Another Birthday, A Promising Path.

Yeah! I made it. Another birthday. Another year.
But it is getting harder to hang in there.

I am falling behind in the race to survive. I want to walk as far as my feet will carry me, sing as loud as my voice will rise and write as fast as I can before I am gone.

From the top of my skull to the tip of my toes, my body has taken a beating. But, I keep waving the warrior flag and drawing on the strength of my ancestors. I could have, should have, would have died after a rabid skunk bite as a toddler, after a neck breaking fall off a bicycle in Germany, after flipping out of a car speeding down the freeway in France, after splitting my skull in a bad fall at home in Switzerland.

Yet, for some reason, I am still here for another spin around the sun!

Ever the great pretender, I fake my way forward — tackling Lyme’s disease, environmental illness and more accidents than I can count.

I endure physical ailments with self-discipline and endless rehabilitation - physical therapy, chiropractic treatment, massage, heat, ice and talk therapy.

I fought back from broken bones, but how do you recover from a busted brain?

How do I manage a mind that misfires from damage to the frontal lobe, the mastermind that pulls the strings in the back of the brain that fulfills all human functions?

For the past five years, unable to filter sounds, lights, voices, commotion and to curtail the cacophony of background noise that is the essence of life, I hide in a dark, quiet room. I avoid the masses and loud places - stores, arenas, theaters, restaurants, events and situations that create sensory overload.

Brain activity analysis

I wanted to give up. The Functional Neurology Center gave me hope. After their high- tech diagnosis, I attended an intensive week of therapy, a Boot Camp for the brain.

I rode in my “space ship,” the GyroStim. It’s a state of the art, multi-axis rotating chair that works with balance, cognitive and sensory integration and affects proprioception. I underwent Virtual Reality training to rehabilitate balance dysfunction. I zapped pain with Accelerated Recovery and Performance (ARPWave) Neurotherapy and Cranial low level laser treatments. I repeated exercises, inhaled Molecular Hydrogen and completed therapies so bizarre, it felt like sci-fi.

I learned our brains are marvelous mysteries; specialists are understanding more about neuroplasticity every day. FNC is the way of the future.

“Neuroplasticity is the ability of the nervous system to change its activity in response to intrinsic or extrinsic stimuli by reorganizing its structure, functions, or connections after injuries, such as a stroke or traumatic brain injury (TBI)".

As I struggle to retrain my left side, jump start my cerebellum, and control my frontal lobe, I work just as hard to reset my attitude.

I am an athlete. I may be broken down, worn-out, defective, but I still “run.”

I accept that I may be in training forever in the only game that matters - life.

With age, injury and illness the body weakens, but the spirit grows strong. I get fed up living in this shit shell of a body, but by golly my soul shines on.

In my dance with death, I appreciate better than most that I am living on borrowed time - we all are.

I should be 6 feet under, instead when dawn breaks every morning, I take a deep breath and whisper, “I am strong. I am grateful. I am here.”

Hometown Teams Unite Us in Divisive Times

Nearly 50 years ago, in the infancy of Title IX, an odd trio, McKinzie a respected boys’ coach, Strong, a GAA coordinator, and Smith, the first African American teacher in the conference made sure female athletes had equal opportunity at Sterling High School(SHS).

While our nation struggled with civil rights and gender equity issues, a small town team united blacks, whites and Hispanics in one dream — a state championship. In 1977, Illinois State University hosted the first IHSA girls’ basketball tournament. It could only happen here where legends like Jill Hutchison (basketball), Linda Herman (volleyball) and others assured Title IX’s enactment into law. https://goredbirds.com/

https://goredbirds.com/

Right place. Right time.

In my era, pre Title IX, girls’ teams weren’t allowed on the shiny wooden fieldhouse floor. We played on tile courts in half-flight “girl’s gyms” with chalk scoreboards. We wore the same uniform for every sport each season.

Fast-forward to 2025, another athletic family with Sterling roots, Novak Carbaugh/Jackson, returned to teach and coach today’s SHS Warriors capturing the essence of that earlier time.

