Happy Camper

I am a self-described hater of all things camping. But once a year I find myself taking one for the team - in this case the team consists of my family - and sleeping on the hard, damp ground of a campsite for multiple nights in a row. I fully realize many people consider tent camping at a state park to be far from roughing it, but for me, I can truly say it’s something I do not enjoy or seek out. I’m a daily showerer, flush toilet kind of girl and I enjoy my fresh, piping hot cup of coffee each morning with a strong dose of a good reliable internet connection. Over the past few years, the presence of good friends have made my camping experiences much more palatable, along with the reminder that feeling a little discomfort for a few days is a small price to pay for what I hope will be wonderful memories for my children.

My displeasure with camping has become a bit of a running joke among friends and family and I’ll admit I may like to play it up just a little bit. In part, it helps get me out of a lot of the planning and work involved with the experience, which frankly is just one more thing I don’t like about camping. I’m happy to stay out of the way as my husband organizes, shops, packs, loads the car and swears a lot. I’ll come along for the ride and help with the easy things, like sitting around the campfire, drinking a beer and eating all the snacks.

The two things I dislike most about camping are sleeping (or should I say not sleeping) and the god forsaken perpetual dampness. I finally broke down last year and invested in a quality camping air mattress, which was a game changer. However, it did little to save me from my husband’s snoring during our most recent four night excursion. Lucky for him, his life was spared by the small uncomfortable inflatable camping pillow I was stuck using, as it did not make for an effective smothering instrument. As for the dampness, it’s not like I’m expecting fresh, white, fluffy, lavender infused towels every morning, but it would be nice if items made of cloth would dry out before they need to be used for a second, third or fourth time. By the end of our fourth night of camping, I felt like everything I had brought on the trip was damp. Moist. Clammy. Soggy. Dank. You get the picture. I dreamed of having a giant industrial dryer magically appear in the middle of our campsite instead of the nylon clothesline strung up between two trees in perpetual shade, far from any actual direct sunlight.

Camping curmudgeon - I'm on a boat

 
As much as I like to embrace my camping curmudgeon image, at times I have to admit I’m having a good time. Our four night camping adventure was spent at Itasca State Park, site of the Mississippi River headwaters and it was cool to see where the mighty Mississippi begins and to wade up the skinny little river to her source, Lake Itasca. I made it to New Orleans eight years before I made it to the headwaters, which is a bit surprising considering they're just about in my backyard. A high point of our camping trip included renting a pontoon boat for a day of fishing and swimming on Lake Itasca. The boys got to pilot the boat, which they loved, though it is a bit crazy and slightly frightening to see your seven-year-old driving a boat. Luckily, there weren’t any icebergs floating around Lake Itasca in August. I’m not into fishing, but had fun swimming off the boat to cool off and accompanying William on a swim from the boat to the beach. It’s also just lovely being around great friends in such a relaxing and beautiful environment.

Cleansing ourselves in the waters of Lake Itasca.

In the evenings, the kids spent their time freely riding their bikes through the campground, playing on the playground, eating s’mores and telling ghost stories until they couldn’t keep their eyes open anymore and actually volunteered to go to bed. Their experiences brought back a flood of my own childhood memories spent camping with my family in our pop up camper. We generally did not venture too far from home, mostly hitting McLain State Park on Lake Superior, a mere 10 miles or so from our house. But I remember helping my parents set-up camp, as I was usually on water duty and had to fill jugs of water and bring them back to our campsite. Like most kids, I’d gripe about it, but once we were set-up, it was time to ride bikes, hit the playground and make new friends visiting from far away towns I had never heard of before. I loved riding my bike down to the little store by the breakwater to buy ice cream sandwiches. To this day I can’t eat an ice cream sandwich without remembering our days of camping at McLain State Park.

My big brother Dave and I.

They kept me in a cage! A cage!

 
A good friend recently shared a thought provoking parenting TikTok addressing the idea of not worrying about giving your kids a good future, since the future is so uncertain. Instead, he points out we should focus on giving them a good past, by providing them with good memories. The TikToker cites a book by Alison Gopnik called The Philosophical Baby, in which she says parents get to determine one aspect of their children’s adult lives — the childhood they bring into it. We can’t control the future, but we can do so much in the present by letting them have fun and giving them the gift of a happy childhood. Looking back on my own life, I think my parents did a stellar job providing me with that gift. I may not have had a college fund when I graduated from high school, but I will always be grateful for my happy and fairly carefree childhood and the impact it has had in my adult life.

The game Taco Cat Goat Cheese Pizza was a hit at the campsite!

 
I need to be more mindful of this every single day as a parent, and not just when I’m making my seasonal sacrifice of sleeping on the cold, hard, damp ground and playing my role as the camping curmudgeon mom. The importance of being fully present with my kids and giving them fun experiences can’t be understated. I have so much work to do in this area, but would really like to do my best to give them the same gift my parents gave me, a happy childhood. Thanks mom and dad!

William's new bestie. Rumor has it Cormac owns a video game William really wants to play!

 

The Act of Creation

On a recent trip home to the U.P. to visit my folks, I ran across an old photograph that belonged to my grandfather Joseph Jokinen. It was a large black and white print of a trainwreck. I had seen a smaller print of it before dated 1919 with an arrow pointing to a young man with the word “ME” written in ink. My grandfather had a brief stint in his youth working for a traveling carnival and this particular picture documents the derailment of the carnival’s train, a literal trainwreck. Considering my life of late has been feeling like the more common figurative trainwreck it felt rather apropos to come across this particular photograph at this particular time.

