Minnesota Strong: Courage Faces Inhumanity

It can be hard to believe the news, TV or social media anymore, but eyes do not lie. I witnessed Minneapolis during the ICE siege when a posse of 3000 federal immigration agents in Special Forces gears rode into town to make America “safe” by rounding up “illegals,” as if storming insurgents in Afghanistan.

The bone chilling cold of subzero temperature was no comparison to the ice that flowed through my veins with what happened next. One can look away from the desecration and destruction in other parts of the world, but when it happens in your own backyard, it’s impossible to turn a blind eye.

My Norwegian grandparents - immigrants

I was born and raised in America. Like so many US citizens, my forefathers were immigrants, who left their homeland for a better life in the Land of Opportunity. On my paternal side, we traced our roots back centuries to Scotland. In 1924, my maternal grandfather immigrated from Norway. To pay back his passage by ship, he worked on his Aunt Ovidia Boe’s (also an immigrant) beet farm across Minnesota’s border in South Dakota. Eventually, he moved to Chicago where he petitioned for U.S. citizenship March 15, 1932.

Though I have resided abroad longer than in the States, I retain strong ties to the Minneapolis-St Paul (Twin Cities) area. My nieces went to a Spanish Immersion School in its suburbs; my daughter and son earned medical degrees at its universities.

After spending a part of my adult life there, I can attest that “Minnesota nice” is real. Minnesotans wait patiently in lines, respect polite distances, offer muffins to new neighbors. Centuries ago, when immigrants -Norwegians, Swedes, Germans and others -moved westward, they depended on one another for survival in the brutal land.

Minneapolis-St.Paul became sanctuary cities in the 80s, but long before the Sanctuary Movement people here advocated for democracy, civil rights and human dignity setting an example for those resisting authoritarianism worldwide.

In December, agents from ICE (US Immigration & Customs Enforcement) and CBP (Customs & Border Protection) terrorized communities in Operation Metro Surge using racial profiling and storm patrol tactics. They killed law abiding citizens Renee Good and Alex Pretti for doing what Minnesotans do best, extend helping hands to others less privileged.

According to the city Emergency Operations Center's impact assessment in January alone, Minneapolis lost more than $200 million. Local businesses lost $81 billion in revenue; workers lost $47 million in wages and 76,200 people experienced food insecurity. Countless children and adults feared for their safety.

Thousands of people lined the streets in peaceful demonstrations. Businesses and shops opened their doors providing warmth and sustenance for citizens of all walks of life as they marched together in the bitter cold.

Grandmothers knitted “Norwegian” red hats, a symbol of Norway’s resistance during the Nazi Occupation. Young mothers blew whistles warning neighbors. Suburbanites organized car pools to ferry frightened immigrants and their children to churches, schools and work places.

Minnesota Strong became a battle cry for the country.

In solidarity, the food pantry where my brother-in-law volunteers delivered meals to families in hiding. My daughter’s pediatrics group reached out with house calls, zoom consultations and ride shares for Latino, Somalian, Hmong and other minorities afraid to leave their homes because their skin tone, accent, ethnicity put a target on their back. She drove colleagues, who “looked different,” to their appointments. My niece loaded her Costco cart with groceries to donate. My sister marched and carried banners.

Before we flew back to Europe, my sister invited us to dinner. Feeling distraught and disillusioned, like so many families, my immediate circle rallied round sending me off with a comforting, ol’fashioned Minnesotan dinner.

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My brother-in-law made a hot dish, emblematic of the region's low-key, unpretentious, and salt-of-the-earth reputation. This traditional, humble meal, a creamy mix of meat and vegetables topped with tater tots, symbolizes the down-home, Minnesota-nice culture.

Then, I returned to Switzerland heavy hearted to where tensions had escalated from America’s home-grown insanity that incited war across the Middle East impacting world peace.

I am a well-traveled, global-minded expat with a unique and privileged world view, but I have no answers. In my chagrin, I focus on the memory of family regrouping and Minnesotans rallying together.

Minnesotans are nice!

They are also resilient.

They stand together.

They hold their ground.

I may live abroad, but I remain Minnesota Strong.

