Becoming a Dog Grandma

My darkest, most disappointing summer had a silver lining. Unexpectedly, our daughter adopted a rescue dog named Bluey, and instantly, I became a dog grandma.

Her Bluey, named for the anthropomorphic character in the Australian animated television series, gave our pediatrician daughter instant credibility with the kiddos she treats in her practice.

The medium-sized, two-year-old Australian cattle dog (Blue Heeler) mixed with a bit of pitbull, husky and chow, has tons of energy, imagination and curiosity about the world.

My daughter adopted Bluey and Bluey adopted me.

After being sidelined by another bad accident, as soon as I was released from the hospital, Bluey corralled me as if herding wounded livestock.

He became my protector, tracking my whereabouts, checking that I was safely tucked in bed, or on the floor or in a chair. He paced around until I settled, then curled up beside me like a guard dog.

After being confined to a hospital, sprawling across the back yard with Bluey brought no greater delight. The first time I looked at my bruised and battered face, my daughter was concerned I would be shocked and upset. Instead I exclaimed “Aw, I look like Bluey!”

On my worst days, in too much pain to move, I dangled my arm off the edge of the bed finding comfort petting his short coat.

Bluey’s stunning coloring, black with brown trim, a white collar and white and brown specked underside draws admiring glances, but his goofy face attracts smiles. Mischievous brown eyes dance behind black patches. One pointed ear stands up straight; the other folds over his forehead. His upright, curly chow tail gives him a look of aristocracy.

His perky, inquisitive face with his tongue hanging out sideway dares you to join in the next adventure.

Like the rest of McKinzie clan, unsurprisingly Summit Lake, Wisconsin, became Bluey’s favorite spot too. Nowhere in the world has greater appeal than the Great Northwoods. He adores any activity that calls for athleticism, intelligence, and endurance!

He also loves water - so much that his first time at the cabin he got swimmer’s tail because he wouldn’t get out of the lake. He now has a life jacket, so that he can swim to his heart’s content without spraining his tail muscles.

Bluey can run faster, jump higher, swim farther than I ever could dreamed of even at the height of my career. Though I will always long to run, jump and play, nothing brings me more joy now then watching Bluey race across the yard, chase a squirrel up a tree or swim to greet a paddle boarder in the middle of the lake.

Australian cattle dogs, bred in the mid 1800s to herd cattle long distances in rough terrain, are smart, strong and hardy. He treats me fondly as his responsibility, but his true devotion belongs to Nathalie. He is fiercely loyal, protective and affectionate with his owner - to the point where he will bark angrily at me if I dare to ask Nat a question while she is relaxing on the couch with him. She claims he just understands that reading time is sacred.

Known as a “wash and wear” breed, Bluey requires little grooming, but his care can be time- consuming. He must be challenged with lots of exercise, puzzles to solve and tasks to complete. Otherwise, he will create his own trials, such as “how much food can I steal off the counter?”
So far he has gotten a raw steak, a chicken wing, a pork loin that was set out to thaw, a piece of pizza and a tortilla. Sadly for him, he usually gets caught before he can enjoy the spoils of his shenanigans.

Bluey offers ongoing distraction and never ending entertainment. If discouraged by life’s disappointments, detours and disasters, there is no greater comfort than a faithful dog that listens without judgment or interruption.

Although Bluey regularly gets the ‘zoomies’, sprinting through the house at breakneck speeds for no apparent reason, when we went on walks he instinctively slowed his pace to match mine. Never mind that my bodyguard (my ever loyal Frenchman) was only a step away. The day that I could finally hold the leash and walk Bluey, I knew I would recover. Nothing helped me heal faster my new four legged best friend.

When Real Life Hits, Change Plans, Pick Up the Pieces, Keep Plugging

I’ve spent more time living abroad than I have been a US resident, so why now, fifty years later, after dozens of flights, was I scared to fly alone?

Walking through an airport after a traumatic brain injury (TBI), with the bright lights, loud sounds and noisy crowds, is like bouncing around in a pinball machine. Usually my Frenchman guided me through it, but Gerald washed his passport for the 2nd time in 4 years and his replacement did not arrive on time. Consequently, I flew solo from Geneva to Amsterdam to Minneapolis. After getting through customs, I fell into my daughter’s arms in Minnesota.

I did it! Euphoria was short lived.

With my health history, I never make plans ahead; I never know if my body can hold up for the event. Yet, this summer, I swore I’d return to Sterling to spend time with my 92-year-old mom and visit old friends from high school and college.

I never made it back home!

What happened? Another seizure? A stroke? Mega jet lag?