Life has been throwing a lot of challenges my way, the kind of challenges that aren’t very easy to resolve. Maybe you’re familiar with these kinds of challenges. They’re complicated, multifaceted and incredibly hard to control. In fact, the toughest part for me to grapple with is the total lack of control I have over resolving these challenges. The control freak in me has been totally freaking out and feeling overwhelmed. Feeling all the feelings has led me to think about what makes me feel good, those little things I can control, those little things that spark happiness. Spending time with friends and family is up there in providing happiness and I am lucky to have so many wonderful and supportive people in my life. But frankly, sometimes this extrovert really needs to be alone, and the one common thread for what makes me happiest when I am alone is the act of creation.

I find it incredibly cathartic to create something new, to put something out into the world that didn’t previously exist. The simple act of creation itself is beautiful. It doesn’t matter what it is. It doesn’t matter if it’s total crap. It doesn’t matter if it ultimately ends up at the bottom of a garbage bin. You made it, in all its glory. You took the time, did the work and you can choose to share it with the world or keep it all to yourself. It belongs to you.

Before Covid hit, I had just begun dabbling in cross stitching. Once the pandemic was in full swing, I became addicted, relying on the hobby to get me through worried days and nights, stabbing fabric with a needle over and over again. The number of cross stitch pieces I have in a drawer is a bit ridiculous, but the act itself proved to be therapeutic and was what I needed at the time to not lose my mind completely. It was a great alternative to doom scrolling and helped curb my anxiety. I even made some money off some of my pieces, further proving that people will spend money on just about anything. And thank you very much all ye patrons of Bad Bitch Cross Stitch.

Can't take credit for the design, but I did add the
 part with the dog doing an FU cross stitch :)

Photography, of course, plays a big part in my creative life. But, as an act of creation, it’s not quite the same. I see most of my photography as a service I do for somebody else, whether it be a wedding or family client, a publication or an employer. That’s not to say it doesn’t involve creativity, as I certainly tap into creative ways to compose my images, but it’s not a personal act of creation. Another factor that sets photography apart in my creative life is the sheer number of images that I take. The thousands of images I take each year certainly waters down the “act of creation” part of the equation. These images generally do not represent a part of who I am as a creator or a person.

Calumet, Michigan - 2022

The photos I make that I’m not paid for, my personal photography, are more aligned with this idea of cathartic creation. I haven’t embarked on many personal photography projects, but every now and then I will venture out with the intent to capture something just for me. Most recently, I photographed an old sauna back in the U.P. and some images around Calumet and I am hoping to find more time to work on personal projects, especially now that the kids are older. I’ll admit I’m lacking a bit in the inspiration department, but would like to find a documentary photo project that harkens back to my photojournalism days. While creating just for myself can be special, I’ll always be grateful that people find my photography services worthwhile enough to give me money to do it.

Calumet, Michigan - 2022

Calumet, Michigan - 2022

My favorite act of creation is the one I am doing right at this moment — writing. It’s one I do not do nearly enough, but hope to remedy that in the coming months. There are many things I love about writing, right down to the very basics of putting words together in a cohesive way that makes sense, or even better, makes some kind of point. That said, I’m not sure if I’m making much of a point with this particular essay, but it is helping me get some of the many, many thoughts in my head out into the world — which is another thing I really love about writing. Introducing your written thoughts to the world and finding there are people out there who can relate to what you wrote always feels like a rewarding accomplishment, even if it’s just a few friends who bothered to read your blog post. I also love the challenge of reconnecting the beginning of an essay to the end in some fun manner in which the subject matter comes full circle. So on that note . . .

While many areas in my life right now feel off the rails, out of my control and broken like a trainwreck, I have faith that with some work, persistence and a whole lot of sisu, most of these areas can be dealt with, repaired and mended. And life can get back on track.

Enchanted Sauna Under the Sea

Saunas are fairly common where I grew up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, home to many people of Finnish heritage, myself included. I’ll always be grateful our ancestors brought the sauna tradition with them when they immigrated from Finland, as I’ve been enjoying saunas for as long as I can remember. Some of my earliest sauna experiences took place in my Great Aunt Ruth’s small basement sauna. Ruth, who just recently turned 100-years-old, lived across the alley from her sister-in-law, my Finnish grandmother, Norma, who would let me tag along when she’d walk over for a sauna. When I was a little older, I began regularly taking saunas at our neighbor’s house — the Wuebben family. They were an Apostolic Lutheran family with thirteen children, just about one kid in each grade at our small K-12 school. Andrea Wuebben and I were classmates and every Sunday night her family would fire up their large sauna, which was built off of their garage. The boys and the girls would take separate group saunas, with the main goal of getting squeaky clean for the week ahead. Everyone would have their own plastic dish pan filled with hot water and a washcloth. At this point in my life, the sauna was simply a means to an end, a ritual to get cleaned up and ready for a new week.

Our sauna themed wedding cake topper - 2009

While growing up, I was involved in competitive swimming and eventually used my skills to become a lifeguard. Saunas at various swimming facilities came into my life as a way to ease sore muscles and relax, and provide a warm place to dry off before changing and facing winter weather. I have a distinct memory of sauna abuses at one facility where I worked — the pool at the former Suomi College in Hancock, Mich., which is now known as Finlandia University, FU for short. And yes, I suspect they changed the name in order to make more money selling FU apparel. While working a lifeguard shift, a group of rowdy boys thought it’d be funny to piss on the sauna rocks. I’ve smelled plenty of unpleasant things through my years on this planet, but have to say sauna piss steam is up there as one of the worst. On the plus side, Sauna Piss Steam would be a great name for a band.


