Carry a corn sack –fill a flannel bag with field corn, microwave 2 minutes, take it to go.
Melt frozen pipes with a hair dryer (actually recommended by my brother-in-law’s plumber friend and it worked like a charm for the Carlsons!)
Embrace the season. Bundle up and play outside!
Take up ice fishing. After freezing your fanny on a frozen lake, home feels like a sauna.
Read a book –curl up under a duvet and read a good book. You’ll become so engrossed in the story, you won’t notice the weather outside.
Stoke up the fire. Warm your tootsies, melt you heart, and mellow out while flame gazing. Enjoy the show.
Wear boots! Heavy, lined, and laced up! Off you go!
Sip a hot drink –cocoa, cappuccino, apple cider, flavored tea, Glühwein, hot toddy, Irish coffee, grog, Wassail, whatever as long as it is hot, hot, hot.
Layers. Layers. Layers. Start with undies, the ultimate chill chaser Cuddle duds !
Savor a steaming hot wholesome meal. Go for those extra calories. Winter is no time to diet.
Celebrate! Set out The Red Plate and engage in the time honored custom of our ancestors. American pioneer families acknowledged when friends and loved ones deserved praise or special attention by serving them on the red plate.
After the letdown of the holidays, I decided to beat the blues with a little home improvement. Nothing kicks winter doldrums like a change in décor. With a bee in my bonnet (British expression) in manic mode, I insisted, “Let’s rearrange the living room.”
A half day later, we were still on our hands and knees, snapping at each other.
Moving furniture meant revealing a decade’s worth of grime. In the past, my mess was limited by frequent relocations. We’ve lived in our present home for a record length of time, so now I’m busted. Loopholes in my if-you- can’t-see-it, it-ain’t-dirty, dysfunctional cleaning policy are exposed.
What a revelation! I never realized that dust could inhabit so many places- ledges of drawers, behind chair legs, under the coffee table. Like trapeze artists, spiders swung from lamp fixtures, bookshelves, and window ledges.
A women’s prerogative can be so annoying. I couldn’t visualize the new furniture arrangement; I needed a trial run. Ze Frenchman pushed, pulled, and turned tables, couches, chairs for my viewing pleasure. In the end I didn’t like the new look, so we started over again.
Our writing desk/armoire, too heavy to lift, had to be emptied first. Sorting through drawers was like strolling down memory lane of my children’s life. I discovered souvenirs from every adventure– badges from the Grand Canyon, Kandersteg camp in the Alps, and Jim Peck’s Wildlife Park in Wisconsin. I journeyed across Europe sifting through mementos from school trips to the Camargue, Venice, Strasbourg, Florence, Paris, and Barcelona. I relived games when I uncovered certificates and medals from each of their teams. Like a kid on a scavenger hunt, I found silly putty, magic pens, a set of acrylics, a stack of cards, five kinds of tape and coins from fifteen different countries.
What bliss filling the recycling bins! I pitched a phone book collection, dating back to 2005, and papers galore: college applications, chemistry exams, history notes, math graphs, and English essays. I discarded broken flashlights, old cassettes, sticker books, yoyos, Legos and marbles.
While my husband moved furniture half a dozen times, I remained glued to my desk drawer, lost in the past until he interrupted my reverie, shouting,
“Aspi!”
Aspi is short for aspirateur (French for vacuum cleaner.) Don’t you love the image – aspirating, sucking up a decade of dirt.
Naturally “remodeling” included relocating the TV/VCR/Home Video System to the opposite corner of the room, which meant rewiring a beehive of cables. As Gerald raged, shouting expletives, I thought, ‘oh goodie another French lesson for me.’
Finally I stopped cold when ze Frenchman threatened to bring home his new, young secretary and solicit her advice because he insisted, “SHE is also an interior designer.”
“Not in my house! Nooo, way.”
His ploy worked; I quit nagging in time for him to collapse into his chair to enjoy his favorite sports program. Well, I’ll be darned! Where did I relocate the remote control? Frantically, I repeated my clean sweep in reverse to see where I had inadvertently misplaced ze Frenchman’s favorite toy.
Now I am settled in my nice, clean salle de sejour (notice I did not say house) so from my living room to yours best wishes for 2014.
Thanks for following my exploits. Stay with me… the New Year promises more adventures from X-pat.
