Book Launch Party in Switzerland

avid party goers enjoying a glass of champagne at book launch

My book launch party was a huge success even though it was too cold and cloudy to sit at our new outdoor table and enjoy our backyard view of the Alps and Mont Blanc.

We fooled Mother Nature, moved the patio furniture inside, held the party anyway and still had fun.

My friends were an eclectic mix of friends from around the globe : American, British, Canadian, Cameroonian, Croatian, French, German, Irish, Indian, Polish, Spanish, Swiss, Swedish, Somali, South-African, Zimbabwean and even one Wisconsinite.

with German friend Maria & Somali husband Mohamed

When I explained why I was compelled to write the book, my friends wondered,

What argument did authorities use to ban women’s participation in sports? »

“The physical education association, backed by medical authorities, forbade competitive sport for girls, because they believed that rigorous exercise would be too strenuous for their hearts” I explained. “They feared it could interfere with a woman’s ability to bear children.”

“How could a country that had the scientific knowledge to drop an atomic bomb and put a man on the moon believe such nonsense?”

My European friends were astounded.

In retrospect, it sounds preposterous. Their incredulous reaction reaffirmed my reasons for telling my story. I wanted to record the voice of the silent generation, who fought for the equal rights in education and sport, opportunities which thankfully women today can take for granted. My book, Home Sweet Hardwood, A Title IX Trailblazer Breaks Barriers Through Basketball is important because, despite many victories, the struggle for gender and racial equality continues.

Our doorbell rang non-stop and my little abode filled with chocolates, champagne, and wine in an outpouring of congratulations. Every spare table and counter space was covered with bouquets of roses, lilies, and peonies every color of the rainbow.

a great team celebrates

My techie husband, who orchestrated the whole event, including cooking tasty treats, and posted our website on TV with snapshots of my past.

Champagne flowed; the house rang with laughter and cheerful chatter.

The moment was made more poignant because I also shared the evening with my son. We topped off the night with a toast among his friends in celebration of his college graduation.

What touched me the most was knowing that even though most of the people at my party had no interest in basketball, they bought the book anyway, intrigued by my story and as a sign of solidarity.

author dedicating her book

I tumbled into bed after midnight, overwhelmed with gratitude for the outpouring of support of my long held dream.

SOS Chiropractor to the Rescue

I have been to dozens of doctors for a lifetime of injuries and ailments, but there are certain ones I never forget. Chiropractors saved me from surgery back in July 1979 during my first hospitalization for a herniated lumbar disk L4, L5. I ran from the knife and saw my first chiro, who help me rehabilitate in time to play in the first women’s professional league that fall. I have been addicted ever since. Long gone are the days that chiropractors were called quacks, now most insurance companies recognize them.

I drove hundreds of miles between different states and countries in pursuit of competent doctors because a good chiro was worth his weight in gold. When I lived in Germany, there were no chiropractors, so I would return to Paris. For a decade when living in France, I took the metro to see Dr. Tanqueray at the Trocadero. In Switzerland, my husband drives me to Geneva for the early bird special at 7 am. which means no waiting. I ride the old caged elevator up to the 3^rd floor to Dr. Girod’s office on Rue Voltaire.

But my favorite chiropractor of all times is Dr. Draeger in Eagle River, my summer time muscle and bone spine caretaker in Wisconsin.

Chiro in the woods

Tall and wiry, I have always been difficult to adjust, but Dr. D can pop me back in place every time. I have witnessed chiros work miracles. After my son was born in Paris, I was so dizzy I couldn’t stand up right. I saw my chiro and after a neck adjustment, I was back on track. I have lurched into my doc’s office, limping from low back pain, looking like the leaning tower of Pisa and walked out standing tall like the Eiffel Tower.

Anytime I have any back or joint pain, I go to the chiro first. Chiropractic medicine emphasizes the self and advocates exercise, a healthy diet, and a balanced lifestyle.

After my sister underwent a battery of tests for a “heart” problem, Dr. D adjusted her dislocated rib with a manipulation that his brother, also a chiropractor, devised and her chest pain disappeared. Dr. D also adjusted my son’s dislocated wrists. My dad swears by him.

Dr. D has the extra special touch. He welcomes you like a long-lost friend, every time you step into his office. How many doctors do you know who give you hugs and make cabin calls? In the summer, if he drives by route 45, he will swing off the highway on the back road, winding around the lake, and ring your doorbell. He will drag his portable table out of the trunk and click-clack treat the entire family. For free!

Under chiropractic care, I recovered from athletic injuries, bike crashes, car accidents, and the trauma of giving birth. They have helped me recoup from flying soccer balls, hitting walls, and bad falls.

