When I was four years old The Cosby Show began its long and glorious run on NBC. In 1984 there was no such thing as satellite tv, and we couldn't get cable when I lived out in the sticks, but fortunately, NBC happened to be one of the three-point-five stations we could get via the metal tv antenna that grew out of the ground outside the west living room window.
The Cosby show quickly became a Thursday night ritual at our house. We always were sure to be showered and pajamaed before the pre-show credits came on, because heaven forbid we missed the intro. (I named my cabbage patch doll Keshia, after Rudi) My all-time favorite intro was the one where all the cast members were dressed in colorful, pastel clothes and they danced through the credits. My least favorite was the jazzy one. Even as I kid, I never liked jazz.
But back to Thursday nights. All clean and cozy, we three kids would rush to the livingroom to join mom and dad for those thirty minutes of bliss. Bathroom trips were always reserved for the dreaded commercial breaks, and even then were frantically rushed under the constant fear of missing even precious second.
The best part about the Huxtable family was that even the adult characters were interesting to kids. Every child knows that as a general rule most adults on tv are boring. But Cliff and Claire were hilarious! I can still see Cliff, in his constant search for junk food, hiding a submarine sandwich in a toy semi-truck or taking a chunk out of an iced cake, stuffing the hole full of paper towels, and trying to re-ice it to cover his tracks. I can see Claire, with ATTITUDE shooting out of her very fingertips, confronting Vanessa after she snuck out for an ill-fated trip to BAL-timore. The scenes roll through my mind, of Theo creatively trying to hide an earring or a fake mustache from his much-too-clever-for-that parents. Theo was too old for me, of course, but I still thought he was awfully cute, if a little stupid sometimes.
There we three would be, frozen in time for those thirty minutes, unaware of anything else in the world. We didn't know what was going on in Washington or Columbine or the Pentagon or Berlin or Moscow. In fact, we probably didn't even know most of those places existed.
Harrod, Ohio we knew. Clum Road. Our house, where we were safe and loved. Where Thursday nights meant Cosby and begging to stay up just a little beyond our 8:30 bedtime (which was, of course, positively unfair because EVERYONE ELSE in the WORLD got to stay up until nine except us) and if the stars lined up right and we had been REALLy good, Thursday night might also mean a bag of Mikesell's potato chips to share.
And as hard as we tried to slow down time or distract Mom and Dad into a few extra waking minutes, 9 pm never failed to roll around. The opening song to Cheers (a show I figured I couldn't watch because it took place in a bar) played in the background as teeth were brushed and prayers were prayed and Thursday was tucked in tight and sent on its way. Yes, Thursday nights were good at my house. Very good.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Ode to My Mom
Today is my mom's birthday. Had she not died, Mom would have turned 56 years old. We certainly would have had a cake and ice-cream, and made unreasonable numbers of jokes about her being over the hill and closer to 60 than 50.
But she's not here today, and so it is a melencholy day instead of a celebratory one. Today as I was making my bed I glanced at the picture of Mom that I have in a big, plastic photo display above my headboard. You know how, when something's been in a certain place in your house for awhile, you stop noticing it? Well, that had happened with this picture, but this morning I re-noticed. My mom. Beautiful and smiling back at me. A little dab of white hair right in front, off to the right side just a bit. Comfy in a sweatshirt and turtleneck- her standard winter garb. Green eyes. Kind eyes.
Here are a couple of fond memories about my mom. Because whenever I write about her it's sad, and she wasn't a sad person.
Once when mom was about 4 years old, she was sitting in the living room, putting on her socks as she watched Howdy Doody. Her aunt (Edna, I think- mom had several aunts, none of whom I knew very well) was there and as she walked through the livingroom, she stopped, looked at mom's socks and started laughing. Mom, mystified as to the cause of such jockularity asked why her aunt was laughing. Aunt Edna simply replied, "Look at your socks!". Mom looked down at her socks, and as she later told me, "It was as if socks suddenly had color. I had two socks of the same style on- one red, and one blue." The Day Susan House Discovered Sock Colors.