Coach Jackson’s mom, Laura Carbaugh, a friend of my sister Karen’s (1977 team), sent me the livestream link to the games, so I could see Sterling defeat Naperville. The hoop-a-la in Homer Musgrove Fieldhouse blew me away. The jumbotron flashed names, numbers and stats as players warmed up in stylish blue and gold uniforms. The Sterling players’ introductions were nearly as spectacular as WNBA players starting line-up announcements that we can see on national TV.

A Title IX pioneer, I had to move abroad for the right to play basketball. A half century later, I saw the SHS live game transmission on my laptop. With tears in my eyes, I watched as coaches, players, and fans rose to sing our national anthem in front of our flag.

After tip-off players ran the court, drove to the basket and rebounded with heart. Jackson and her coaching staff inspired an intensity reminiscent of the golden girls of yesterday. Austin stepped up and under from the low post. The James’ girls picked off passes. Who was that tiny guard dishing out assists on a dime? And feisty Harris? Any relation to Marche Harris?

Forgive me for not knowing every player’s names. Forty-four girls are listed on the SHS roster. Regardless of playing time, each participant having the opportunity to represent the Blue and Gold, will learn the same values of teamwork, sacrifice and loyalty .

Like basketball, the Sterlings girl’s 2018 state championship volleyball team was a family affair with sisters, brothers, moms, dads and grandparents.The recipe for success: take the Borum sisters, add the Gould combo and toss in a Lexi Rodriguez libero.

Over the past decades, coaches like Dietz, McKinzie, Smith and so many others dedicated their lives to guiding our youth. The generosity of citizens, the Pete Dillon’s, Mo Duis’, Roscoe Eades, Homer Musgrove’s, Jim Spencer’s of the community worked tirelessly behind the scenes to provide the foundation of excellence.

We never realized how spoiled we were to have access to public recreational centers like Westwood, Duis Center, the YMCA and dozens of parks, Sinnissippi, Kilgore, Platt and a many others we learned to play early on.

Our SHS sports’ facilities (and performing arts auditorium) are so outstanding opponents kiddingly call us Sterling U.

No matter where the alumni ended up, we still feel proud to say, “I’m from Sterling.”

In 2025, women’s sports has unprecedented popularity, media interest and monetary incentives. The Alex Morgan’s, Caitlyn Clark’s and Simone Biles’ inspired millions of girls to be all they can be.

Opportunities abound for the Lexi’s, Maddie’s, Nia’s, and others, who can today aspire to becoming pro athletes, doctors, lawyers, CEO’s and mom’s.

Alone, we cannot hold back the tsunami sideswiping our country, but together we can strengthen the bridges between our families, neighborhoods, schools and communities. Together, hand in hand, do the right thing in the right place to preserve the human values on which we were raised.

Tolerance, integrity, solidarity.

It begins at home.

Drinks in an 1100 Year Old Pub

In my travels while living abroad for the past 45 years, I’ve perched in fine French cafes, “gemütlich” German bars, and inviting tavernas across Europe, but, England’s oldest pub, The Porch Inn, has been, by far, the most intriguing watering hole I’ve tested.

Situated on the Roman Fosse Way, at the intersection of several historic roads, The Porch Inn is on the ancient market square of Stow-on-the Wold, the gateway to the Cotswolds, UK’s most beautiful countryside.
Timbers of The Porch Inn have been carbon dated to the tenth century. In 947 AD, on orders of Aethelmar, the Saxon Duke of Cornwall, it was built to serve as a hospice accommodating pilgrims, and run by the Knights Hospitallers.

When I ducked into the stone building dating back hundreds of years I was enchanted. The Porch’s low slung, wood beams, stones walls, warm hearths, and antique decor created a bewitching atmosphere that make an ideal writer’s lair.
Once inside, we stood at the main bar to order drinks as is customary in British pubs.Then we climbed the stairs to settle in The Snug of the Governor’s Room(Snug is a British term for a small, comfortable place, sheltered from cold weather.)