With the assistance of skilled chiropractors, I have healed from 3 whiplashes, 2 child births, and one too many re-locations. I recovered from herniated lumber disks, compressed dorsal vertebrae and pinched nerves and the bone crushing wear and tear incurred over hundreds of thousands of miles of road trips and air travel between states and across continents.

If I am still upright, it is because of chiros! Thanks to chiropractors for keeping me mobile, especially to my favorite magic hands, Dr. Dave.

Congratulations – Son’s Graduation from Macalester College

Four years ago, I said goodbye to my son and started a blog. While that young man graduates with honors from Macalester in St. Paul, Minnesota, I am still here in Geneva, Switzerland telling stories. Though I won’t be present for the ceremony, words keep me connected.

Decades ago, the happiest and scariest moment of my life was when a doctor announced, “Congratulations it’s a boy!” From Nic’s treacherous toddlerhood, to his turbulent teens, my life has been filled with honor and anxiety ever since, so proud to have bore a son, so petrified something would harm him.

Nic

Nic 1

young years

Nic 2

Nic was more boy than we bargained for. Stitched up twice by the age of two, he bounced off walls of our tiny Parisian flat. Age four, he head butted his aunt and broke her nose one Christmas Eve with an over exuberant hug. In boyhood, he endured a pine cone in the eye, dislocated ribs, and a shattered ankle, results of a rough and tumble life.

As a three-year-old, when Nic’s teacher punished him for being afraid in her unruly class, we removed him from school for a semester. He has complained about school ever since, yet excels in class. Though he writes so well that his college history dissertation on the Dakotas and Native Americans merited publication in historical journals, he still emailed papers to me at 1 am to tweak. Even after his patience has been tested working with underprivileged students as a part of Athletes for Education program, he still wants to enter the teaching profession.

As a boy he gave me homemade gifts – an ornament, a wall hanging, a framed photo –then took them back when he got mad – but no matter what, at night he would curl up in my lap to read stories and talk about our day.

“I don’t want to get braces, allergies, or glasses,” he stated as a six-year-old. When I explained you don’t have any choice in the matter, he reasoned, “Okay, I wouldn’t mind braces. It’s like wearing a necklace in your mouth.”

Ever so perceptive, a few years later, he announced, “We are growing up too fast, in five years Nathalie won’t live here anymore.”

With a wonderful sense of humor, Nic entertained us with his famous one-liners with his perfect sense of timing. As a kid, pointing to his plate, wrinkling his nose, he’d ask, “What’s that?”

“Fish,” I’d say.

“Oh no, not junk food for dinner again.”

Grateful for glimpses into his boyhood, I became better at understanding male competition, saving face, and how to coach guys. During rides to practice, shooting sessions and late night talks, our time together gave me invaluable insight into helping my students.

Like most 21^st century kids, weaned on electronics if there was a button, he’d push it; if there was gadget, he’d bust it – accidentally.

While “helping” tidy up, he broke my reclining chair and the remote control.

“Send him to my house to help clean,” my sister insisted, “I need a new vacuum cleaner.”

As a mom I would do anything to shield him from pain, to protect that little boy in my memory. Silly me. Today he is a tall, strong, intelligent, man; I am not sure he ever needed my protection. Yet, his dad’s and my love is there always in a whisper, an invisible force of strength every step of his way.

As he enters the future, we remain behind marveling at how that kid, who now towers above us, grew up so fast when we weren’t looking. In a blink, he is gone from our day-to-day lives, but never far from our hearts where he remains cherished at every stage.

In keeping with French tradition, he bears his grandfathers’ names; I see a blend of his American, French, and Norwegian ancestry. He shows the pride of Grand Papie Elie who led the troops down the Champs Elysées at the end of WWII, the courage of Great Grandpa Olson who sailed from Norway to a new life in America and the strong character of Great Grandpa Mac, who coached college football in his nineties.

As Nic grew, he adopted the qualities of the men in his life. The industriousness of Papie Guy, the kindheartedness of Grandpa Jim, the perceptiveness of Uncle Doug, the playfulness of Uncle Dick, the handiness of Uncle Cliff, and the integrity of his father.

Nearly a quarter of century ago, I carried my 3-week-old baby on the Metro to the Embassy in Paris to attain his American passport. The civil servant read his birth certificate aloud,

“Nicolas James-Ralph Guy Lechault – such a big name for such a little lad.”

That little guy has grown into his name. Hats off to Nic. Bravo!

Mother’s Day Gift- My Mom’s Greatest Lesson How to Let Go

Nat’s 1st day at school

Of all the lessons I learned from my soft-spoken, warmhearted, Norwegian-American mother, the greatest and hardest of all to teach was how to let go.