My close friend Kristin’s family had a camp on Lake Superior (camp = cottage in Yooper speak) and when I was in high school her parents’ built a great sauna. Through college, my group of friends spent many nights hanging out at the camp and took many memorable saunas, some of which may have involved just a little bit of drinking. Crazy college antics aside, the times we had in this sauna developed my deep appreciation of the hot/cold cycle, as the sauna was a fairly short run to the icy waters of Lake Superior, all thankfully on a sandy beach. Summer nights spent in the U.P. at the camp were simply spectacular. Sauna — lake — bonfire, sauna — lake — bonfire . . . repeat. Standing bare ass naked along the shore looking up at the Milky Way as a deep inner peace overcomes your body . . . honestly, nothing can compare to this feeling. Some nights we’d even get lucky and capture a glimpse of the Northern Lights. If I could instantly transport myself anywhere in space and time, it would be to one of these nights. I’m not religious, but these nights were way more spiritual than anything I’ve experienced in a church.

Kristin's sauna

Most of the time spent at Kristin’s sauna was in the summer, but one day we ventured out there in the dead of winter to do a little cross country skiing and fire up the sauna. There aren’t any groomed trails in this area, but we worked up a good sweat skiing along the lake. Having been raised in a sauna culture, we weren’t all too shy about nudity, but we would usually only run around in our birthday suits under the cover of darkness. In the winter, most of the cottages in the area were vacant and there were few permanent homes nearby. So we figured it’d be a great idea to try our hand at skinny skiing after a hot cycle in the sauna. I was blown away by how long we were able to ski naked before needing to get back into the sauna. It was the middle of the day, nobody was around and we were simply surrounded by a beautiful frozen landscape. So we thought . . .


Come to find out later one of Kristin’s neighbors who had a place a few lots north of her’s had been home, noticed some skiers and just couldn’t figure out what they were wearing. Curious, they grabbed their binoculars to get a better look. I imagine they got quite a surprise when they realized we were wearing the most aerodynamic of outfits. To my chagrin, the neighbor in question was a doctor at the same hospital where my mom worked as a nurse. My mother, having a pretty solid sense of humor, later incorporated the story into a lovely quilt she made for my wedding. The quilt features a sauna, complete with smoke coming out of a little chimney, and a pair of skis leaning against the structure. I adore this quilt and the memories it invokes.

Sauna quilt - by Betty Jokinen

Although my dad is 100% Finn and a woodworker who lives on the shores of Lake Superior, he has never been a fan of saunas and he never felt compelled to build a sauna. He’s also an unusual Finn in the fact that he doesn’t like coffee. Maybe it skips a generation, because not much makes me happier than a good hot sauna and a good hot cup of coffee, though not at the same time. After settling down in Minneapolis nearly 15 years ago, opportunities to take a sauna became few and far between and generally only happened when I visited the homeland and got lucky enough to get invited to a friend’s sauna. In the past few years, I’ve had a few Twin Cities friends invest in backyard barrel saunas and I’ve been lucky enough to take advantage of their hospitality. I’m happy to say I’m now able to pay them back, as this past fall we took the plunge and purchased a sauna kit and are now the proud owners of a pod sauna, which is a bit roomier than the popular barrel saunas. I’m thankful that Adam was able to get the kit together so well with a little help from friends and the boys.

A work in progress.

I love that the sauna has a changing room area and seats six adults comfortably. I love that the sauna has a wood burning stove with a little window, so the burning logs cast a lovely red glow to the hot room. I love that the sauna can heat up to 180 degrees in about an hour. I love that the sauna’s doors are all glass and it has two skinny windows in the hot room, so it doesn’t feel at all claustrophobic. I love that when I’m having a bad day I can decide to fire up the sauna and it makes everything better. I love that I can enjoy the sauna by myself if I need to recharge and be alone, or I can invite friends over to share the experience, conversation, drinks and relaxation. I love that I’m finally living the Finnish-American dream!

The flux capacitor of the sauna - that which makes sauna possible.

Holy waah, if you happen to be in the Twin Cities on any given Sunday night please stop by and get your sweat on. Just make sure to not get too drunk and fall on the sauna stove.

The author and her boys in her happy place.

 

The Great Awakening

After spending more than ten years as a stay-at-home parent, I recently started working full-time as a photographer for Minnesota Senate Media Services. Yup, that’s a thing! Despite applying for a countless number of jobs over the years with less than stellar results, when I read this particular job posting I knew I had to apply. The job is a nonpartisan temp position covering the legislative session, from January through the end of May. I should be able to return for future sessions, assuming I don’t mess things up. In many ways it’s a unicorn job, as really any job these days that pays a photographer a decent wage is a unicorn job. But also, working January through May is perfect for me, as family and wedding photography is fairly quiet this time of year, and I’ll be free in time for my kids being out of school for the summer. I’ll have June through December to work on the business and in the meantime I get to cover politics and work in one of the most beautiful buildings in the state of Minnesota during the dreariest of months.