While lounging on a stuffed couch in front of a stone fireplace, I noticed the historical artifacts. Bookshelves with tomes lined one wall, leather chairs surrounded low tables laden with board games and antiques, a Roneotype copier filled one corner, and a WWII era lightbulb radio rests in the other one.
As if time stood still, each of the rooms created an illusion of yesteryear, With my imagination, I could become lost in my muse for hours, tucked in a nook, hibernating away from England ’s damp, dreary winters .

The Porch’s original features, including steep, crooked staircases, open fires, oak beams, and long-forgotten underground passageways, would be worth a detour on any European tour.
The pub’s history is a macabre contrast, a dichotomy of good and evil. A safe haven for pilgrims in one century and a center for blood sports in another, the building eventually became a hotel, The Royalist
In medieval times, this part of Stow on Wold would have been renowned for popular blood sports — dog fighting, badger baiting and cock fighting. During earlier building alterations, a three foot deep pit, used for fights, was found under what is now the restaurant.

The inn’s long, and at times, sordid history, only adds to its mystery.

From the moment I ducked through the front door, I was cast under a spell from witches of the past. In the dining room, I studied the witch symbols scratched on the 16th Century fireplace that once warded off evil spirits.

We all agreed that we should return one day to sample the cuisine in The Porch’s award-winning restaurant. Simple, robust meals are served from the finest British fare sourced from local producers.
Even better, we could stay a spell by booking one of the 13 available quest rooms. I could fall asleep in the past century and wake up to the contemporary comforts of present-day like a full English breakfast including honey straight from the hive and a morning newspaper.
Unfortunately, we had to leave, as we had dinner reservations farther down the road, deeper in the Cotswolds. As if in a trance,I stumbled outside, spellbound. This pub, a paradise for creative souls, will lure me back soon.

Thanksgiving-2024 Our Feast with a UK Twist

Four and a half decades ago, I moved abroad without speaking another language or understanding other cultures, I stumbled into European homes and hearts. No matter how bleak the times, I appreciated being welcomed abroad and showed my gratitude by sharing the ultra North American tradition, Thanksgiving,

As an American born granddaughter of Scotch/Irish/Norwegian ancestry, I have been an immigrant my entire adult life. Growing up in the US, my McKinzie/Olson family Thanksgiving tradition included grandparents, friends and foreigners. The dinner menu varied from year to year, but the message remained the same.

For my first Thanksgiving in France, my teammates insisted on slowing down to savor each dish in separate courses. We were a table the entire day! During my “traditional” T-Day celebration in Germany, we never sat down. The event turned into a free-for-all when the women and men in my basketball club squeezed into my kitchen leaving standing room only. In Switzerland, we dined with a hodgepodge of multi-national neighbors and friends creating a beautiful kaleidoscope of humanity

This year, in a unique twist, we are celebrating the holiday with our son and daughter-in-law in Warwickshire England.

A tray full of home baked yorkshire puddings

Our daughter-in-law’s sister will make Yorkshire pudding, but it’s not a dessert. This savory, English dish, from northern England’s Yorkshire area, is similar in texture to a pop over. It rises, puffs and crisps as it cooks, but remains soft and airy inside.

“Made from an egg and flour base mixed with, milk or water,” her sister explained, “It’s like a baked pudding.”

In 1737, a “dripping pudding” (using the fat that dropped into the dripping pan to cook) recipe was first noted in the book, The Whole Duty of a Woman. The art is in contriving the perfect lightness.

Since 2007, Yorkshire Pudding Day is celebrated the first Sunday in February in the UK and believe it or not, it is often recognized again on October 13th in the US and elsewhere.

The bowl in the middle of the dough puff makes an ideal gravy boat. Originally,Yorkshire pudding, made with low-cost ingredients and a thick gravy, was served as a first course to dull diners’ appetites, so guests wouldn’t eat too much of the expensive meat in the next course.

Imagine the sacrilege if Americans tried cutting costs on T-Day with that trick!

Our daughter-in-law will prepare Irish roast potatoes, another classic dish, adopted from the Irish side of her family.