In the middle of the night, disoriented from sleep deprivation, I turned left instead of right coming out of the bathroom at Nathalie’s and tumbled. One misstep led to another bad fall and an ambulance ride to my least favorite place - the hospital.

Forty-eight hours after landing, I regained consciousness in Minneapolis’ major trauma center (HCMC). Bruised from head to toe, the ER doctor sent me for CT scan, MRI and X-rays, stitched my eyebrow, slipped my shoulder in a sling and strapped my neck in a Miami J immobilizing collar. Immediate action. Super efficient. Life saving steps.

As I lay on the gurney in the trauma bay, various specialists came in addressing my numerous injuries - subdural hematoma (brain bleed), scapula and acromion fracture (broken shoulder), broken rib, fractured skull - and explained they were admitting me to the hospital. I turned to my daughter and asked “are we going home now?”

Instead of taking me home (an absurd request now understanding the extent of my injuries) she called my sisters who swooped in bringing hope. They took turns holding my hand through the terrifying hospital nights. They advocated for explanations and requested more ice, more pain med, more pillows.

Meanwhile, my daughter communicated with my care team and translated medical jargon while trying to recover from the trauma of finding her mom in a pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs, and my husband fought for a space on a flight over the Big Pond.

A week later, with guarantees of round-the-clock care from my husband, daughter and sisters, I was released.

When I was finally well enough to look at Facebook, I saw photos of classmates gathered at the Railside Bar and Grill in Nelson and regretted the fun I’d missed.

I hold a soft spot in my heart for SHS class of ’75 and have memories frozen in snapshots of that interlude of adolescence.

After my high school non-reunion, I had planned on reuniting with “The Family,” my “sisters”, those besties sharing a townhouse during senior year of college. Though we never lived under the same roof again, we remained connected forever.

With such fun summer plans, why did I hang out in the hospital instead?

My French sister-in-law explained it best, “The angels were drunk the day you were born!”

Drunk angels or no, I never liked being told I can’t do things. If I couldn’t make it to my reunions, I was determined to get to the cabin and the healing waters of the lake.

The challenge? So many restrictions? “Don’t turn your head. Don’t raise your right arm. Don’t lift anything heavier than a coffee cup.” My neck brace, worn 24/7 could get wet, but then changing the pads required two people and an engineering degree. Oh, and I had to sit still. Not my forte.

“Biking, swimming and skiing are out of the question! But can I walk in the lake?” I asked. The doctor never answered, just chuckled.

My family made sure my wish came true. With my chauffeur at the wheel, I laid flat in the backseat squeezed between a cooler, guitar and beach towels.

When we arrived at the cabin, I stepped off shore and waded up to my knees, my waist, my shoulders. Then weightlessly, I slid one foot in front of the other.

With pain lancing through my skull and spine, I walked on water.

“You can do it!” I shouted to the heavens. My dad’s voice echoed back from the timbers, “You can!”

Every evening, as stars sparkled over still waters, I curled up on the couch listening to the stories of my ancestors. I drifted to sleep, holding mom’s hand, cocooned in a circle of love everlasting. Back in nature, surrounded by family, I processed my losses with hope renewed. Ready to begin my long journey to healing again.

Family helps with first walk

Easter Tradition in Normandy

Though Gérald and I will dine tête a tête this Sunday, our hearts are filled with memories of holidays past when our children were younger and we were surrounded by family. As with every celebration in France, Easter begins and ends à table.

Normandy is appreciated the most at mealtime when land and sea are perfectly marinated. Mamie cooks the traditional Easter favorite, leg of lamb. At the head of the table, Papie carves the tender meat fresh from a newborn romping on the rolling green hillside only days before. But back up, each course is an event worth savoring.

toasting champagne

First a toast of champagne and a light aperitif. Next is naturally an egg based, a soufflé as light as cotton candy, followed by a platter of seafood: shrimp, crab legs, clams, oysters, something for everyone’s palate.

The main lamb course is always served with flageolet, a mini lima bean, that reminds me of the word flatulence and of course, bean jokes inevitably enter the conversation, sending the children into gales of laughter. Mamie always has a special dish for every family member, so a garden of vegetables -beans, broccoli, potatoes, spinach, tomatoes - also grows out of the linen tablecloth.

The children eat with the adults where they risk being reprimanded to sit up straight. However, I never notice table manners; my fork and knife are usually in the wrong hands. Softhearted Mamie excuses the grandkids early and they scamper upstairs to read Lucky Luke or Astérix comic books until called for dessert.