When I was about 7 or 8, I vividly remember arguing with Mom about wearing a particular shirt. I have no recolection of the shirt now, but apparently it was my favorite then, and Mom had told me that I couldn't wear it because I had just worn it, and that I shoud wear something else. We went round and round, probably with me being maddeningly annoying about how the shirt was clean and it was my favorite and I really really REALLY wanted to wear it. (I was nothing if not tenacious) Finally, I remember Mom giving up and shouting, "FINE! WEAR the shirt. Wear it all week. In fact, just wear it until it FALLS OFF of your BODY, for all I care!"
As I sheepishly returned to getting ready for school, I remember contemplating the possibility of a shirt falling off of my body, how embarrassing that would be- especially at school- and wondering how many times I would be able to wear it and still skirt this frightening new danger. The Day I Won an Argument With Mom...Sortof
The autumn after my graduation from high school I left the farmland of northwestern Ohio and headed for the nearly identical farmland of northeastern Indiana, to start my undergraduate career. I was just about as nervous as one could be, short of actually developing an ulcer or having a panic attack. My parents and I shuffled our way through all the welcome weekend activities, designed to make parents feel more comfortable leaving their kids behind, and to make kids feel like they're not being left for dead as their parents climb back into their now-empty minivans and head home.
I was homesick, to say the least. In fact, I was not just your ordinary homesick, I was SO homesick that my whole dorm hall was aware that I was homesick. That's embarrassing. Anyway, before mom and Dad left to go home I had realised that I'd left Alfred, my cherished teddy bear, behind. This massive oversight was apparently made possible due to my incredibly anxious state as I pack a few last things and left my childhood behind. Mom promised to mail him the minute they got home.
In the meantime, I began crying profusely, and quite often. I had never been much of a crier, but that changed the second my parents' backsides disappeared through that Alpha Womens Dorm door. News got around on my hall that I'd left my teddy bear at home, and my wonderful new hallmates, perhaps in a desperate attempt to keep my from dehydration via profuse weeping, came to offer me several different stuffed toy substitutes, to help tide me over until Alfred arrived.
The next day I had a package pick-up card in my mailbox. Mom had spent some unreasonable amount (probably more than the worth of the bear) to overnight Alfred to me at college. Not because we were rich and had nothing better to do with $30. But because she was my mom, and she knew how important having someone to hold onto is, especially when life is hard. The Day Mom Came Through...Again.
Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you.
But she's not here today, and so it is a melencholy day instead of a celebratory one. Today as I was making my bed I glanced at the picture of Mom that I have in a big, plastic photo display above my headboard. You know how, when something's been in a certain place in your house for awhile, you stop noticing it? Well, that had happened with this picture, but this morning I re-noticed. My mom. Beautiful and smiling back at me. A little dab of white hair right in front, off to the right side just a bit. Comfy in a sweatshirt and turtleneck- her standard winter garb. Green eyes. Kind eyes.
Here are a couple of fond memories about my mom. Because whenever I write about her it's sad, and she wasn't a sad person.
Once when mom was about 4 years old, she was sitting in the living room, putting on her socks as she watched Howdy Doody. Her aunt (Edna, I think- mom had several aunts, none of whom I knew very well) was there and as she walked through the livingroom, she stopped, looked at mom's socks and started laughing. Mom, mystified as to the cause of such jockularity asked why her aunt was laughing. Aunt Edna simply replied, "Look at your socks!". Mom looked down at her socks, and as she later told me, "It was as if socks suddenly had color. I had two socks of the same style on- one red, and one blue." The Day Susan House Discovered Sock Colors.