My New Year’s resolution: never let the weather get me down. Celebrate each season. Even winter. That said, I struggled to step out the door when staying at the Carlson’s in Golden Valley, Minnesota in early January. My first achievement in 2014, surviving the Deep Freeze.
While visiting my Big Kids, nieces, sister and brother-in-law in the Twin Cities, I experienced those record breaking frigid temperatures that made even European news channel headlines.
My niece, Hannah, told me that it was so cold that if I threw a glass of water outside, it would turn to ice before it hit the ground. Exposed skin would be frost bitten within 5 minutes. Sure enough, when I walked out the door, the cold felt like dry ice peeling the skin off my cheeks. Yet, Karen and I made it around the block on foot during the coldest day of the last decades.
Weather advisory – stay indoors. Even residents accustomed to long, harsh winters headed to the grocery to stock up on staples, just in case. Shops closed early. Sporting events were postponed. My folks in Illinois said even church was cancelled.
Due to extreme cold, the Minnesota governor mandated statewide school closing prolonging the holiday. Karen, a teacher, screamed with joy, « youpie another pajama day. »
We made the most of our moments together. We spent a super special Sunday afternoon at Lambeau Field via satellite, enjoying spicy chili, nachos and cheese from the comforts of the Carlson’s living room. My first time tailgating indoors in Siberia!
Like I reminded my sister, who begrudges the long winters, « it’s a healthy cold. » Unlike Switzerland where the mountains lock us in a fog trap of pollution, when I stepped outside the door in Minneapolis-St. Paul, my lungs felt invigorated from the pure air. The dazzling sun, reflecting off snow under cobalt skies, created an extraordinary light.
It is no surprise that so many Scandinavians settled in Minnesota. Folks up North come from a hardy stock used to harsh elements. Youngsters sledded, teens played ice hockey, couples skated, and « cheerful » ol’ men ice fished. Dick took us for a spin in his jeep on frozen Medicine Lake where we admired elaborate ice shanties and peeked through the lit up windows of the lake front mansions.
While the atmospheric pressures created record-breaking cold temperatures in North America, warm currents blew across Europe. Back home people were out and about in shorts and shirtsleeves enjoying a balmy 50F. Arriving in Geneva airport, felt like landing in Florida.
We never begrudged a minute of our holiday on ice because warmhearted northlanders magically thaw winter souls by welcoming travelers into their homes and hearth with open arms and a joie de vivre. Gotta love Minn-A-so-Ta. You betcha.
Home for the holidays takes on new meaning, when you live 4,000 miles away. Never has my longing for America been greater than after the birth of my daughter in Paris. The expatriate craves the loving cradle of family most during moments of great joy or sadness. Within the span of that year I had endured my fair share of despair. I struggled to recover from an accident that ended my athletic career, and a miscarriage that broke my spirit.
That winter of ‘84, I courageously tucked my 10-day-old daughter into a kangaroo pouch, navigated through the crowded Metro station and waited at the American Embassy for my baby to be issued her first U.S. passport. Just a short time later, with even greater trepidation, I swaddled my seven-week-old in a hand-woven blanket and carried her solo across the Atlantic aboard a 747.
At O’Hare airport, my sister’s and parents’ smiles lit up the universe as they welcomed the newest member to the family with tears of joy.
Outside the family homestead, light snow dusted the open fields and colored lights glittered, while inside, an aroma of gingerbread wafted through the air, a newborn’s cry rose above my brother’s piano rendition of Silent Night and my mom hung her handmade first grandchild ornament on the Christmas tree.
From Cleveland, to Omaha, to Chicago, to Eureka, to Sterling my siblings and grandparents coordinated the time and distance between a dozen careers, three states and two countries to be home for the holidays. That Christmas, I dressed as a svelte French Papa Noel to pass out presents.
But the greatest gift was not under the tree.
In the early years of marriage, we could not afford a cross-Atlantic flight, so in a gesture that showed incredible generosity and profound compassion, my Frenchman along with family contributions, gave me a round trip Air France ticket Paris-Chicago, so that the McKinzies could meet baby Nathalie.
This Christmas gift symbolized my husband’s love for his firstborn, his foreign wife and his American in-laws. By sacrificing his own holiday time, he acknowledged the importance of fostering family ties and respecting one’s cultural heritage in a mixed marriage.