“You Don’t Look Sick” Fibromyalgia Awareness May 12, 2025

If I have the courage to confess my vulnerability, to share my struggle with a hard to diagnose, difficult to treat, invisible illness ravaging lives, can my words help others in pain?

Three decades ago, my chiropractor in Switzerland, suspected my back problems were due to more than injuries. He surmised that I had fibromyalgia (FM) a musculoskeletal disorder that causes chronic over-all body pain. He recommended seeing a rheumatologist.

Unfortunately, most people suffering from FM either go undiagnosed for years or are misdiagnosed. On May 12, 1992, Fibromyalgia Awareness Day started to bring attention to this misunderstood disease and commemorate Florence Nightingale, the founder of modern nursing, who also suffered from fibromyalgia.

FM can include fatigue, anxiety, migraines, irritable bowel syndrome, skin sensitivity, stiffness and autonomic system dysfunction. It impacts the muscles, and can lead to pain numbness, tingling, twitching, restless legs and osteoarthritis. FM also often includes other co-infections and immune system dysfunction, which is why it is paired with CFS.

With FM, the stress response, an automatic brain reflex, is on autopilot. The brain sends out fight or flight signals with widespread effects. It’s as if one’s body is locked in a state of hyper vigilance, like a smoke alarm going off forever without a fire.

The problem lies with the amplification of pain and sensory processing in the central nervous system. Part of the brain goes haywire in glial cells.

“Most doctors don’t believe FM exists,” my Swiss rheumatologist told me, when he confirmed my FM diagnosis in 1996. “You are lucky that I do. Fortunately, you are protected by your profession. As a physical education teacher, you move all day. Movement is the best treatment for FM.”

At the time of my diagnosis, skepticism reigned within the medical community and general public. I suffered in silence and charged forward, determined to raise a family, teach and coach kids to never give up.

No matter how hard I try to manage pain, FM waxed and waned. Every flare up sent me spiraling in despair.

I remain locked in a state of hyper vigilance and heightened anxiety. FM deregulates sleep causing insomnia. With my body’s inability to enter the deep sleep stage, my muscles and brain never go into a restorative state, which results in muscle tenderness/pain/inflammation.

Specialists know that FM disrupts hormones, burns out adrenal glands, increases chronic pain and affects the sympathetic nervous system, but they still don’t know how to diagnose or treat it.

The clinical signs are nonspecific and overlap with other diseases. Ironically, researchers found eerie similarities between FM and long COVID, which helps legitimize FM. Research on long-haul COVID, which has similar effects, may offer hope.

Experts also know that fibromyalgia tends to run in families. My paternal grandma suffered from it back in the early days when FM was known as rheumatism or fibrocystic. My sister also has fibromyalgia.

Due to a lack of research and the difficulty in identifying causes of the illness, many practitioners still do not believe that the disease exists.

Believe me it’s real. As an iron-willed McKinzie descendant, resiliency is my middle name. As a former pro athlete, who has overcome many debilitating injuries, I am as tough as they come. Yet, the pain of FM can knock me to my knees.

Though the cause is unknown, there is a genetic predisposition. FM often manifests after a car accident, (check) or illness like Lyme disease (check 2) and the physical or emotional trauma after the loss of a loved one, parent or child (check 3).

There is no known cure, but thankfully fibromyalgia is not a death sentence like some forms of cancer and other illnesses.

My health is compromised, but I am still here fighting!

Many treatments fall short. Sleep aids to regulate sleep dysfunction, myofascial massage, exercise, diet, yoga, relaxation and breathing techniques can help.

I am not a trained heath practitioner. I cannot offer medical advice, but as a fellow human being,

I can share insight on how to cope.

I can validate that your pain is real.

I can remind you that you are not alone.

I can you cheer you on from my mountaintop!

Not Always Easy Flying easyJet

Though fewer people are flying abroad this summer, visitors are welcome everywhere in the UK and Europe. For travelers, who dare to hop the Big Pond, easyJet airlines offer low cost flights to most anywhere from the UK or Switzerland.

In 1995, Sir Stelios Haji-Ioannou founded the company to provide affordable air travel to the masses by offering low-cost fares in Europe. Thirty years later, easyJet operates over a 1,000 routes to 30 countries.