“A mother’s love for a child must always be greater than the child’s love for the mother,” she once told me, “otherwise the child would never leave home.”

By her example, my mom showed me early on that a mother’s love is unconditional. What a wise old bird – Mom gave me roots to grow strong and wings to fly away. When I pursued my dream to play professional basketball, Mom hid her heartache, smiled and waved until my Air France plane bound for Paris was out of sight. When I fell in love with a Frenchman, she embraced her new foreign son-in-law with open arms.

In turn, I, too, learned how to let go. My first step was leaving the safe confines of the hospital after my daughter, Nathalie, was born abroad. The next challenge was letting go of her two-year-old hand at the primary school gate, fighting an innate urge to pull her back into my protective arms. As a seven-year-old, Nat marched off on her first week-long field trip to a farm in Normandy; the days apart felt interminable. Yet each separation prepared her for the next one.

mom & daughter

As a 16-year-old, she flew “solo” across the Atlantic to compete in the World Scholar Athlete Games. Then when my daughter left Switzerland for the opportunity to combine athletics and academics and play basketball at University of Wisconsin-SP, I did not scream, “Don’t go. You might get hurt!” Instead I rebounded her sweet jump shot until the last minute, and then helped her pack a bag. When Nat was accepted at University of Minnesota Medical School, I cried with joy, though I knew, inevitably, she would settle in the States to practice.

3 generations

Due to the great space separating us, my mom could not be by my side during long hours of therapy after my car crashed in France. Nor was she with me during my miscarriages or my daughter’s birth. Yet, I heard her concern during phone calls and read her love in letters, as her long distance support sustained me during the tough times and rejoiced with me during triumphs. She was not physically present when her first grandchild was born in Paris, but as the proud grandma, she sewed affection into every article of children’s clothing and cross-stitched courage into every wall hanging she made for Nathalie.

The knowledge that she did all she could to make me strong, gave my mom the faith to know that she could trust my judgment.

I was not physically there when my daughter played in an NCAA Final Four, or when she took her Hippocratic Oath as a doctor, yet a spirit wearing high tops followed in her shadows every step of the way.

Though at times, I pine for my daughter, just as my mom misses me, we find comfort knowing that we are where we are supposed to be, doing what we were destined to do.

Grandma & graduate

Mom knows that her footloose, misfit daughter with a soft spot for the underdog would one day grow into her skin. As if she sensed that I was destined to unite people in the international capital of the world, Mom was not surprised when I found a home in Geneva, Switzerland. Just as I understood that my daughter’s fate meant caring for inner city children and immigrant families in Minneapolis/St. Paul.

In his bestselling children’s book, I’ll Love You Forever about the cross-generational, everlasting link between a mother and child, Robert Munsch said it best.

“I’ll love you forever,
I’ll like you for always,
as long as I’m living
my baby you’ll be.”

No matter how many miles separate us, we are never more than heartbeat apart.

I’ll love you forever and always. Happy Mother’s Day!

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Freedom to Run – Boston Marathon Bombs Hit America’s Heart

Participants in the 2010 Boston Marathon in Wellesley, just after the halfway mark (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As a five-year-old, I ran my first race at my family’s boys’ summer camp on a winding dirt road lined by a quiet green forest. My heart pounded in my temples, dust clogged my throat, and I inhaled the sweet aroma of swamp water as my skinny legs floated toward the finish line. At the recognition banquet, Grandma handed me a pink ribbon with OUTSTANDING typed in capital letters. I pressed it to my heart. I ran many more races, winning other ribbons, but the thrill of that first race never left me.

As a child, I outran the neighbor boys in kick the can, capture the flag, and tackle the man with the ball. In adolescence, I ran through the emotional upheaval of hormonal rages, unrequited loves and shattered friendships. In college, I raced through setbacks, devastating losses and future uncertainties. After graduation, I jogged down the wide boulevards of Washington DC, the cobblestone streets of Paris, and the winding alleyways of Marburg lined with half-gabled houses dating from the 15th century.

Running represented freedom. Like many other athletes worldwide, I dreamed of one day running in the Boston Marathon.

This year’s Boston Marathon, synonymous with the spirit of the American people, was held on Patriots Day at the historical city that represents the democratic values we hold so dear. When I first saw bombs explode on TV, I gasped for air as if my lung had been punctured. Immediately, I wondered, where’s Tina; my best friend – a runner- repatriated back to Boston. Twelve years earlier, we squeezed hands for support in Switzerland as we watched the Twin Towers disintegrate on September 11, 2001 setting the stage for a new era of terrorism.