When I was about 7 or 8, I vividly remember arguing with Mom about wearing a particular shirt. I have no recolection of the shirt now, but apparently it was my favorite then, and Mom had told me that I couldn't wear it because I had just worn it, and that I shoud wear something else. We went round and round, probably with me being maddeningly annoying about how the shirt was clean and it was my favorite and I really really REALLY wanted to wear it. (I was nothing if not tenacious) Finally, I remember Mom giving up and shouting, "FINE! WEAR the shirt. Wear it all week. In fact, just wear it until it FALLS OFF of your BODY, for all I care!"
As I sheepishly returned to getting ready for school, I remember contemplating the possibility of a shirt falling off of my body, how embarrassing that would be- especially at school- and wondering how many times I would be able to wear it and still skirt this frightening new danger. The Day I Won an Argument With Mom...Sortof
The autumn after my graduation from high school I left the farmland of northwestern Ohio and headed for the nearly identical farmland of northeastern Indiana, to start my undergraduate career. I was just about as nervous as one could be, short of actually developing an ulcer or having a panic attack. My parents and I shuffled our way through all the welcome weekend activities, designed to make parents feel more comfortable leaving their kids behind, and to make kids feel like they're not being left for dead as their parents climb back into their now-empty minivans and head home.
I was homesick, to say the least. In fact, I was not just your ordinary homesick, I was SO homesick that my whole dorm hall was aware that I was homesick. That's embarrassing. Anyway, before mom and Dad left to go home I had realised that I'd left Alfred, my cherished teddy bear, behind. This massive oversight was apparently made possible due to my incredibly anxious state as I pack a few last things and left my childhood behind. Mom promised to mail him the minute they got home.
In the meantime, I began crying profusely, and quite often. I had never been much of a crier, but that changed the second my parents' backsides disappeared through that Alpha Womens Dorm door. News got around on my hall that I'd left my teddy bear at home, and my wonderful new hallmates, perhaps in a desperate attempt to keep my from dehydration via profuse weeping, came to offer me several different stuffed toy substitutes, to help tide me over until Alfred arrived.
The next day I had a package pick-up card in my mailbox. Mom had spent some unreasonable amount (probably more than the worth of the bear) to overnight Alfred to me at college. Not because we were rich and had nothing better to do with $30. But because she was my mom, and she knew how important having someone to hold onto is, especially when life is hard. The Day Mom Came Through...Again.
Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
The Immigration Question
I've started teaching an adult ESL class on Tuesday and Thursday nights and I love it! I was really nervous before I started and really regretting taking the job, but tonight was class three, and we're starting to get to know each other and I'm remembering why I came to Wheaton in the first place. I love teaching! I love the prep and the presentation and seeing the light of comprehension glowing in my student's eyes.
I only have five students, with one more coming soon, or so the rumor goes. They're all immigrants.
I never really felt especially passionate one way or the other, re: illegal aliens. I always thought, on one hand, rules are rules and they should be followed. What would happen if EVERYONE moved to the US? We'd turn into the new poor kid on the block!
On the other hand, though, as a Christian (well, and as a person) I've always found it quite arrogant to say, "Hey, I was lucky enough to be born into this country. I learned the language as a child; I've never missed a meal, never spent a night without heat, never had to walk more than a mile to get somewhere; never even saw a starving person or a had to drink contaminated water; I've never worried about getting malaria or TB or HIV or anything, really, because we have drugs for everything. YOU, on the other hand were not so lucky. Too bad for you. Stay where you are. Starve. Die of a disease we could cure on this side of the border. Freeze to death or die of heat stroke. It's your own fault, for being born outside my country's borders".
So until this point I've felt pretty torn. But this weekend I was talking to someone at church about my job and she asked if the students were all legal. I didn't know. And I felt angry that she asked, which surprised me.
I guess I finally chose my side of the fence. My students accidentally reminded me, again, how hard it is to be in someone else's country. I knew this before. I've been that person often enough to know.