The company was founded in Luton, a city an hour north of London. Initially only two aircraft flew from Luton Airport to and from Glasgow. easyJet expanded to include popular holiday destinations. It has become one of the largest and most successful low-cost carriers in Europe.

Unfortunately, the airline is notorious for changing arrival/departure times and cancelling flights at the last minute, leaving travelers stranded. When all goes right, you can’t find a better bargain, but when issues occur, you are on your own.

What you economize on your ticket, you pay for in wear and tear on your body. Taller, bigger build bodies beware! Space is limited. Seats do not recline. This no frills airline offers minimal comfort and service in order to maintain bottom line costs.

Different from other low budget airlines, easyJet slashed prices by introducing online booking and check-in systems. But travel on easyJet is never for the feint-hearted. Just purchasing an online ticket takes the patience of a saint.

Flying economy without any baggage is a great deal, but any other accommodations, inflate the price. Seat reservation, luggage and speedy boarding are extras!

Boarding from the tarmac, like the old days, can be chaotic.

Snacks, meals, drinks, even water must be purchased by credit card only.

easyJet policy limits your carry on bag size to 45 x 36 x 20cm and it must fit under the seat. A second cabin bag, no larger than 56 x 45 x 25cm, is an additional fee. A checked luggage for the hold can cost more than flight.

Since our son and daughter-in-law live in the UK. We have become seasoned easyJet travelers, so I can offer useful tips.

When they announce your boarding gate, always at last minute, run!
No one cues in lines like at Disneyland. Passengers herd at gate, like cattle awaiting slaughter.
Stand your ground. Hold your place in line directly behind the speedy boarders.
Board as early as possible to assure you and your luggage sit together!
Better yet don’t carry baggage. Wear it. (A 22-pocket Scottevest, a special US survivalist jacket, works well if you can afford it.)
Have a back up plan for late arrival at your destination.
Enjoy your journey, but no matter where you go, stay zen.

Bon voyage!

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.

Normandy 1944-2024: Eighty Years Later The Memory Lives On

I climbed into the steel reinforced bunkers overlooking the Normandy landing beaches on Pointe du Hoc eighty years after the Rangers overtook the strategic German lookout 90 feet above the English Channel. I pictured a 19-year-old American boy jumping out of a PT boat into icy waters, with nothing more than a gauze bandage for comfort on a stormy dawn illuminated by gunfire.

I imagined him staggering across the dunes, dodging bullets and booby traps, clawing at the red cliffs, crawling through the hedge rows, groping for life in a foreign land, shooting at the shadows that could be his own comrades. He was an American soldier killing boys/men, who would have been his friends in another time and generation.

Here rests in honor glory a comrade in arms known but to God

I am of another time and generation — an American with a French-Normand spouse and German friends. Though I’ve been to Normandy hundreds of times, I visited the Normandy American Cemetery (outside St. Laurent) just once.

Only when standing on the hallowed grounds, where Americans lay under a blanket of emerald earth, marked by 9,386 white crosses, could I truly understand the enormity of their great and tragic endeavor on June 6, 1944.

On a rainy day, Normandy’s landscape offers a bleak reminder of her sad past, but on sunny ones the murky coastline, black sea, and gray fields are transformed into a tapestry of colors. Orange cliffs drop off into purple waters. Inland reddish-brown Norman cows and pink apple blossoms dot verdant hills under powder blue skies. Soft light white washes half-timbered houses and solid stone farm houses that remain as they were centuries ago.

The beauty and tranquility of Normandy today could drive a full-grown man to tears. And I, who am too young to have understood the impact of World War II, get a lump in my throat every time I return to the dairyland of northwestern France on one of those pinch-me-I-am-dreaming days of sunshine.

my husband's village on Normandy shores

Decades ago, on one of those sunny days, I pedaled my bike past red poppy fields and green valleys where newborn calves and lambs romped. I devoured veal “à la Normande,” Camembert cheese and berries in cream. Somewhere between the first and last course, I fell in love with a Norman.

Now the sacrifices of the men of the great war, their silent testimonials of white crosses that cover the rich green hills above the beaches Utah, Gold, Juno, Sword and Omaha have taken on special meaning for me.

