble with his parents. Shortly after the incident, the shack was burned to the ground. Rumor had it that it was his enraged father that put an end to the shack, but who knows for sure.

The dairy was certainly run down thirty years ago and now the building just looks terrible. The back loading dock area is covered in graffiti and there’s no shortage of trash strewn about. As I walk around the building, I catch a whiff of musty air each time I pass broken windows. I’m curious who owns the property and if anything will ever be done to the building. It certainly wouldn’t be difficult for teenagers to get inside and wreak more havoc.

My next stop was a quick drive out to Three Pipes, also known as the culverts. It is as described — three large culverts that go under a road on the way out of town toward Point Mills. The Gooseneck creek flows through Three Pipes out into the bay. As kids, my friends and I would walk out here to explore and look for frogs, or just stop by on our way to Sandy Bottom Beach, the local swimming hole. My friend Kristin likes to joke about how so many locations in Dollar Bay have incredibly literal names — Three Pipes, Big Hole, Sandy Bottom, Grey Sands. I guess we like to keep it simple. Development has found Three Pipes, as there are a few small residential structures now in place that look a bit like a hillbilly village, and what looks to be an actual dump on the opposite side of the road.

Dollar Bay — Not a Dump

Note: This is an ongoing project that is sure to be long and drawn out. This is the first installment. Bear with me.

My best friend’s little brother saw a sign on a bulletin board advertising an apartment in our hometown of Dollar Bay, Michigan that simply said, “Dollar Bay — not a dump.” We like to joke about the elegant wording of the ad, repeating it over and over again in our thickest Yooper accents. Think long vowels — Dooollaaar Baaay . . . nooot a duuump. It makes me a bit homesick. We’ll never know if the apartment lived up to the description, but I will say that the town, well, the town itself is indeed a bit of a dump.

As a kid growing up in Dollar Bay — population just over 1,000 — I always felt a sense of pride for the town. The Fourth of July is by far the most exciting day of the year in Dollar Bay. The town puts on a two day celebration, starting on the 3rd, with a street dance and treats for the kids. The Fourth features a big parade, chicken barbeque and kids games in the park. The streets fill up with hundreds of people from all over the area, as the neighboring larger towns leave the Fourth of July celebrations to the smaller towns like Dollar Bay. As a youngster I would decorate my bicycle with red, white and blue crepe paper, dress up in a costume and participate in the parade. My mom helped with the costumes. I was a firecracker one year and Yankee Doodle Dandy another. Once I was in junior high, I marched in the high school band wearing the most uncomfortable, ugly polyester uniforms and while playing the trumpet. Seeing the streets lined with so many people made me feel like Dollar Bay was someplace special. It’s Norman Rockwellesque, but with a lot less open container enforcement.

My parents moved out of the Bay shortly after I graduated high school some twenty years ago, but they still live in the area. Every time I return home for a visit, I try to make a trip to the little town where I grew up, and just about every time I’m there it seems a little more ramshackled and run down. I was distraught when my parents decided to move. How could they leave this cute little town where they raised their three brilliant children? What were they thinking? Now when I go back I wonder why they didn’t get out sooner. It’s not to say that I’ve become some elitist snob in the past twenty years . . . while, okay, maybe just a little. However, when they did leave Dollar Bay, they built a house on Lake Superior at the site where we had a cabin for many years. When I return home for a visit I now get to sit on the shores of the largest freshwater lake in the world and take in more beauty than any one person deserves. To think, they chose to trade a view of Vern’s front porch, a neighbor’s makeshift used car lot and the Hebner’s old wood pile for gorgeous Lake Superior sunsets every night. They gave up the sounds of drunken snomobilers for the waves gently hitting the shoreline. What could they have been thinking?  

Recently, I attended the Fourth of July celebration in Dollar Bay. For the first time I really felt like a stranger while walking down main street. I saw some people that I recognized, but couldn’t necessarily place. I shared a little small talk with a couple of old friends who graduated a year behind me. It is interesting to feel so alien in the town of my upbringing,a town that was once so much a part of who I was. As I spent time looking at Dollar Bay through a more critical and less rose colored lens, I feel a sense of relief that I got out of there. Yes, the place really is a bit of a dump, but there’s more to it than that.

This year I will be 40-years-old and with this milestone birthday lurking in my thoughts, I find myself curious to explore the town of my upbringing some twenty years later. My formative years . . . how much of a role did growing up in this place have in making me the person I am today? Like just about every native Yooper that I know, I love the area’s history and natural beauty and certainly identify as a born and raised Yooper to the point of having the U.P. tattooed on my arm. Fanatical? Yes, just a bit.