It’s only been a month since I started the job and it’s been pretty amazing. I feel really lucky to have gotten it, but like any big transition, it has had its challenges. When I first told seven-year-old William I was going to be working full-time, he told me he hopes I get fired on my first day. Not exactly the vote of confidence I was looking for. I am happy to report that I did not get fired on the first day and William has since been adjusting fairly well. In fact he really likes going to before-school care and everything has been going smoothly with big brother Oskar getting him home from the bus stop after school. They’re home alone for about two hours before I get home and so far they haven’t burned down the house or killed each other, so that’s a positive. I’m able to check-in with Oskar over messenger after he gets home everyday and make sure things are okay. He’s getting a good dose of responsibility and learning to be more self-reliant, and I’m getting a big lesson in letting go a bit and trying not to worry about every little thing.


The job itself involves photographing all things senate and events at the Capitol that may involve senators — floor sessions, committee meetings, press conferences, rallies, school tours, etc. It’s kind of like we’re paparazzi for the senators, all 67 of them. It’s PR meets journalism, with senators receiving a ton of photographs that they’re able to use to promote themselves and to let their constituents know they’re here in St. Paul working hard for them and representing their best interests. Myself and my boss A.J. are the only photographers allowed on the floor during the session, so we have a front row seat to see how the sausage gets made. So far, in my very limited experience, I find it all to be both incredibly interesting and, not surprisingly, incredibly boring at times. Sometimes it’s both.


When I quit my job as a staff photographer for the Rochester Post-Bulletin ten years ago, after commuting 80 miles one-way from south Minneapolis for three years, I never intended to be a stay-at-home parent. Oskar was only two-years-old and I suddenly found myself home alone with a toddler. One of my favorite things about journalism was working with such an interesting array of people and covering a wide variety of subject matter. I thrived being around adults with varied interests and viewpoints to share. And here I was home alone with a two-year-old who was obsessed with Iron Man. No offense to Iron Man, but I couldn’t help feeling I was missing out on something.


So here I am out in the great big world again interacting with adults in an incredibly interesting environment, my fingers on the pulse of Minnesota politics. Until I started the job, I didn’t quite realize how hungry I was for intellectual stimulation. My brain actually feels good. And it’s not to say I’m sitting around having deep discussions everyday about important issues facing our society, as I’m mostly spending my time observing everything as a fly on the wall and taking a shit ton of pictures. But I do have actual adult co-workers, and the chances of those kinds of discussions happening at work are much greater than they are at home, where I’m mostly dealing with kid stuff and running a household.


Going from life as a stay-at-home parent to working in an environment as formal as the Minnesota Senate has been a bit intimidating. My wardrobe for the past ten years can best be described as frumpy hot mess mom chic — mostly jeans and a sweatshirt. I’ve never been much of a sweatpants or yoga pants mom, but I love jeans. Suddenly I was faced with needing to create an appropriate professional appearance and give up the frump. And thus, my professional persona was born — Professional Michele. After a long search for pants with pockets, no easy feat in women’s fashion, I’m feeling pretty good about the contents of my closet. Also coming to the realization that people aren’t really inspecting you too closely helps. I mean, does anyone really care what the photographer is wearing? As a good friend recently pointed out, as 48-year-old women, we’re virtually invisible anyway.

Professional Michele blow dries her hair straight in the morning, wears makeup and glasses. The glasses are new progressives that are really only effective when I’m looking straight down at the back of my camera. So I do like to wear them while shooting and I like how they contribute to my new professional persona. I liken it to a reverse Clark Kent situation. With my glasses, hair and wardrobe, I’m a photo super hero. When I get home I ditch my disguise and go back to frumpy mom mode — take off my glasses, change into comfortable clothing and start up my mom workshift. Dinner, laundry, cleaning, breaking up fights, making lunches, more laundry . . . and looking forward to getting ready for work the next morning. Several working mom friends of mine confess by Sunday night of their weekends they’re desperately looking forward to getting back to work Monday morning. I realize now I’ve been feeling their Sunday nights pretty consistently everyday for the past ten years.

Because there's really nothing at all intimidating about this place.

I won’t lie, it’s refreshing to feel appreciated for what I do and to be working in an organized and non-chaotic environment. It’s pretty much the opposite of my life as a stay-at-home parent. Although the formal setting and decorum can often be intimidating, I’m getting used to it. My biggest fears are the two F’s — farting and falling. Every floor session opens with a prayer and the pledge of allegiance, both prime opportunities to have my worst fears realized. Who knows, I could be an overachiever and have them happen simultaneously. Add to it all that we’re often on camera , as committee meetings and floor sessions are televised, and I find myself at a whole new level of self-consciousness, one much more intense than folding laundry on the couch.

That said, a month in, I’m feeling a lot more confident with the position and comfortable with Professional Michele. It no longer feels like I’m playing dress-up when I get ready for work and more like I’m simply preparing to go out there and do a job that I really enjoy. Frankly, I’m happier than I’ve been for a long time and feel like I’m rediscovering myself, my brain, my passion, the outside world. Maybe I’m being a bit overdramatic, but stay-at-home parenting has felt like a significant drain on my intellect and a very easy way to lose one's identity and sense of self.

Seriously, I work here.