But you know, of all the countries I've visited, I've never gotten the kind of poor treatment refugees and immigrants to the US get daily. No one every said to me, "Why don't you go back to your own country?" or "Why don't you learn German/Russian/Spanish/Mandarin/Romanian?" No one ever glared at me when I didn't know how to use their money and just held out a handful of coins with a hopeful look at the cashier.
I know that not every American is like that. Surely, those sorts of people are the minority. But they are a loud minority. So if you're part of that silent majority, the majority that chooses kindness over condemnation regardless of political views, let me urge you to speak up. I challenge you to question the arrogance and self-righteousness of assuming we're the only ones worthy of appreciating the blessings of this country.
If you haven't yet, please go watch "God Grew Tired of Us". It's a National Geographic documentary of four Sudanese refugees who come to the US. It's honest, funny, stirring, heart-wrenching, and encouraging. It will help you to understand the challenges faces by refugees who are relocated. Definitely worth your time.
PS
You can check your local video store for God Grew Tired of Us if you're interested. I looked online and Family Video and Blockbuster both carry it. My library does, too. If you want a taste, you can watch a clip on National Geographic's website. Here's the link:
http://video.nationalgeographic.com/video/player/specials/films-specials/god-grew-tired-of-us/
I only have five students, with one more coming soon, or so the rumor goes. They're all immigrants.
I never really felt especially passionate one way or the other, re: illegal aliens. I always thought, on one hand, rules are rules and they should be followed. What would happen if EVERYONE moved to the US? We'd turn into the new poor kid on the block!
On the other hand, though, as a Christian (well, and as a person) I've always found it quite arrogant to say, "Hey, I was lucky enough to be born into this country. I learned the language as a child; I've never missed a meal, never spent a night without heat, never had to walk more than a mile to get somewhere; never even saw a starving person or a had to drink contaminated water; I've never worried about getting malaria or TB or HIV or anything, really, because we have drugs for everything. YOU, on the other hand were not so lucky. Too bad for you. Stay where you are. Starve. Die of a disease we could cure on this side of the border. Freeze to death or die of heat stroke. It's your own fault, for being born outside my country's borders".
So until this point I've felt pretty torn. But this weekend I was talking to someone at church about my job and she asked if the students were all legal. I didn't know. And I felt angry that she asked, which surprised me.
I guess I finally chose my side of the fence. My students accidentally reminded me, again, how hard it is to be in someone else's country. I knew this before. I've been that person often enough to know.
But you know, of all the countries I've visited, I've never gotten the kind of poor treatment refugees and immigrants to the US get daily. No one every said to me, "Why don't you go back to your own country?" or "Why don't you learn German/Russian/Spanish/Mandarin/Romanian?" No one ever glared at me when I didn't know how to use their money and just held out a handful of coins with a hopeful look at the cashier.
I know that not every American is like that. Surely, those sorts of people are the minority. But they are a loud minority. So if you're part of that silent majority, the majority that chooses kindness over condemnation regardless of political views, let me urge you to speak up. I challenge you to question the arrogance and self-righteousness of assuming we're the only ones worthy of appreciating the blessings of this country.
If you haven't yet, please go watch "God Grew Tired of Us". It's a National Geographic documentary of four Sudanese refugees who come to the US. It's honest, funny, stirring, heart-wrenching, and encouraging. It will help you to understand the challenges faces by refugees who are relocated. Definitely worth your time.
PS
You can check your local video store for God Grew Tired of Us if you're interested. I looked online and Family Video and Blockbuster both carry it. My library does, too. If you want a taste, you can watch a clip on National Geographic's website. Here's the link:
http://video.nationalgeographic.com/video/player/specials/films-specials/god-grew-tired-of-us/
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Road Trip to Michigan
I spent Presidents' Day weekend at the home of my roommate, Krista, in Charlevoix, Michigan, about an hour south of the Makinaw Bridge. Good times were had by all, some of the highlights of which you will find below.
Road Trip!