With my most recent visit to the area, I’m beginning to see things from a slightly different point of view. There is a lot of poverty in the area, a lot of substance abuse and domestic violence. Of course, this is nothing new of small town life, or life anywhere, for that matter. But it’s also something that is easy to overlook when you only visit a couple times of year and tend to focus more on the area’s natural beauty and history. As the time since I actually lived here grows, I fear becoming more of a tourist and less of a native Yooper. I’d like to attempt to get in touch with my native Yooper and resist the tourist. I want to explore the area as someone who still considers it home, not someone visiting to take a pretty drive up to Copper Harbor.

So my plan is to walk around the old neighborhood, a.k.a. the whole town really, and view it through the lens of my camera. Lame? Maybe. Mid-life crisis? Maybe. As a kid growing up, everything seemed so much larger — both literally and figuratively. I know nothing is preserved in time forever and I do not expect it to be. But for some reason, experiencing how different things look and feel from when I was a kid, well, it just makes me a little sad. Maybe it’s the impermanence of life in general. We are here for such a short time and really make such a small impact on the world. What does it all mean? What’s it all for? Yeah . . . mid-life crisis.

In part, photographing Dollar Bay is my way of remembering it. Although I’m only 39, I have a pretty lousy memory. I’d like to capture this place as it is now in 2014, before it changes much more. The old high school, the remains of the Copper Country Dairy, Big Hole, Three Pipes, Sandy Bottom, Avenue G, St. Francis, my walk to school, the list goes on.

Stay tuned for the next episode . . .

Goddess or Monster — It's All Relative

Much of the population where I grew up — the western Upper Peninsula of Michigan — is of Finnish descent and enjoy the traditional Finnish sauna. Even those who are not of Finns have taken up the relaxing ritual of sitting in a 180 degree room then plunging into frigid Lake Superior. I’m 50% Finn, all from my father’s side of the family. Although he’s 100% Finn and a wood worker, my father has never been a fan of the sauna. As an avid sauna fanatic, I’ve often lamented this fact as I’m sure my dad could build an amazing sauna if he wanted to. Alas, each time I go home, I must rely on friends to get my much needed hot steam and jump in the lake.

On my most recent visit to the homeland, I’m in luck. My friend Katie, who lives in Chicago, is in town with her husband Matt and their infant son. Katie’s parents own a lake house on a secluded Lake Superior beach that has a great sauna. By the time we get in the sauna its temperature is nearly 200 degrees. Knowing I won’t have many chances to sauna on this trip or my next, I am determined to take full advantage of the heat and to make myself jump into the lake. The thought of the frigid water can be a bit much at times, but I never regret taking the plunge and how great I feel after getting out of the water. It’s nothing short of amazing and spiritual.

I manage to jump in twice that night and it’s well worth the shock to my system. The water is so cold that once I jumped in, I jumped right back out. However, the air temperature is warm enough to linger at the water’s edge. As the waves softly lap against the shore and my body reaches total relaxation, I look around and take in the incredible beauty of my surroundings. The empty beach is illuminated in the soft light from the half-moon that reflects on the calm waters. Stars fill the sky. My wet, naked body is bathed in this light and I feel nothing short of beautiful, both inside and out. I am alive! I am a post-sauna goddess!

Fast-forward five days. After making the drive back to Minneapolis with my near four-year-old son, we get back into our morning routine of going to the YWCA. He gets to play with other kids in the Kid Zone while I fit in a work out. The Y is a lot quieter in the summer, as many members take advantage of outdoor exercise or leave town on vacations. It just so happens that I’m the only one taking a shower that morning as a group of about 15 five-year-old girls from a summer program make their way into the locker room to line-up and use the bathroom.

My favorite shower — one with excellent water pressure — is front and center as you enter the area of the locker room near the bathroom. As the group of young girls walk toward the bathroom area and get closer to the showers, their eyes take in my naked body, bathed in ever so unflattering fluorescent light. Never in my life have I felt like such a freak of nature, a Frankenstein monster. The looks on these girls’ faces are that of abject horror. And they keep coming, these girls keep rounding the corner to take in the scene. Their eyes go wide as they cover their mouths and try to regain their composure. The adult that accompanies them tries to keep them in order and line them up to wait their turn to use the bathroom. She politely tries her best to ignore their reaction to my exposed body.

In the meantime I’m not quite sure what to do. Part of me feels the need to cover myself as soon as possible. Another part of me feels like laughing my naked butt off as the whole experience seems so absurd. The looks on their faces are so honest, pure and in many ways enduring. It’s the kind of honest reaction that I find myself looking for in people when I’m working as a photographer. On some level, I feel a bit charmed that my old, naked flabby body could elicit such a response. On another level, I find myself wishing I wasn’t the only one showering, that another, older, flabbier woman could be with me to share in whatever sense of shame I’m suppose to be feeling. I will admit it never felt quite so good to get my clothes on after a shower.