They are my countrymen laid to rest in my adopted country. In a sense they saved my family.

freedom for the next generation

Every time, we used to visit Dieppe, (France) to see my grandfather-in-law, he’d greet me at the gate chanting the Star Spangled Banner.

“Ah, ma petite Pat,” he’d say recounting the highlight of his career as a trumpeter in the Garde Republicaine “I’ll never forget riding Lustucru (his horse) across the courtyard. The Allies landed in Normandy on June 6, but didn’t make it to Paris until the end of August. We waited for four long years…never quit believing they’d make it.”

He’d stop and pull a handkerchief from his suit pocket and wipe his eyes, before continuing, “Never forget how I blew the trumpet that day to welcome the Americans — greatest day of my life.”

The old heart does not forget. Now even though my generation never knew the horrors of war, my young heart will remember. When I stood in front of a sea of stark, white marble crosses, I felt overwhelmed by a debt that can never be repaid.

Suddenly I knew the unknown soldier — he was my father, my brother, my countryman, who died so nobly and unknowing, so that today I might live in freedom and peace in a land whose magnificence offers its own thanks to the skies.

Rest in peace my comrades-in-arms. You have not died in vain. I wish my words could transcend time so you could know. Because of you Normandy today, like the true Normans, remains proud and gracious.

A Très British Outing – Ze Pub

When my son married a beautiful British-Irish-Ukrainian woman, we were given an insiders peek into UK life, which begins and ends at the local pub. Going to the pub for a pint is as much a part of British life as a coca cola and Friday night football is to an American.

Dating back thousands of years to 43 AD when the Romans invaded the British Isles, the public house has been a cultural part of UK life for centuries. From the Roman drinking houses, called ‘tabernae’ to the Medieval ale houses offering lodging for travelers, to the ever popular pubs of today, the pub always served as the center of village life. Going to the pub remains a favorite British pastime.

Part of the adventure is getting there. A Saturday walk to the pub is as commonplace as a family heading to church on Sunday in the US.

Our fun multiplied when Larissa’s mom, her sister, brother-in-law, two nephews and their goodnatured labradoodle, Guinness, joined us for a walk across the British countryside.

We donned those quintessential British boots, aka wellies, and started walking through the fields right outside the door of their rental home known as the “barn.” The old chicken coop remodeled into an eclectic, modern, light-filled home had so many windows that it makes me feel like I on a farm for vacation.

“Don’t the farmers mind us trespassing on their land.” I asked Larissa as we tromped through the fields where sheep grazed.

“In the UK, the public has the right away,” she explained. “It is known as Public Bridle Way.”

“I don’t see any signs allowing us to hike on their property,” I said.

“It’s invisible!” she explained. “But you just know.”

“You have to be local enough to know or not know where it is acceptable,” Nic added.

Even without specifically labeled trails, the local farmers are accustomed to foot traffic.

Part of our hike included climbing over wooden stiles crossing the fences and hedgerow between the fields.

“A phone app indicates where it is okay to go,” said Larissa. “But it’s mostly common sense. You wouldn’t walk through field of donkeys or free range horses. It’s at your own risk if you try to cross a field of buffalo.”

Surprisingly, not only cattle, sheep and horses graze in Nic and Larissa’s neighborhood, but buffalo - African buffalo - also roam.

Walking in wellies on uneven terrain, included lumbering over six stiles like an obstacle course, I felt worn out by the time we made it to the pub.

The pub, an old brick home, divided into rooms, included a room where dogs were welcome guests. Guinness sat at attention, while the adults talked. Instead of ordering the usual hot drinks, after our hike, we were so thirsty, we opted for cokes, beer, and the local cider. The little boys sat politely at the table enjoying snacks.

Surprisingly, Guinness didn’t bother the other dogs tucked in at nearby tables while their owners sipped away the afternoon enjoying board games. At the table next to us, a couple played Jenga while their Irish hound stood guard. Near the pub entryway, a table of brawny locals spun tales as long as their beards.

One of the greatest features of pub life is that there is never any pressure to hurry up or to order another round. For the price of a drink, we could linger all day surrounded by charming English atmosphere.