 
I realize having the option to be a stay-at-home parent is a significant privilege and one that many people would love to have. I don’t want to sound ungrateful for the time I’ve had with my kids, time so many other parents miss out on. But, I do believe some people are more suited for the stay-at-home lifestyle and as I’m getting reacquainted with Professional Michele, I know without a doubt I’ve never been one of those people. It’s not that I don’t like kids, I just like adults more. Who knows, maybe that will change in the next few months. Either way, I think finding the right balance between work life and home life is important and hopefully where I’m heading, with my eyes wide open and a smile on my face. For now, I'm proud of myself for transitioning to the work place without using the word potty or calling a co-worker bud. “Hey bud, do you need to go potty?” is something I have not uttered once while at work. Way to go Professional Michele, way to go!

My Rock

AJ meets William for the first time.

LaRoche — my mother Betty’s maiden name, which she once shared with her sister Joan — means “rock” in French. The name is fitting, as my Aunt Joan LaRoche has always been my rock. I can’t remember a time in which she hasn’t been there for me, both while growing up and well into adulthood. She’s never missed a birthday and has been there for so many pivotal moments of my 47 years on the planet.

Last month she was in a terrible car accident, one she was lucky enough to escape with her life. Following the accident, my mind went straight to all the moments we have shared together through the years and the important role she has played in my life. When I was young she would often take me cross country skiing on the Swedetown trails. I was your typical wimpy ass, whiny child on these excursions and she would always coax me along with the promise of a new Garfield book if I could make it to the end of the trail. These skiing adventures were the number one reason I had quite the Garfield book collection. As I grew older, her work as a microbiologist lab tech at Calumet Public Hospital (now known as Aspirus Keweenaw Hospital), came in handy whenever I had a science project to work on at school. Her strong Catholic faith guided me through the years, as she was my sponsor for confirmation and encouraged me to overcome my fear of public speaking and serve as a lector, just like her. Although I no longer consider myself a Catholic, I have great respect for her faith and what it means to her.

Dollar Bay High School Parents Night - 1993

For many years she lived with my Grandma Linda, eventually serving as her main caregiver when Alzheimer's disease descended upon her. Aunt Joanie and Grandma Linda were always a pair, and both were there for me for my high school’s parents night, when my mom and dad were away on a trip to Florida. Aunt Joanie and my mom brought me and my best friend Kristin to see our first ever live concert — the ever so dreamy Harry Connick, Jr., in Milwaukee at the Marcus Amphitheater. I still have a t-shirt from that show and remember it fondly. Aunt Joanie always made time for me — attended most all of my basketball games (even though I was a major bench warmer), swim meets and band concerts. She photographed my high school graduation photos — the ones where I look like Blossom — and even made it to my college graduation all the way down in Ann Arbor. So many of these moments are documented in photographs, which seems fitting seeing how one of her favorite hobbies for many years was photography. She introduced me to the craft and I used to assist her with shooting the occasional wedding. I was mostly there for moral support, as she’d tend to get pretty nervous and I don’t envy photographing weddings before digital cameras were a thing.

University of Michigan graduation - December 1997

 
Two things my Aunt Joanie loves are travel and coffee. She has traveled all over the world and when I was a kid would bring back the best souvenirs. Six years ago, the ladies in our family made it to New York City to celebrate my mom’s 70th birthday, taking in a Broadway show and making it to the Statue of Liberty and the 9/11 Tribute Museum. At the time I was six-months pregnant with my youngest, who incidentally was born on September 11th. Most recently she’s traveled to Italy and has been able to spend time with cousins she managed to track down through her genealogical work. She’s been working hard to learn Italian and we’ve been discussing plans for another ladies trip, this time to Italy. Lucky for Aunt Joanie, Italy has no shortage of good coffee. I have never known anybody who drinks more coffee than Aunt Joanie. She beats me out on my own love of coffee. This woman can drink anyone under the table, drinking coffee any time of the day. I try to avoid drinking it after 5 p.m., as I know it will disturb my ability to fall asleep. I will, however, make an exception and drink coffee after 5 p.m. if I’m with my aunt. Because nothing is quite as enjoyable as sitting around my mother’s kitchen table, eating Christmas cookies and fudge while drinking coffee with Aunt Joanie, even if it is 7 p.m. and I’ll be up all night. It’s totally worth it, both for the treats and for the good company.

My wedding - August 22, 2009

 
Along with being very involved with her family, Aunt Joanie has been very active with her community and church. Through the years she’s been active with Main Street Calumet and Pasty Fest, even being awarded volunteer of the year back in 2005. She is caring, reliable, and giving and I’m lucky to call her my aunt. Unlike so many others who give so much of themselves, she’s completely unassuming, never expecting anything in return for all she gives.


Five years ago I slipped on some ice while visiting my parents over Christmas and broke my left leg pretty badly. I ended up at Aspirus Keweenaw Hospital, the same hospital Aunt Joanie and my mom had worked at for many years and needed surgery. The surgery was scheduled on my birthday in the very same hospital where I was born. I was convinced I was going to die in surgery — coming full circle. My mom was busy looking after my two boys while I was in the hospital and my husband Adam was back in Minneapolis. Who do you think was at my bedside through this drama? My rock, my Aunt Joanie, of course. She even helped me get my hands on a cell phone charger, because I just had to document my broken leg experience.

A visit to the apple orchard with Grandma Betty and the boys

 
Aunt Joanie, now more commonly referred to as AJ, has been there for the next generation, too, as a wonderful great aunt to mine and my siblings' children. She never misses the opportunity to send them a card with a ten dollar bill for Valentines Day or Halloween. She never misses a birthday and even made it out to Seattle for my nephews’ high school graduation and my niece’s high school plays. I feel lucky my sons get to experience the same love I grew up with from this wonderful lady.