At 39 years-old, I feel pretty damn comfortable in my skin and with who I am. Sure, I wouldn’t mind being 40 pounds lighter and I should make a more concerted effort to eat healthier and exercise more consistently. Yet, one of the most beautiful things about growing older is becoming more comfortable and accepting of who you are — both physically and mentally. I like myself, I really do. If I wasn’t me, I would be pretty happy to spend time with me . . . if that makes any sense. As I near the milestone birthday of 40, the Big 4 - 0, I say bring it on. Sure, I could be a much better mother, wife, friend, daughter, sister, photographer, small business owner, book club member, liberal, cat owner, etc., but I’m not going to lose sleep worrying about my shortcomings. I accept all my shortcomings and realize that life is too short to obsess over imperfections . . . even if they give five-year-old girls nightmares. Sure, I’d like to live my life bathed in the perfect, soft light of the moon post-sauna on the shores of Lake Superior — a beautiful goddess version of myself. But let’s face it, if that was the norm, I wouldn’t appreciate it nearly as much as I do now while living my life as a naked monster, bathed in fluorescent light, scaring children.

Only One??

There are days when being the mother of one very active three-year-old boy totally kicks my ass. These are the days when I wonder how mothers of multiple children handle it all? And single mothers? Don’t even get me started on single mothers. If I’m this exhausted with one kid and the support of my husband, how could I handle two or three?

When I see a woman walking with two or three young children, I find myself thinking, “Wow, she must be crazy.” Sometimes I wonder if there’s something wrong with me because I don’t have a desire to grow my family. Maybe I’m just lacking some maternal gene that these other women have. I’m curious if there has ever been a survey of mothers of only children to find out if they had a rough go of it with their infants as compared to mothers of multiple children. I love the relative freedom of being the mother of a three-year-old vs. being the mother of an infant. I love that I can communicate with my child and find out what’s wrong, as compared to feeding, diapering, rocking and still holding a crying baby.  

I have been pretty comfortable with the idea of having one child ever since Oskar was born. My first few months as a mother were far from easy and I do not have fond memories of the sleep deprived stress of it all. Oskar cried. A lot. I don’t think he was technically colicy, though I admit that I still don’t understand exactly what constitutes a colicy baby. For all I know it involves a baby being licked by a really mean cow. I do know that I have no desire to revisit that time in my life as a parent. Having another child would be a lot more attractive to me if I could skip the infant stage all together. I’ll gladly hold a friend’s infant and I’ll gladly hand it back to them a few minutes later. A baby person I am not.

Whenever a friend is getting close to having their first child, I always seem to find myself telling them the same story about how tough I found the first few months with Oskar. “I knew that it was going to be hard,” I say, “but it ended up being about 100 times tougher than I thought it’d be.” I generally find that this is not what my friends want to hear as they get closer to being a new parent, but I figure it doesn’t hurt to give them fair warning. “Of course, every baby is different,” I say, to help reassure them. It seems this is true, as most all of my friends have had pretty easy first babies, and some of them have already moved on to baby number two. Maybe it’s time I just shut my mouth when it comes to my ‘be prepared for the worst speech.’

I’ll admit part of me wishes that just one other friend would have had an experience similar to my own. Does this make me a bad person? It’s not so much that I wish them to suffer. No, it’s much more selfish than that. Part of me feels like I’m somehow a failure because I hated the first few months of motherhood and I don’t want to experience it again. What’s wrong with me? Society tells me that this is the best thing ever, the most natural thing a woman can long for and that I should be feeling a crazy surge of love for this tiny little being in my arms. And yet, when I look back, I just remember the incredible exhaustion. I remember walking around the grocery store like a zombie, not particularly shopping for anything, just needing to get out of the house by myself. I remember being awake in the middle of the night with a crying Oskar in my arms just wishing he’d close his eyes and go to sleep already. Tender Gerber Baby moments these were not. I felt like I had been sold a bill of goods. Who tricked me into this parenthood deal? What had we unleashed unto the world in the form of a very cute little baby boy?

I was recently talking to another mom at the playground whose daughter is in preschool with Oskar. We talked about how tough the first few months of motherhood were and how we didn’t think we could handle going through it again. It was really refreshing to talk to someone who felt the same way about the prospect of another child. We were both similarly worried about whether our kids would one day feel cheated that they didn’t have a sibling and also shared concerns about them one day dealing with their aging parents alone. Aside from these two concerns, I feel pretty darn confident and comfortable with the decision to have one child.