It's about a 7 hour trip from Wheaton to Charlevoix, but my wondercar, Nigel the CR-V, got us to our destination with narry a hitch. Well, except when Krista was sure we shouldn't take the right exit, and Augustine (who's actually from Texas) recognised it and we had to turn around and try again. But for this little snafu we can hardly blame Nigel.
On the way up we stopped at a Burger King for supper, where we saw an ad that quickly became Krista's new favorite saying. It was a picture of a Whopper sandwich, perched on top of an open Big Mac box. It is on top because it's too big to fit in. The caption says, "Silly Whopper. That's a Big Mac box!" Krista laughed and described the ad to everyone who would listen throughout the weekend.
Cross-Country Trauma
So Krista comes from an active and athletic family. I am neither active nor athletic. She warned me that we would be going cc skiing on Saturday, which seemed fine to me at first. But then, all the way up Augustine (who'd met Mr. Swenor several times and is an avid downhill skier and generally athletic) kept telling Krista that she was feeling nervous that Mr. Swenor was going to push us too hard while skiing and she wouldn't be able to keep up. Well, if Augustine was going to fall behind, I might as well stay in the car. So that made me nervous.
By the time we were all fitted with shoes, skiis, hats, gloves, and water, I was panicking. Phrases such as "six mile trail" and "three or four hours" were being thrown around as if they WEREN'T terrifying. I was starting to feel a little sick.
It took about an hour to get to the state park where the torture was to take place. Incidentally, the whole area was BEA-U-TIFUL. Wow. So pristine and remote. We were driving through endless forests of pine trees, decorated with fluffy, white snow. The day was beautiful, too; blue skies and sunny, with temps in the low thirties. Most of this glory was wasted on me in my current state, but I couldn't help but appreciate a bit of it.
We finally arrived at the moment of truth. I was strapped to some skiis and informed that the "sticks" were actually "ski poles". Krista's sister gave me a few basic pointers while we waited for everyone to get ready. Things like bend your knees and try to glide. All well-intentioned and generally lost on me. We headed out. Here's a picture of us before I was covered in snow.
I managed to stay upright until we came to our first downhill slope. Now, this hill was actually more like a gentle undulation on the landscape. It would be nearly indiscernable had I been walking. But I wasn't walking, I was slipping around on two narrow strips of...fiberglass? and this posed a significant problem for me. I fell. The falling part was fast, but the getting up part involved coaching from everyone present, lots of grunting, groaning, maneuvering, positioning, repositioning, and, at LONG last, a hand-up from Krista's brother-in-law. Fortunately, everyone was quite gracious during the 10 minutes we all stood around waiting for me to get vertical again.
Not long after that, our group split up as the realization that I wasn't going to be moving any faster set in. Krista and Augustine stayed back with me and helped me through to the end of the two miles that I completed. In two hours. Quite possibly the longest two hours of my life... Yes, that's three times slower than walking. It seems that the gliding part is hard for people with bad balance. Like me. Plus I was hyper-paranoid about re-injuring my back with all the falling I was doing. All I can say for myself is that by the end of the trail I was considerably faster at getting up than I was during that first fall.
So my fearless companions finally agreed, after much convincing, to leave me at the first stopping point. They were going to go on to the second stopping point, another mile on. Mr. Swenor was supposed to come with the car and pick us up shortly, so I took off my skis and sat down on the porch of the park office (which was closed) to await his arrival.
A group of snowmobilers was also at the closed office, grilling burgers and hotdogs on a make-shift grill. They mentioned that there was a small heater in their snowmobile trailer that I was welcome to go use, but I was actually sweaty from my two hours of torture, and I politely refused.
