Category: small town life

winter marriages

March 28th, 2023

March wrapping up. Leading us into the month of showers so we can have flowers in May. Bright spots. The reward for making it through another winter in Northeastern Lower Michigan.

It was fun when I was a kid. We played in the snow until our clothes and boots were sopping wet and our fingers lost feeling. From morning til night, it was indeed, a winter wonderland.

It wasn’t as tough when I was a younger man. I could throw snow like nobody’s business. Never tiring. Even enjoying the act of lifting over and over again. I would set beers on the bumper of my pickup truck. Shoveling, like anything else, went hand-in-hand with drinking.

Today, older and weaker, I shiver at the thought of having to shovel again. I hope it doesn’t snow anymore this year. Not that I shoveled all that much, anyway. Brooke did most of that. I had the easy job—snowblowing.

As always, we divide and conquer. She doesn’t want to mess around with gasoline, choking, priming, and an extension cord, a clogged chute, deflated tires, and broken shear pins. But I don’t mind it. Even with all its peccadillos, the old Huskee still makes quick work of deep snow, and most of the time, the heavy stuff.

After 15 years, I have come to know that machine pretty well. Top off the gas every third use. Twelve pumps of air per tire each outing. Place it fifteen paces away from the outdoor electrical outlet so the extension cord doesn’t hang in the snow. Push the primer eight times. Adjust the choke. Hold the start button three seconds. Move the throttle closer to the bunny than the turtle, unplug from the outlet, and we’re off.

Once we’re at it, there’s no stopping us.

Except for the slushy mounds that city snowplows layer at the end of our driveway.

It’s been a couple of years since I had to replace a shear pin because I have learned our limits. And so, after Brooke has cleared the main sidewalk to the house, the front and back steps and porches, we meet at the end of the driveway to tackle the big mess. Each of us with a shovel in hand.

~ KJ
a slow start to the morning

March 22nd, 2023

The waves. They are back. Not that they were ever really gone. I heard them this morning while standing on the porch waiting for the dogs to stretch, tinkle, and dump. It was a pleasant surprise. So simple. Big water against the shoreline blocks away. The waves took me out of my head—a dangerous and vulnerable place early in the morning—and got me pointed in the right direction.

There is only so much I can do. Is that the truth? Or is that what we tell ourselves to keep comfortable? Seems like it would be easy now to settle into the big fade. Ride out whatever comes my way. Make sure family is happy. Yearn for warmer days. Consider the slower pace that can come with an empty nest. Work away time as clock hands keep turning. Saving for rainy days, or snowy days, or sun.

But the kids are not grown enough to try this world on their own. I’m glad for that. I’d like them here for as long as they’ll have us. And even though my wife and I have plans—travel, hike, read, paint, and write—we know that plans are just words unless they’re put into action. It’s fun to make them, exciting to see them come to fruition, and there is great satisfaction in seeing them through. But is there anything better than having plans? Ideas and hopes. Dreams. A little something to talk about on our walks, at dinner, just before we set ourselves off to sleep.

I’m listening to the sound of waves now. Not the mighty Lake Huron, but ocean waves rushing onto a sandy beach. I do this sometimes because it’s soothing. I bring up YouTube, put on headphones, and let my spirit vacation while the body and brain work. Doing what needs to be done to continue this coming and going, earning and consuming. Waking earlier and earlier each day, eager to get started because I believe that more opportunities are revealed the longer I keep at it. Some mornings start slower than others. I get sidetracked with water, thoughts like waves, but that’s okay.

Here’s to another day of heading in the right direction.

~ KJ
at least for now

March 21st, 2023

March 21, 2023 – 6:38 pm

Last night, at about eight, I had showered, put on PJs and was standing at the top of the staircase. I looked down the hallway toward the L room. I felt a pull to go there. Here, where I am this morning. So that I could write. There was a slight moment of inspiration. The urge. But it was eight. I got lazy. Rather than spend an hour writing—maybe two—I sat on the recliner and watched Saved by the Barn with my wife and kid. Heartwarming show, and it was good to be there with them, coming down from the day, but this morning I’m packed full of whatever it is that creeps in when I don’t write. The type of feeling that makes me mad at the traffic passing by. Silliness, I know. And it’s a punishment, no doubt—this dip in happiness and rise in anxiety—because I’m not doing what I’m supposed to.

I don’t have to publish and earn a living by writing. In fact, I like writing whatever I want whenever I want. But when you don’t rely on an activity, when it isn’t a necessity, that activity can easily be set aside. I know how important it is that I write. That I do it regularly. I’ve had this conversation with myself for years. If I stop equating writing to success and success to writing—if I stop seeing writing as something to show and share rather than something to do and feel—then I will be my best, create the most engaging content, and be happiest.