Christmastime at Grandma Betty's

 
And now Aunt Joanie faces an uphill battle as she recovers from extensive injuries that would even be tough for the slightly more famous Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson to overcome. As hard as the road ahead will be, I know she can do it. There are countless more cups of coffee to be drunk and Italian words to master. She will always have the love and support from her family, a family that has benefited so much through the years from this incredible and unwavering rock of a woman. We love you Aunt Joanie!

The LaRoche sisters

This Sweater Will Change Your Fashion Life

Last year I found myself stalked by a Facebook sweater ad. I made the mistake of clicking on an ad for a very cute sweater that caught my eye, so of course my newsfeed was soon bombarded by sweater ads — all very similar and all accompanied by the most hyperbolic blurbs I’ve ever read. The ads were all from mysterious clothing companies I’ve never heard of — Aloxy, Tiansel, Ylliy, Bobak — which of course was red flag number one that something wasn’t quite legit. Red flag number two was the price, just $40.00 for the sweater that would “change my fashion life forever.” As someone who doesn’t really consider herself having a fashion life, I had to laugh at the descriptions, many of which mentioned these sweaters were tailored for “mature women.” Sure, I was over 40, but I did not consider myself mature by any means. The original sweater I had clicked on continued to pop up in my feed for months and months, along with all her sister sweaters.

Tailored for mature women. Not to be overly dramatic, but this sweater will change your fashion life. The fabric is jersey (like t-shirt material) but a bit thicker and higher quality. You feel like you’re wearing your coziest pajamas but look like a million bucks. It can EASILY be dressed up or down, throw on some stilettos for a night out or flip-flops for the farmers market. True to size, just follow the chart. Don’t miss out this chance to get changed!

The sister sweaters were all very nice, but something kept bringing me back to that original sweater. I loved the colors — gray, blue and an eye-catching orange that accented the cuffs and the collar. Sure, I didn’t think it would change my fashion life forever, but it was very attractive and I wanted it.

I continued to document the sweater barrage on my Facebook feed, as I found it comical to get so many similar ads and the written descriptions alone were hilarious. “Part preppy, part ski lodge-chic, this lightweight yet cozy pullover is exactly what we crave come fall and winter.” It all made me want to get a job as a sweater blurb writer. Finally, against my better judgment, after months and months of pandemic stress, I decided to pull the trigger and order the damn sweater. Sure, I knew in my heart of hearts that it was most likely a scam, but I decided to take a chance for $40.00. If anything, ordering the sweater seemed like a logical end to the on-going Facebook sweater saga I had been documenting in my newsfeed. Let’s see what Tiansel, the “company” I finally ordered from, would send me, if they sent me anything at all. So on September 4th, 2021, I did it, I ordered the sweater.

After ordering the sweater, I did receive notification that it was sent out on September 9th. This notification included a tracking number, which of course did not work. As a couple weeks went by with no working tracking number and no sign of the sweater, I finally asked Tiansel for a refund. A knitting friend of mine had informed me that the picture and sweater pattern used in the ad was stolen from a legit website, which was further proof to me that my $40.00 dream sweater was too good to be true. To their credit, Tiansel did refund my money. And then, to my surprise, a couple days later, the sweater was actually delivered.

September 28th, 2021, the sweater made it to my doorstep. I found myself doing my very first ever unboxing video, as I just had to record opening the package and seeing if this sweater lived up to all the hype. The sweater certainly lived up to my expectations pretty well, in the fact that it was made out of pretty cheap material and the colors were off, especially the orange. This was not the sweater that would change my fashion life, unless it was truly possible to become less fashionable at this point in my life. I couldn’t even imagine sporting this sweater at the farmer’s market let alone dressing it up with my stilettos. It was, in short, pretty shitty and nothing like the stolen sweater image used in the ads. I was happy I had received a refund and wasn’t out $40.00 for this sad specimen of a sweater.

The Facebook sweater.

To my surprise, the saga of the Facebook sweater was far from over. Many of my Facebook friends had been following the story and in response to my post about receiving this sad, shoddy sweater, my friend Randi offered to use her amazing talents to hand knit the sweater for me. I knew a few people locally who were knitters and had considered commissioning someone to knit the sweater for me, as the pattern was available for sale on the Internet. I considered Randi’s offer an incredibly nice gesture from someone I’ve never met who lives on the other side of the world. But I never figured it would actually work out, as throughout my life I’ve received many nice gestures from people that were just that, nice gestures.

Randi lives in Vestre Jakobselv, which is a small town in extreme northeastern Norway, north of Finland and not far from the Russian border. Randi and I were pen pals when we were kids, I’m guessing when I was 12-years-old, though I admit that 12 is generally my default age when it comes to memories from childhood. Her grandmother and my grandmother used to write letters to each other in Finnish and we think they were cousins. Sadly, neither of us can quite remember the exact nature of their relationship and both have since passed away. All those years ago, our grandmothers hooked us up as pen pals and we shared letters for a couple years of our youth. I remember getting her letters with neat Norwegian stickers and I know I kept the letters for several years, but sadly have since managed to lose them. Back in 2007, Randi contacted me after tracking me down through the Internet. I still have the first emails she sent to me back then and we’ve been Facebook friends now for many years.

Vestre Jakobselv - Randi's hometown.