About 30 minutes later, however, I was beginning to regret that hasty decision, as Mr. Swenor had still not made an appearance, and my previously sweaty self had become chilled. About this time, one of the women (there were three couples there, all in their late fourties/early fifties) came and insisted that I come join them in the warm trailer and this time I was happy to oblige. They had finished their meal and were just enjoying the last of their beer as I joined them. We chit-chatted for about 15 minutes until they were ready to head off again for another ride. They offered to take me back to our car, but since I didn't have keys that seemed counter-productive and besides, I had no idea if there were multiple roads to choose from or not, having come through the woods. I regretfully returned to my previous post, thanking them profusely and waving as they rode off into the forest. I did make use of their grill, which was still hot, to warm my hands. Eventually, Mr. Swenor showed up and picked me up. Having just finished six miles of skiing in three hours, he was sweaty and hot. Having just sat in the cold for an hour, I was shivering and cold. Being generous and a dad, he turned the heat on for me anyway. :)
Not long after that, and having successfully pushed the Suburban out of the snow where we got stuck, we picked up the rest of the crew and headed for an Italian restaurant for supper. I was exhausted, already sore (never a good sign), developing several impressive bruises, and I had to pee, but I had survived. We ate pizza, which was delicious, and headed home. I chattered away like a magpie with that lighter-than-air feeling you get when something you've been dreading is finally over.
Sunday
Saturday night we got freezing rain, and Sunday church service was canceled due to the road conditions. We all spent the day lazing about the house, reading, playing games, and watching tv and a movie. I really enjoyed being in a family atmosphere again. That level of interaction that only happens in families and long, long, long-time friends, where there is no hesitation; no need to hide, because everyone knows who you are deep down, and they love you anyway.
In the afternoon Krista gave me a quick car-tour of the city, which is situated between Lake Charlevoix and Lake Michigan. It was a nice day of relaxation.
Home Again
So Monday we left about 1pm for the long ride home. We were quite thankful that the roads were in pretty good shape, considering the ice of the day before. We topped our road trip off with supper in Greek Town in Chicago. I had mousaka (like lasagna made with eggplant, potatoes, and beef), which was really yummy. As always, it was nice to come home after a break away from the Roosevelt House.
Road Trip!
It's about a 7 hour trip from Wheaton to Charlevoix, but my wondercar, Nigel the CR-V, got us to our destination with narry a hitch. Well, except when Krista was sure we shouldn't take the right exit, and Augustine (who's actually from Texas) recognised it and we had to turn around and try again. But for this little snafu we can hardly blame Nigel.
On the way up we stopped at a Burger King for supper, where we saw an ad that quickly became Krista's new favorite saying. It was a picture of a Whopper sandwich, perched on top of an open Big Mac box. It is on top because it's too big to fit in. The caption says, "Silly Whopper. That's a Big Mac box!" Krista laughed and described the ad to everyone who would listen throughout the weekend.
Cross-Country Trauma
So Krista comes from an active and athletic family. I am neither active nor athletic. She warned me that we would be going cc skiing on Saturday, which seemed fine to me at first. But then, all the way up Augustine (who'd met Mr. Swenor several times and is an avid downhill skier and generally athletic) kept telling Krista that she was feeling nervous that Mr. Swenor was going to push us too hard while skiing and she wouldn't be able to keep up. Well, if Augustine was going to fall behind, I might as well stay in the car. So that made me nervous.
By the time we were all fitted with shoes, skiis, hats, gloves, and water, I was panicking. Phrases such as "six mile trail" and "three or four hours" were being thrown around as if they WEREN'T terrifying. I was starting to feel a little sick.
It took about an hour to get to the state park where the torture was to take place. Incidentally, the whole area was BEA-U-TIFUL. Wow. So pristine and remote. We were driving through endless forests of pine trees, decorated with fluffy, white snow. The day was beautiful, too; blue skies and sunny, with temps in the low thirties. Most of this glory was wasted on me in my current state, but I couldn't help but appreciate a bit of it.
We finally arrived at the moment of truth. I was strapped to some skiis and informed that the "sticks" were actually "ski poles". Krista's sister gave me a few basic pointers while we waited for everyone to get ready. Things like bend your knees and try to glide. All well-intentioned and generally lost on me. We headed out. Here's a picture of us before I was covered in snow.