Like everyone else, as the newsreel in Boston unfolded, I thought first of my friend, and her family. Even after I found out that she was all right, the anxiety didn’t subside. Instead it rippled out in waves, while I went through the motions of my day teaching multi-cultured, multi-colored students in Switzerland’s tranquil countryside. I kept replaying the scenes of pandemonium, knowing that today someone’s life was shattered. Forever. Someone lost a leg. Someone lost a life partner. Someone lost an eight-year-old son.

Running is the great equalizer: anyone at any age can run anywhere. Out the door. Into the street. Across the fields. Over the hills. Through the woods. You don’t need to rent a court, pay club fees, own special gear or earn a specific income.

Air is free. Breath. Oxygen in, carbon dioxide out. Runner’s high. The benefits are immediate… until a bomb strikes the Boston Marathon on an American holiday reminding us that our streets, and fields, and hills, and woods are not safe.

Robert Cheruiyot in 2006 Boston Marathon as he passes through Wellesley Square. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Over the week, as the news unfolded of the manhunt for the perpetrators, I watched in horror a city under siege in lock-down. Until the capture of the second brother, soldiers patrolled sleepy suburban streets; snipers perched on the rooftops and armed tanks rolled through the trendy neighborhoods of Watertown and Cambridge.

Though my running days are long gone, as I walked to my international school where I encounter a hundred different nationalities on a daily basis, I wondered what has gone wrong? Why can’t we get along?

Running, freedom, bombs, all blur into a nightmare of disbelief, replaced by uncertainty, anxiety, fear.

We will always run free!

A Daughter’s Homecoming Brings Sunshine to Switzerland

My Frenchman and I stand at the Geneva airport, gazing through the glass windows at the crowd milling around the luggage carousel. Our daughter, towering above the Europeans, slings a duffel over her shoulder and strides through customs with a tired grin, dropping her bag to hug her dad.

Baby Nat with grandparents

How many miles must one travel to connect generations between separate continents? Nearly three decades ago, I cradled my Franco-American newborn in my arms during a 4,000 mile journey, 500 mph, 30,000 feet over the Atlantic. What was I thinking? My anxiety melted the moment I stepped through customs at O’Hare airport and witnessed her grandparents’ joy. For the next 5 summers until cousins were born the McKinzie’s first grandchild was spoiled like an only child by her aunts and uncle.

happy little girl on the beach

How many road trips were made to Trouville in a pilgrimage to

Trouville in the spring

Normandy and the other side of her heritage? In the thousand year old village on the English Channel, time stood still, frozen in the spindly, brick, 5-story fisherman flats lining the cobblestone quays. Here, Mamie and Papie raised their first grandchild on fish and fresh crème, the finest offering of France’s dairyland where sea and soil marinate to perfection.

Years after our first trans-Atlantic flight, my daughter landed back in Europe. Sunshine blinked through clouds in Switzerland for the first time in weeks, as old man winter finally lifted his heavy, gray veil. As we walked and talked, my footsteps felt lighter, as we wined and dined, the strawberries tasted sweeter, hinting at spring.

In a reversal of roles, now my daughter tucks me in at night. Sprawled under my duvet, we reminisce about her childhood where we weathered the storms of relocations and separations as we traveled to distance lands in our imagination on a 4-poster bed in make-believe. Today, we discussed books and babies (she is a pediatrician) and child development and teaching, language acquisition and writing.

Then in a blink we are back at the Geneva airport waving goodbye choking back tears, our hearts heavy. Our daughter flies home to her children’s hospitals in the Twin Cities, where she answers her pager at all hours. She cares for infants, speaking French to West African immigrants and conducts wellness visits for Spanish families. She reassures frightened foreigners, breaks down medical jargon into layman’s terms and magically calms fussy toddlers.

“She is so far away! Don’t you miss her?” my friends here ask. Others wonder, “How could you let her go?”

Ah, but just as my mom taught me, I know that “a child is a gift on loan from God.” Our daughter belongs to the world. She is where she is supposed to be, doing what she was destined to do.

We are together,
My child and I,
Mother and child, yes,
But sisters really
Against whatever denies
Us all that we are.
Alice Walker

Over the years, watching her grow strong, we invested thousands of dollars in education and traveled hundreds of thousands of miles, thousands of meters above sea level from Switzerland to Minnesota. The precocious little girl who grew up loving water settled in the Land of 10,000 Lakes where the trees grow tall and the skies are blue.

Can you put a price tag on family ties?

Ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no river wide enough to keep me from lovin’ you.

No matter how great the distance, can you ever truly sever the cord connecting a mother to her child?