Randi followed through on her offer and as I type this, I am wearing the most amazing hand knitted cozy sweater that has changed my fashion life. Okay, maybe it hasn’t changed my fashion life so much as it’s changed my view of humanity. After the past two years of what seems like non-stop terrible news, events and stories of people behaving like selfish, nasty assholes, having someone you’ve never met in person do something this kind is pretty incredible. Randi refused to let me pay for her beautiful work, which she produced incredibly quickly. The quality of this sweater is so nice and she got the size just right working with the measurements I sent her. The day I picked up the sweater from the post office is one I won’t soon forget and she even included some Norwegian chocolate treats for me and my family.

I’m still working on a way to repay her kindness, but for now I just want her to know how much I appreciate what she did. Everytime I wear the sweater, I am reminded of her kindness and it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy, just like the sweater itself. I love the sweater so much that I’m almost afraid to wear it, as I want to keep it in good shape. The story of the sweater is a great reminder that kindness can make such a big difference in our day to day lives as we stumble through these historic, unprecedented times. As I get older I realize how important it is to embrace and appreciate kind and generous behavior and to pay it forward in any way possible. I hope this is a lesson I can share often with my children as I try to raise empathetic humans in a world that can be nothing short of cruel and unfair. Thank you Randi. You are an amazing human. I hope we’re able to meet in person someday soon.

I did use the original sweater for my Halloween costume.

A happy camper in her hand knitted sweater. 

The Truth Needs An Ally

Journalism in Peril

On a recent visit to Rochester, as if on autopilot, my car steers me straight to the Post-Bulletin newspaper, or at least the site where it once stood on First Avenue Southeast. Although it’s been nearly ten years since I quit my job as a staff photographer at the paper, I am not prepared to see the empty, snow covered lot that was once a bustling newspaper building, complete with running presses and people coming and going. Stepping out of my car and bracing for the cold, I get a better look at the site and a quick snapshot with my phone as tears well up in my eyes. Even with the knowledge the newspaper is still in business — downsized, mostly online, and relocated across town — I still feel a great sense of loss looking at the empty lot. My feelings are about a lot more than the loss of a building. This vast empty lot represents the loss of a viable and important profession — journalism itself. A profession I fell in love with many years ago. A profession embattled through the years and now barely recognizable in these days of “fake news,” click-bait, the 24-hour news cycle, pundits, social media and of course, the ever important bottomline. This cold, snow covered lot and the state of journalism today are one and the same. And they both break my heart.

The site of my former employer the Rochester Post-Bulletin newspaper.

I fell into photojournalism quite by accident. I always had an interest in photography and after finishing my degree in biology, I happened upon a basic black and white class at a community college. While learning how to develop film and make prints in the darkroom, I marveled at the process of watching images appear before my eyes like magic. I wandered around Ann Arbor taking pictures of everything from close-ups of parking meters to giant dead stag beetles at the museum where I worked. Eventually, I found my favorite subject to photograph — people. Following a failed attempt to use my biology degree as a high school teacher, I had a quarter-life-crisis and landed a job at my hometown newspaper in the U.P. of Michigan — the Daily Mining Gazette. Working for the paper I further developed my love for photographing people and telling their stories with images. Whether I was shooting yet another high school basketball game or a fishing tournament — where I learned walleye is “the chocolate of fishes,” — I was in my element. Although having to listen to another high school pep band rendition of the ever so timeless Final Countdown made me cringe, the sheer variety of newspaper assignments and the people I met on the job had me hooked. This was the job for me.

Early attempts at being artsy - stag beetle. 

High contrast building because why not.

Even back then, in the early aughts, the writing was on the wall for the newspaper industry, no pun intended. Newspapers were already struggling with readership and ultimately failing to successfully adapt to the age of the Internet. Despite all this, I followed my heart and not my head, and decided to go to graduate school for journalism at the University of Missouri-Columbia in 2003. It’s one of the country’s best journalism schools and although I certainly received a quality education, followed by a number of great internships, a long lasting career in journalism was not in the cards for myself and many of my classmates. My time at the Rochester Post-Bulletin — a mid-sized community newspaper — was a mere five years. In total, between that last job, graduate school, internships and my first job at the Daily Mining Gazette, I spent about twelve years as a working journalist. Not exactly a long career, but certainly personally impactful. Like so many former journalists, I long to go back to a profession that essentially doesn’t exist anymore. At this point, I’d probably have better luck finding a job as a blacksmith.

    People make the most interesting photos.

Journalism falls into that category of important and noble professions that should offer better pay to attract and maintain quality professionals. It’s right up there with teaching in its importance to a functioning society and democracy. Teaching and journalism are often touted as more than just jobs, they’re vocations, the practitioners of which are typically passionate about their work. The love and passion associated with these jobs is somehow supposed to make up for crap pay and treatment their practitioners so often receive, even while public officials continue to sing their praises and speak of their importance. Like so many other underappreciated and underfunded areas of our society, the working conditions and expectations in these professions are unsustainable, magnified even more during a global pandemic. Dedication and passion can fuel a person for a while, but eventually burnout always wins. As more and more burnt out educators look to leave their profession, more and more newspapers across the country continue to shutter. According to the University of North Carolina’s Hussman School of Journalism, at the end of 2019 the U.S. had 6,700 newspapers – down from almost 9,000 in 2004, or about 25%. Many communities are now forced to look elsewhere for their news and information, often leading to less than reliable sources, which ultimately helps fuel the spread of misinformation and disinformation.