Writing helps my reasoning. It’s a way to filter out the awfulness. The garbage. It’s also a way to bring to the surface all the beauty that goes unnoticed. Not all of it. Strike that. But beauty, anyway. Little bits and large, sweeping scenes. But I prefer the little bits. Snippets. Letters, lines, paragraphs, short stories. I don’t know that I will write a novel because I don’t have the patience. The only way I can do it is by telling several short stories within the larger story. I’ve been trying that with DEVOTION for years now, but it’s slow going. I’ve got myself stretched in so many directions that the book has taken a backseat. By choice. I’ll pick away at it. Come to it when I feel I should be in it. Otherwise, it is forced. Phony. Work.

Speaking of…it’s nearly seven. I’m already feeling late and behind, so I best be rolling on out into that morning traffic with everyone else that chooses to do something other than what they are meant to do. At least for now.

~ KJ
a last push

March 18th, 2023

March 18^th, 2023 – 7:40 am

Yesterday, it was a morning fresh with 42 degrees, sprinkles, and a big, bulky dark sky promising rain. Heavy drops with the power to melt the rest of the snow, clean us up and get the world greening. Today, it’s 19 degrees. The world’s gone frozen. Snow covers everything. Again.

This last push is the hardest.

Sunshine and hikes. The cottage and boat rides. Evening bonfires and stargazing. It’s there—I feel it. But there are these dismal days to slog through yet. Not that these moments are worthless. This is the time to take stock. What have we been doing? Where are we headed? What are we doing differently today that engages the parts and layers of us that a life of winters can make dormant? Or maybe that’s too much. Afterall, there’s daily life to live and those responsibilities end up taking us to wherever we are expected to be. Dropping kids at school. Sitting in a cubicle. To the store. Paying bills. Feeding and watering and clothing and heating and cleaning up mess after mess after mess. There’s value in all of this—the busyness, playing roles, earning and paying—but is the satisfaction in making ends meet, or is it in the overlap?

Prepare and plan or do nothing at all. Better weather is coming. Brighter days. We’ll be coming out of hibernation soon. Probably should put away the Oreos and Cheez-Its and buy more lettuce and tuna. We’re getting older and slower, but we don’t need to get fatter, do we? Daylight is friendlier lately. Hangs around longer. The couch still calls in the evenings, but the sun is coaxing us to the windows and doors more and more each day. Everything—overall—is warming up. We’ll get out there soon enough with our smiles and movement and good intentions. Yard work, house work, garage work, cottage work, camp work—good, different work that we don’t mind. Even the real work—the pesky day job—becomes easier to swallow.

Time keeps coming and going. Ticks away in silence. Measured by experience. There’s nothing to do to stop it. Our solace is in the cycles that bind us. We’re connected by the air we breathe, water we drink, and the earth we will become. This is not forgotten or wasted upon us. Not for those of that have grown up experiencing the ebb and flow and ups and downs of seasons. We’re waking with the day already on its way to wherever it’s going to take us. Drinking coffee. Eating breakfast. Listening as loved ones rise and stretch to join us. Into the sun and snow for now, but after that, who knows?

~ KJ
March 8, 2022 – 6:25 am

March 8th, 2023

Start early. Get a look at that sky. The stars fuzzier today than they were yesterday. The cold bites deeper. Bones and joints don’t get along as well as they used to. But I stand and wait for the dogs to do their business, one after another. I breathe the morning air, listening to the factory do what it’s always done–provide jobs, sustain families, allow men to piss away paychecks on booze and toys–while it pollutes. The air, sky, water. But that’s how it goes. It is what it is. Insert whatever flip, cliche saying you like. Life just goes on.

We’re all doing this–growing older, feeling the change in mind and body–and I can see why it’s harder on some than others. Essentially, you’re the same kid you’ve always been. The core, I don’t know that it ever changes. And so, it can be hard getting on with the days, doing the simple acts. Not only because they’re more physically demanding, but because I have to change my line of thought. Prioritize. Change the path to endure.

I tend to get too deep early like this. The kids are up. My wife is up. The dogs, they’ve settled into after dog chow mode, and are snoozing. I kinda feel like I’d like to do that too, but I know that laying around with my thoughts isn’t healthy. Days like this it’s important to shake off whatever it is that’s creeping in. The morning traffic–lots of people going places they will regret or hate remembering. The hum of industry–facilitating growth and destruction. The mourning dove perched upon the telephone wire–cooing away the realities of survival, calling out to all that will listen.

~ KJ
a strange moment in the morning

January 14th, 2023

Starry morning skies appear when you need them. Like this morning. Standing on the back porch, holding the leash as the dogs—one at a time—pee, poop, and sniff around. Those bright spots up there are necessary. Reminders. Perspective. Especially when the days here are so cold and dark for so long.