The magic of those shared moments is engrained in my heart forever.
This December, that precious baby, now a dedicated doctor, offers another selfless gift. She sacrifices her family time to spend Christmas Day in the Children’s Hospital, taking care of kids too sick to go home for the holidays.
After 3 decades wondering what I should do with my life, I found my calling. From waitress to lifeguard to pro basketball player to journalist to educator, I have taught everything from primary PE to freshman English to learning support.
Whether I am teaching a 6th grader to do a forward roll, a dyslexic child to spell, a 10th grader to understand Shakespeare, a senior to write a personal statement or a ball player to make a jump shop… I am a coach.
When I help kids makes sense of their lives, my life makes sense to me.
I help students discover their strengths, so they can one day navigate solo in our fast paced world filled with overwhelming demands and challenges.
However, when I was growing up, coaching was not an option. How could a girl have a coaching career if female athletes were non-existent and women weren’t allowed to participate in sports?
Today, coaching is in vogue. Coaching specialties run the gamut including life and personal coaches, to health/wellness/fitness/ coaches to business/leadership/executive coaches to organizing/ career/creativity coaches to parenting and retirement coaches. Even ADHD coaches are listed to identify tools to assist those with attention deficit hyperactivity and to develop positive coping strategies for every day life and specific tasks.
When I randomly googled transition coaches, Paula Ray’s website popped up. She explained the that transitional coaches base their principle on different disciplines, and states that her coaching philosophy is rooted in biomimicry. Huh? It’s no surprise that Paula Ray, who sounds like a New Age guru, is based in Del Mar, California.
Here is a list of some of the transition coach specialties.
Transition from one extreme socio-economic level to another
Transition from a stress-filled negative life into a life you love
Transition from one extreme socio-economic level to another in a short period of time
Transition out of a corporate career
Transition into your most enjoyable, rewarding and healthy retirement
Transition in marital status
Transition from an energy draining career to an exhilarating one
Transition through unexpected health care challenges
But hey, I am not knocking the career. No way. After my parents, coaches had the single greatest influence in my life.
Now everyone from CEOs to writers to retirees discuss their favorite buzzword, my coach. Once upon a time, coaching was learned almost by osmosis from playing a sport, now college degrees in coaching abound. Ohio University offers a Coaching Education master’s program to prepare coaches with the knowledge they need to become elite coaches.
Hopefully more female athletic coaches will join the ranks because they serve as excellent role models for girls. Like men have known for years, sports teaches life lessons and teams provide the best training grounds for the work place.
Legendary ISU Coach Jill Hutchison
Yep, everything I needed to know I learned in basketball.
Life is not fair. Get over it.
Leave your ego in the locker room
Pass to the open player
Rebound, rebound, rebound
Learn from each mistake
Hustle at all times
Lose graciously
Win humbly
Always credit teammates
Never give up
With all the emphasis on coaching nowadays, I propose we add a new celebration to the calendar.
In loving memory of my grandfather Ralph « Mac » McKinzie, a coach extraordinaire, I hereby declare December 7th as the official Thank Your Mentor Day!
In appreciation of the teachers and coaches that shaped my life, I am offering a Black Friday special price for Home Sweet Hardwood. As a gesture of gratitude to the people that mentored you, offer a gift copy of the memoir of A Title IX Trailerblazer Breaking Barriers Through Basketball!
An All American tale with a European twist about a pre Title IX tomboy who fought for right to be allowed on the court and never gave up. Even when she could no longer play the game she loved. Home Sweet Hardwood makes a great holiday gift to offer a sporty daughter or granddaughter or an aspiring athlete.
“Observing the courage and determination with which Pat pursued her dream goes beyond gender and racial lines to reach a much deeper place within us all. This is a profound story of the strength of the human spirit in the face of extreme challenges. Inspiring, illuminating and awesome; Home Sweet Hardwood is certain to have an impact, not only on women of all ages, but upon anyone who has ever aspired to overcome all odds for something or someone that they love.”
Bil Howard, Readers’ Favorite 5 star review
Give a voice of to silent pioneers who helped pave the way for our high flying daughters of today. In the true spirit of the game- pay it forward pass it on.
Four decades, three generations, two continents, one game.
Wear fur lined Grumpy Old Man hats with ear flaps down.
Wear boots! Heavy, lined, and laced up! Off you go!