Snapshot of me on my last day of work in 2012 - inspired by the Breakfast Club.

The Truth Needs An Ally

The decline of print is one of the many changes and challenges facing the media landscape over the last twenty years, the most notable being the rise of the Internet and its polarizing effect on political points of view. I recently picked up my old copy of The Truth Needs No Ally: Inside Photojournalism, by Howard Chapnick. Published in 1994, the book is the definitive guide to the importance of photojournalism throughout history, its best practices and advice to aspiring photojournalists. It is the book that made me want to become a photojournalist. Chapnick extols the overwhelming power of the still image and speaks of how despite the rise and dominance of video and t.v. news, the still image continues to hold the ability to change history. However, Chapnick could not predict the profound effects the Internet — only in its infancy in 1994 — would have on the power of photojournalism and ultimately the very definition of truth itself. Between the image fueled Internet, social media and the fact that everybody now walks around with a camera in their pocket, so much has changed since his book was published.

We are constantly bombarded with thousands of images, whether we’re glued to our smartphones, laptops or even old fashioned television. When I was in graduate school, courses in journalism ethics covered various scandals involving the manipulation of images using Photoshop to change their content. Although the phenomenon was fairly new and photographers and news agencies who participated in such practices were held accountable for their violations, gone were the days of the assumed verisimilitude of a still image. Viewers were now forced to put their trust in the integrity of the producers of images. Fast forward to today, and a highly polarized ultra bipartisan America where trust in government institutions, the media and each other has eroded to a point of being nearly non-existent, and the truth has become ever so elusive. Add to that the ease of manipulating not only still images but video, and the title of Chapnick’s brilliant book feels especially ironic, because now more than ever, the truth needs an ally.

When his book was published, Chapnick could not have imagined where we’d be today. Still, it’s interesting to read his viewpoints on the future of photojournalism, most of which were fairly optimistic. On the subject of photo manipulation, he points out that even before, “the advent of computerized equipment and the introduction of electronic still camera systems,” it was possible to alter photographs in the darkroom. He admits the relative ease to doctor images with new technologies could lead to, “a further dilution of the public’s acceptance of the photograph as a credible witness to events.” In the book’s epilogue, Photojournalism 2000 — A Look into the Future, Chapnick concludes, “By the year 2000, I expect we will have learned how to tame threatening technological innovations and the electronic imaging monsters. The demand for thinking photographers will still be there. No technology can replace the mind. No machine can heighten one’s vision. No electronic darkroom can compose as well as the mind’s eye. The same kind of photographers who have justifiably dominated photojournalism throughout its history will be equally well rewarded in tomorrow’s communications world.”

While there is still a clear distinction between seasoned, professional photojournalists and everyday people with cell phones, the larger and more important issue facing our society today is the role of truth in journalism itself and its effect on the very health of our democracy. We are well beyond simply dealing with the occasional manipulation of an image here or there. As responsible media consumers, it’s up to us to do the work required to vet out the truth, to be an ally to truth. But how? How do we become an ally to truth when we live in a world where people choose to believe what they want to believe without ever bothering to back anything up with facts?

Becoming An Ally

The key to becoming an ally to truth is media literacy. What is media literacy? The Center for Media Literacy, offers a comprehensive explanation of media literacy —

Media Literacy is a 21st century approach to education. It provides a framework to access, analyze, evaluate, create and participate with messages in a variety of forms — from print to video to the Internet. Media literacy builds an understanding of the role of media in society as well as essential skills of inquiry and self-expression necessary for citizens of a democracy.

Common Sense Media’s definition stresses the importance of understanding the intent behind messages with a focus on children as media consumers —

Media literacy is the ability to identify different types of media and understand the messages they're sending. Kids take in a huge amount of information from a wide array of sources, far beyond the traditional media (TV, radio, newspapers, and magazines) of most parents' youth. There are text messages, memes, viral videos, social media, video games, advertising, and more. But all media share one thing: Someone created it. And it was created for a reason. Understanding that reason is the basis of media literacy.

I am guilty of assuming average, everyday media consumers know some basics about the sources of their information and I admit the need to be more aware of the generational divide that exists in the way we, as a society, get our information and news. I grew up in a time when there were three major t.v. networks that were the main sources of national and world news — end of story. This time before cable news stations, the 24-hour news cycle, and the Internet was not without its problems, namely the power these sources had as gatekeepers to determine what news was considered important enough to cover while overlooking other “lesser” stories. However, these sources generally had the trust of the public and people believed, for the most part, that they were presenting the truth without hidden agendas. The public’s trust of the media has significantly decreased since the rise of the Internet as our main source of information, and this mistrust is one of the greatest obstacles we face in the preservation of our democracy.

Lucky for us, the very technology that threatens truth and democracy can be used as a tool to combat the spread of misinformation and disinformation, which leads to continued distrust of the media. There’s an abundance of great media literacy resources available online that can help us all become allies to the truth. Taking the time to use these resources to learn how to be more responsible media users is imperative if we hope to preserve our democracy as it teeters on the edge of disaster. I began writing about these resources and was quickly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of information available and the best way to organize it all. As I found myself writing a never ending essay, I decided to break up my examination of media literacy resources and tools into installments — shorter essays that look at singular areas of media literacy. Stay tuned as I work on creating what I hope will be a comprehensive guide to help navigate the ever complex media landscape of 2022.