I love the idea of siblings and sometimes worry that I’m robbing my son from the experience of having a younger brother or sister. It sounds great to not be alone, to always have a playmate available and someone to watch out for. I have a lot of friends who are incredibly close to their siblings and have wonderful relationships with them. However, I know just as many people who are not close to their siblings and a few that have very contentious relationships. There’s no guarantee that brothers and sisters will be best friends, or even friends for that matter. Think Cain and Abel.

My sister Chris is six years older than me and my brother Dave is seven years older. They both live in the Seattle area and I see them maybe once a year. I love them and I’m happy that they’re in my life, but I do wish we were closer — both in distance and relationship. As a result of the closeness of their age and geography, Chris and Dave have a much closer relationship and I’ll admit I sometimes feel a bit jealous of this fact. In many ways, with the large gap in our ages, I felt a bit like an only child while growing up.

Part II:

A mere two weeks after writing the above, I sit on my front porch after having a baby conversation with my husband. I thought we were pretty much on the same page when it came to the idea of having another child. Well, it turns out he’s a lot more open to the idea than I am. How much? A lot. We discussed both our points of view tonight and I’d say they’re pretty different. I wish I could say we came to some kind of conclusion, but he went to bed and I sit here on the porch. To be continued . . .

Maybe I just suck at being a mom. I don’t even feel guilty typing that. I think that some women are just naturally better and more suited to motherhood than others. I’m not saying that I neglect and abuse my child — though he does watch too much t.v. — but maybe a lot of this doesn’t come naturally to me. I love Oskar to death, think he’s a great kid, and have no regrets about having him, but I really like my non-kid life, too. I never thought it was possible to value my alone time as much as I do now that I’m a parent. Yes, humans are inherently selfish and I’ll admit I’m quite selfish. As Oskar has gotten older, I have been able to find a lot more freedom and I absolutely love that. He doesn’t need constant attention, can play by himself and be quite independent. He’s becoming his own person — which is good for both of us.

I’ve been looking forward to sending Oskar off to kindergarten for these same selfish reasons. I really miss being out in the workforce. I’ll admit it probably wouldn’t take long for me to hate whatever job I ended up getting and missing my days as a stay-at-home mom, but I’ve been excited at the prospect of getting back to work. I’m not even sure what kind of job I’d be looking for, as there aren’t many openings for newspaper photojournalists ANYWHERE let alone in the Twin Cities. But I’d love to explore writing more and work on my photography business.

Of course, motherhood is the most important and rewarding job a woman could ever have. Wow, how I hate that argument. It just seems to diminish women as a whole. So if a woman isn’t a mother, is she somehow less worthy? Yes, motherhood is an important job, but what about fatherhood? Seems pretty damn important also. Being a stay-at-home mom is right for some people, but it hasn’t really been the right fit for me. I’m grateful that I’ve had this chance to watch my son grow up and it has gone by pretty fast. I just don’t know if I want to start all over again with baby number two. I miss adult interaction more than I can ever fully express. Being at home has made me lonely and stupid. I love you Oskar, but your mom has become a blubbering brainless woman who speaks in third person all the time and can’t refer to going to the bathroom without using the word ‘potty.’ No, it’s not a travesty, but I really miss using my brain on some higher level.

Since discovering my husband’s interest in having another child, I’ll admit that I’ve been thinking about it a lot and part of me wonders if we should go for it. Maybe I’m warming up to the idea just a little bit. Pros for having a second child . . . certainly giving Oskar the chance to be a big brother would have to be number one. The chance — 50/50 of course — of having a daughter means a lot to me. I really value the relationship I have with my mom and think that there’s a special bond between mother and daughter that you don’t quite find with a son. When we’re old and need someone to change our diapers, Oskar wouldn’t be alone in dealing with it. Creating a new person, which is just pretty crazy when you really think about it. Oskar would have a playmate, someone to boss around and hopefully watchover. I think that about covers it.

Cons . . . pregnancy, sleep deprivation, diapers, breast feeding, bottles, formula, our tiny house, the expense of it all, chance of complications, the fact that I’m just getting too old for this shit . . .

Quite frankly, I feel pretty darn happy with life at the moment. It’s scary to think about taking on a big change like another child. I’ll be 40 at the end of the year, so it’s not like we have a whole lot of time to think and contemplate the idea, and Oskar will be 4 soon. If we waited too long, the gap in sibling age would be fairly big. And then, of course, who’s to say I could even get pregnant if I wanted to.

The perfect answer to this conundrum — the adoption of an older child. I get to avoid pregnancy and the baby stage, we contribute to society in a very positive way by providing an unwanted child with a stable and loving home, and Oskar gets his sibling. Win - win!

And maybe it makes up for me being such an inherently selfish person.