Each course is accompanied by wine, a light white Burgundy for the seafood starters and then a heavier Bordeaux for the meat and cheese. Every big meal is followed by a green salad and cheese platter with triangles of creamy local cheeses like Camembert and Pont L’Evêque.

family feast

Dessert always includes seasonal fruits, which in the spring means luscious strawberries. Like little elves, the children reappear to gobble up berries dipped in fresh cream. The kids magically disappear again when they smell the coffee brewing. Papie ceremoniously opens the antique Normand hutch and pulls out his bottle of Calvados offering, “a little taste.” True Normands swear that the fiery apple brandy aids the digestion. During weddings and christenings, the “trou Normand,” a shot served on sorbet in the middle of the feast, is customary.

boy with easter basket

Throughout each course a lively repartee of sarcasm, word play and arguments ensue that to a soft-spoken Norwegian American sounds like verbal abuse, but is only part of the French art de vivre and their love of language and debate.

Just when you think your belly will burst, Mamie rings a bell and the children race downstairs, for in France, bells, not bunnies, deliver eggs. As a token of mourning for crucified Christ, church bells remain silent from Good Friday until Easter Sunday. On Easter, when the chimes ring again, children rush outside to see the bells fly home to Rome, after dropping chocolate Easter eggs from the sky.

The children crowd onto the wrought iron balcony to find eggs tucked behind the potted geraniums and tulips. While they devour the chocolate figurines, the adults, too, savor a delicacy from the local chocolate shop . Everyone moans of stomachaches and swears they will never eat again, but a few hours later after a stroll by the sea, we are à table again discussing the favorite French topic, food.

Happy Birthday to Me, E.T.

Oh dear, how do I tell my 91-year-old mother that she gave birth to an extraterrestrial being? What else could explain my extraordinary quirks, peculiar ailments, and uncanny ability to survive against all odds?

I’ve recovered from accidents that no mortal should have survived. I suffer from maladies so bizarre that no one has ever heard of them before.

Then again, how many people survived a rabid skunk bite as a toddler and lived to tell the tale?

My latest episode involved the right side of my mouth festering until my gum line resembled the embers of a dying fire. A thread under my lip pulled my gum away from my tooth, exposing the root.

My Swiss dentist pried open my mouth and exclaimed in awe, “Très intéressant! I’ll do a frenectomy!”

Frenectomy?

In the past, when diagnosed with other strange ailments, I had no idea what my American, French, German, Greek and Swiss doctors were talking about.

I’ve always been different.

After all, I was born in Sandwich.

“Which kind? Baloney!” friends teased.

According to my mother, I was the only planned baby of her four children.

Good grief! Who in their right mind would have planned to birth an extraterrestrial being?

Fortunately, back in Sandwich in 1957, I was a bargain baby! The doctor who delivered me charged my folks only 50 bucks.

Since then, I’ve cost a fortune!

Braces, glasses, orthodontia, orthotics, and umpteen surgeries. Disintegrating discs, temporal mandible dysfunction, neuroborreliosis. I had strange conditions before they became common knowledge. My treatments, considered controversial quackery at the time, have become part of standard care, like chiropractic and TMJ dental treatment.

Why me?

Blame it on that rabid skunk bite!

My poor mother! How did she survive my childhood?

My poor Frenchman! How does he endure my adulthood?

After each calamity, he picked up the pieces, paid medical bills and waited for me to heal. With his help, I am still ticking, albeit slowly.

Today, doctors suspect I was born with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS). EDS? Huh? It’s part of a group of genetic connective tissue disorders, which could help explain
my proprioception issues and propensity for falls.

We’re all unique beings, trying to move forward, stay strong, and beat the odds.

No one chooses their family, the genes they inherit, the beliefs they assimilate, or where they grow up. No one can predict what physical, emotional, and mental challenges they’ll face.

Wouldn’t it be easier if we didn’t see ourselves only as Democrats or Republicans, Americans, Europeans, Asians, Africans, Indians, Australians, Muslims, Jews, or Christians?

Could we live better harmony if we didn’t identify so much with one religion, nationality, race, or ethnicity, but more as tiny specks in the universe?

What if we all came from somewhere beyond Earth?

How’s this for conspiracy theory?

What if we’re all aliens?

Who knows?

I am here still questioning, still yearning, still learning.

Time is running out. I may never get it right. For now, I exist in a state of grace, warts and all, grateful to be here even during these troubled times.

Thank you, my beloved mother, for bringing me into existence and guiding my path!

Merci mille fois mon courageux français for staying by my side.

Happy Birthday to me, E.T.