“We always use Yukon Gold spuds. They are peeled and par boiled, then roughed up a bit, and basted in hot oil in a big roasting pan,” she explained. “ Then, we pop them in the oven to bake for 45 minutes to an hour.”

Ironically, this year, the main dish of our T-day won’t be the blessed bird, but instead a wee piggy. Our son is making his brother-in-law’s recipe for ham, which is baked in coca cola, adding an American touch.

To further “butcher” the American tradition, my French hubby will insist on serving a cheese course, a lovely Brie accompanied by a white or orange cheddar to appease the English palate.

Our son’s mother-in-law will bring an apple crumble, a classic, comforting British dessert, which combines tender, caramelized apples with a buttery, crumbly topping.

Always an outlander here and forever an alien in the kitchen, I welcome any Thanksgiving help. I love sharing favorites from around the globe, especially on this day of giving.

Wherever you are gathered, no matter what you serve or how you celebrate, take time to sit still, hug the person next to you and give thanks for your blessings —family, friendship and fellowship.

No matter what deity we worship or ideology we adhere to, which language we speak, foods we eat, or customs we celebrate, we should keep this in mind.

We are all members of the same human race and guests here on planet earth.

Another Accident? In a Doctor’s Office? You kidding?

Another day, another doc.

Another accident? At the doctor's office? You kidding?

What kind of a klutz am I? Was I born accident prone? Or does it go back to bad balance at my base, from toes, so crooked I could hang by them from a tree.

Who gets taken out by a treadmill in the doc office at the hospital?

At a routine checkup, I mentioned shortness of breath. My primary doctor heard a heart murmur. She insisted I follow up with a cardiologist. Pronto. Eight months later, (you know how long it takes to get an appointment with a specialist) I finally got in with the specialist.

After an EKG and a battery of tests, the cardiologists diagnosed arrhythmia in the upper and lower chambers of the heart. Then she wanted me to take a stress test and walk on a treadmill.

“I need to measure your heart beat under exertion,” she explained as she hooked me up. “Every three minutes, I will increase the speed and incline on the treadmill.”

The first six minutes, I was fine and feeling chuffed to bits. Then at the nine minute level, she cranked up thetempo.

“You still doing okay?” she asked.

“Un huh,” I grunted, huffing and puffing like a steam engine, feeling light-headed and wobbly and cursing myself. (Ever the damn athlete still competing for a better time, I continued gasping for oxygen.)

That’s enough!” the doc exclaimed, “we’ll stop here!”

I stopped.

The treadmill did not.

Before I had time to react, my feet splayed out from under me and my body pitched forward. I hit my chin, my forearms, my elbow and my knees on the rubber mat that kept rotating.

Nooooo, I’m going to be sucked up by the roller.

“Oh no, sorry madame, sorry,” the doctor said. “I am not sure how that happened."

“I’m okay,” I gasped feeling mortified. Who the heck face plants on a treadmill at the cardiologist’s?

After profuse apologies, the doctor sat me on her exam table and told me, “calm down and raise your arm.”

As she fitted the blood pressure cuff, she explained, “I need to record one more reading”.

Of course doc, my BP is too high right now, I wanted to tell her. I just survived a near death experience.

What? Am I hearing clearly. She wants further investigation.

“I am going to set you up for a heart CAT scan to check the valves and heart function and to rule out coronary artery disease,” the cardiologist said, “Don’t worry, this is routine procedure.”

Sure for someone who flunked the treadmill test.

Now once again, I have to squeeze into a white cylinder the size of a toilet paper roll.

Necessary? Really? After a life time of X-rays from accidents and injuries, I am pretty sure, I glow in dark.

“Seriously, doc, “ I lament. “I don’t need more tests. I know why I am short of breath. “You try keeping up with a sixty-nine-year-old Frenchman, who thinks he is 20!”

“Yep, typical,” the hubby says, “Throws her mate under the bus.”

Again!

Raising the Roof, Retiring Maya Moore’s Jersey, Reveling in Women’s Basketball

As an athlete, coming of age in the 70s during Title IX’s infancy, the explosion of women’s basketball today blows my mind.