I managed to stay upright until we came to our first downhill slope. Now, this hill was actually more like a gentle undulation on the landscape. It would be nearly indiscernable had I been walking. But I wasn't walking, I was slipping around on two narrow strips of...fiberglass? and this posed a significant problem for me. I fell. The falling part was fast, but the getting up part involved coaching from everyone present, lots of grunting, groaning, maneuvering, positioning, repositioning, and, at LONG last, a hand-up from Krista's brother-in-law. Fortunately, everyone was quite gracious during the 10 minutes we all stood around waiting for me to get vertical again.
Not long after that, our group split up as the realization that I wasn't going to be moving any faster set in. Krista and Augustine stayed back with me and helped me through to the end of the two miles that I completed. In two hours. Quite possibly the longest two hours of my life... Yes, that's three times slower than walking. It seems that the gliding part is hard for people with bad balance. Like me. Plus I was hyper-paranoid about re-injuring my back with all the falling I was doing. All I can say for myself is that by the end of the trail I was considerably faster at getting up than I was during that first fall.
So my fearless companions finally agreed, after much convincing, to leave me at the first stopping point. They were going to go on to the second stopping point, another mile on. Mr. Swenor was supposed to come with the car and pick us up shortly, so I took off my skis and sat down on the porch of the park office (which was closed) to await his arrival.
A group of snowmobilers was also at the closed office, grilling burgers and hotdogs on a make-shift grill. They mentioned that there was a small heater in their snowmobile trailer that I was welcome to go use, but I was actually sweaty from my two hours of torture, and I politely refused.
About 30 minutes later, however, I was beginning to regret that hasty decision, as Mr. Swenor had still not made an appearance, and my previously sweaty self had become chilled. About this time, one of the women (there were three couples there, all in their late fourties/early fifties) came and insisted that I come join them in the warm trailer and this time I was happy to oblige. They had finished their meal and were just enjoying the last of their beer as I joined them. We chit-chatted for about 15 minutes until they were ready to head off again for another ride. They offered to take me back to our car, but since I didn't have keys that seemed counter-productive and besides, I had no idea if there were multiple roads to choose from or not, having come through the woods. I regretfully returned to my previous post, thanking them profusely and waving as they rode off into the forest. I did make use of their grill, which was still hot, to warm my hands. Eventually, Mr. Swenor showed up and picked me up. Having just finished six miles of skiing in three hours, he was sweaty and hot. Having just sat in the cold for an hour, I was shivering and cold. Being generous and a dad, he turned the heat on for me anyway. :)
Not long after that, and having successfully pushed the Suburban out of the snow where we got stuck, we picked up the rest of the crew and headed for an Italian restaurant for supper. I was exhausted, already sore (never a good sign), developing several impressive bruises, and I had to pee, but I had survived. We ate pizza, which was delicious, and headed home. I chattered away like a magpie with that lighter-than-air feeling you get when something you've been dreading is finally over.
Sunday
Saturday night we got freezing rain, and Sunday church service was canceled due to the road conditions. We all spent the day lazing about the house, reading, playing games, and watching tv and a movie. I really enjoyed being in a family atmosphere again. That level of interaction that only happens in families and long, long, long-time friends, where there is no hesitation; no need to hide, because everyone knows who you are deep down, and they love you anyway.
In the afternoon Krista gave me a quick car-tour of the city, which is situated between Lake Charlevoix and Lake Michigan. It was a nice day of relaxation.
Home Again
So Monday we left about 1pm for the long ride home. We were quite thankful that the roads were in pretty good shape, considering the ice of the day before. We topped our road trip off with supper in Greek Town in Chicago. I had mousaka (like lasagna made with eggplant, potatoes, and beef), which was really yummy. As always, it was nice to come home after a break away from the Roosevelt House.
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