Celebrating the class of ’75 SHS Forever

This weekend at my alma mater, Sterling High School Class of 1975 celebrates its’ 50th reunion. Sadly, the Big Pond and 4000 miles that separate us makes it impossible for me to drop in, but pieces of my heart never left home.

Born by the Rock River in Illinois, I grew strong in my family (McKinzie) in my hood (19th street) and within the halls of Sterling High School.

The baby boomer names— Bob, Doug, Mike, Chris, Deb, Sue, Pat— of my classmates, no longer common, have gone out of style.

Over the past half century, names aren’t the only thing that has changed.

Back then, cell phones hadn’t been invented. Instead we dialed friends’ numbers on land lines and tied up the family phone for hours as we spread gossip and sorted out teen dramas.

Text messages, huh? We communicated by flicking hand written notes across the class room on paper folded into tiny footballs.

In spring of ’75, Bill Gates and Paul Allen founded Microsoft computer software, but my peers and I practiced the hunt and peck method on type writers. Anybody remember those antique machines?

Boys jostled in the halls and teased the girls, but dangerous bullies back then did not exist. Today’s 21st century bullies lurk on social media spewing hatred and vitriol. Predators hide online; deviants use AI to create fake photos and identities and blackmail innocent victims. Cyber bullying destroys teenagers’ lives.

In the 70’s, our streets were safer; outside threats smaller. We lined up on the playgrounds during fire drills and hid under our desks in tornado warnings. But no one could ever imagine a school shooting.

No one died at school.

Nobody owned guns except deer hunters.

Back then, we walked through the open school gates freely. Now security guards check backpacks at the door and roam the halls sweeping lockers for guns. Active shooting drills have become the norm.

As high schoolers in the ‘70s, we did stupid stuff. We hung out in cars, but nobody owned their own wheels. We cruised in our parents’ vehicles, spinning grease laps around McD’s, running Chinese fire drills at stop lights, pitching toilet paper out windows to TP trees.

My class was notorious for the “Moon Mobile!” Bare butts hanging in the wind became a common sighting!

Our shenanigans were annoying, but innocent.

Our greatest transgression — streaking (running buck naked) across the football field under the Friday night lights. We had slumber parties and seances and summer jobs.

“What’s happenin?” 70s gave way to the shake your bootie disco days of the 80’s. We grew up to the background beat of Motown and Springsteen’s “Born to Run,” during the Vietnam War Era, moon landings and Watergate.

At the time, we never appreciated the opportunities Sterling provided, giving us the chance to pursue our interests and hone skills in outstanding facilities. Drama club, robed choir, marching band, dance, pom poms, cheerleaders, chess, debate and sports a go go.

Not for girls.

Not right away. But when Title IX started rolling, we were one of the first schools in Illinois to provide girls’ competitive sport programs.

Back then, I probably had a chip on my shoulder because I wanted to play ALL sports like my male peers. But I was lucky to come of age at the tip of Title IX and be there at the beginning—first girls’ teams, first female Roscoe Eades recipient, first women’s athletic college scholarship recipient, first women’s pro basketball league (WBL) draftee.

I will always have a special affinity for the class of 75, but after graduation, age differences blur. Once we tossed that blue cap to wind, we all became proud alumni. In retrospect, boomers raised in big families had so many siblings at SHS at the same time, class distinctions never mattered.

I recall my older brother’s talented class of 73, with his brainy bunch of friends headed to the Ivies, and equally exceptional athletes off to the Big Ten. I’ll always remember the Sweet Sixteen boy’s basketball team that let me play in pick-up games, long before girl’s hooping was a thing. And who could ever forget my lil sister’s winning Illinois’ 1st girls’ state basketball championship in 1977.

Did we appreciate our fortune surmounting those challenging rights of passage on our campus, as impressive as any university? For a blink in history, we shared a common bond. We grew up in the same place, at the same a time, when graduation to adulthood was simpler, safer, saner.

We were basically good kids.

If we ever failed to toe the line at SHS, we had great character-building role models, teachers, coaches and administrators who held us accountable and made us own our mistakes.

We learned lifelong lessons of dependability, honesty and integrity through team participation and performances in the arts and sports.

Sadly, since those carefree times, we have lost family members and loved ones, including friends from our graduating class, like Mouse, Bob, Jay, Laurie and others.

Many classmates attending our 50th reunion will have replaced worn out body parts, survived heart attacks, endured cancer, COVID and other chronic diseases.

My old friends will gather to celebrate, to watch a football game, tour the SHS campus and reminisce about the good ol’days!

Somewhere across the globe, a tall, slender gal will raise a glass in their honor.

Thanks for those magical 70’s memories.

Our Sterling years remain etched in gold forever.

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.