This summer, I blended into the 19,023 record-breaking crowd at Target Center in Minneapolis to honor the Minnesota Lynx legend Maya Moore.

Before tip off, I trembled. Awed, I watched as people of all ages, races and backgrounds cheered, wearing shirts engraved with the names and numbers of their favorite FEMALE players.

How fitting that Iowa’s Caitlyn Clark’s Indiana Fever team faced off with the Lynx on the night they retired her idol’s number 23 jersey?

Caitlyn grew up dreaming of playing basketball like Maya one day.

Decades ago, girls like me and my sisters, grew up dreaming of playing at all. Of just being allowed on the court.

This profound moment in time was magic. Especially for my family.

Like Maya, I once wore the number 23.

So did my little sister.

Maya was a star at every level, on her high school team, at the storied women’s basketball program at UCONN, and in the WNBA leading the Lynx to 4 national championships.

By comparison, I couldn’t even play on a team until my senior year of high school. When I played college ball in the 70’s, we were ridiculed by peers, scorned by the NCAA. After college, I signed a contract with hard times to compete in a fledgling Women’s Professional Basketball League (WBL). We played in empty arenas, hitched rides to practice, survived on crackers and never got paid. In the late 70s female ball players were oddities, a pro league of our own insane, but our crazy collective dream gave birth to the 1996 WNBA.

Along with hundreds of courageous pioneers, our sacrifices helped thread together the stunning tapestry of women’s basketball that led to this day, this time, this moment.

In the summer 1999, my sister and I took our daughters to our first WNBA game in the Lynx inaugural season. There were fans, but also enough empty seats that we were able to move close enough to the court for my daughter to catch a free t-shirt.

On August 24, 2024, at Minnesota’s Target Center, as I sat on the upper level of the packed arena, pandemonium erupted as fans paid tribute to their past hero and applauded the exploits of their present star, both catalysts in revolutionizing the popularity of the women’s game.

It’s a far cry from my day, when I played at Madison Square Garden in an arena, so empty, the sound of the ball bouncing echoed through the rafters.

We cannot know who we are if we do not know where we came from.

Before the Lynx/Fever game, when I stood for our national anthem, I raised my hand to my heart and nodded to our past stars.

We stand on the shoulders of those who came before us.

Thanks to Title IX, a girl grows up never questioning her right to be all she can be.
That access to opportunity began in the heartland for me, Maya, and countless other little girls.

When we were kids, women were not only absent from the gym. We didn’t know any female doctors, lawyers or CEOs. We fought for the right to play ball and paved the way for our highflying daughters of today, including my own daughter who was a division III athlete on her way to becoming a doctor.

What made Maya Moore extraordinary, was not just her supreme athleticism, but her human spirit embracing equality and battling for social justice that led to the liberation of a man imprisoned for crime he never committed. Maya, the league’s best player, retired from the game at height of her success, to fight for the rights of others.

After the game, Maya Moore Irons addressed former teammates and fans as they raised her number 23 to the rafters. Known for her illustrious MVP career, Maya stands out most, not for her accolades on the court, but for the person she is off it.

“There’s no end to possibilities, when a group of women together bring it!” She said blinking back tears. “Let our unity go beyond Target Center. Show your love and appreciation for those around you!”

“My life,” she added“is an example of what happens when we love a little girl well.”

I, too, am an example of a little girl being loved well. I grew up first in my adoring McKinzie family, then my hometown, Sterling, my Illinois State University community, and my country, the USA. As an adult, I dedicated my life to helping teens reach their dreams on the hard courts and in the classroom across Europe. Never in my wildest fantasy could I imagine how far the game took me and how far we have come.

Basketball, like life, is about paying it forward. Passing it on.

The current Lynx icon, Napheesa Collier, grew up in Jefferson City, just like Maya. Somewhere out there is a little girl who looks at Phee and dreams of being a WNBA star. I look back at my younger self and think “you did good girl”.

We struggled too hard for too long.

We are NEVER going back.