Plenty to do but I don’t want plans. I’m ready to ride the next bull run. Ready for the movie theater to be built so the family can take in entertainment outside the house. Overpriced popcorn. Annoying guests. Ready to take my real estate license exam. Not sure I’ll pass it, but taking the test is the only way to know. Ready to take a ride to the cottage with Dad. Or to Rogers City with Mom. To Tawas with Brooke and the kids. I have to stay busy, not get caught up in these dark lulls.

I used to handle the darkness better. Now, it seems to call to me more often. Misses me, I guess. I spent so much time with it, it now wonders what I’ve been up to. The dark seeps in back doors and the narrowest of cracks. Even a sealed up, remodel with two furnaces can’t beat that. So, I’m stuck between plans and laziness and desire and sleep.

Days are like this. So are nights. And the moments between.

There was the big dipper. Two bright stars holding steady over the funeral home. A hunk of white moon. Then a plane or satellite moving in a straight line. On a mission. Moving people and information and everything that’s inside of me, the dogs, the plans, the successes, failures early mornings, dog piss and dog shit and tepid coffee—a batch leftover from yesterday’s busy afternoon—to wherever all of us need to go. A piece of you there. A piece of me here. All of us part of this big energy, but ourselves, as well.

I want to talk without making a sound. It can be done, you know. But before I can talk, I need to listen. Sharpen my senses. Get past the ringing in my ears, the discomfort in my stomach—there’s something brewing down there—and feel without feeling. Hear without hearing. See without seeing. We’re getting close to this magic. Better yet, we’re getting closer to understanding the magic. The magic, you see, is always here. Up in the stars. In your wife’s laugh. Your kids’ retelling of their day at school. The way a stranger mouths words as they pass you on the sidewalk. Not at you. Not to you. Just them, away in their own part of this energy, their world that they can control and maintain—or try to—walking, one foot in front of the other on as straight a path as possible on another cold, dark day. Whispering to themselves.

~ KJ
garbage day

August 10th, 2022

Another bag of trash to the can, then to the side of the road. Men with manners—they wave, nod, and even smile sometimes in passing—will be here soon to take it away and then lay the empty container on its side in the dewy grass. It’s summer, so hanging off the back of a garbage truck on a cool, sunny morning isn’t that bad. Yet. We’re only months away from cold hard rain, cold hard wind, cold hard snow. Everything cold. And hard.

But that’s okay. We will make the most of it. Watch our boy’s soccer games. Our girl’s silks routines. Do yard work. Regular work. Read new books, watch old movies, and play our favorite board games. Autumn brings color, flavored coffees, and easy walks with the dogs in cool weather. A welcome change of air and temperature and events that usher in months of wondering what it would be like to be snowbirds. The four of us living in a snow shovel-free zone where you can walk without slipping on ice, soaking up slush, and feeling extremities go numb.

Thinking about getting away, living an island life, is often enough to satisfy the itch. If not, there’s always winter vacation. A time to calculate, figure, deliberate and discuss, then CLICK! and we’re off for four nights someplace warm where people continually ask you if you’d like a drink. Where everything is bright and warm and cheerful with all-day all-you-can-eat buffets, giant chess games, pools, lounge chairs, and giant umbrellas where you can lay by the ocean all day if you want, snoring, and nobody gives you a second look.

For now, though, it’s another summer day. Garbage day. A few minutes before work. There’s plenty on the to-do list for me. And as I hear the rumble-roar of the truck down the street, I remember the trash in the bathroom, and in the kitchen, under the sink.

~ KJ
our big trip

August 15th, 2021

Some mornings I want to wake slowly. Watch myself in the mirror as I brush my teeth and give myself the benefit of the doubt. Some forgiveness.

Overall, we’ve done well. We’re not finished by any means. There’s still so much more living to do. But there are days—like this Summer Sunday morning, feeling closer to Autumn than Spring—that we’re thankful, calm. Peaceful and happy because we’re just fine with the being we’ve become.

Learning hasn’t been easy. For years, I forced myself into the hardest path. Rarely taking advice. Choosing to find my own way, rather than take directions from someone claiming to know what was going to happen. Sure, they got here too—to their mornings of silent recognition. Satisfaction. A willingness to let the day fall where it may. Do nothing. Do something. Do everything. It’s hard to tell, right now. Too early in the morning and the coffee hasn’t hit the bloodstream.

In any case, I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t chosen my path. I do regret bad decisions. The parts I played that negatively affected others. But I’m learning to accept those decisions, realize they are part of me, and I’m getting better at not getting hung up on regret. People that don’t rise, that never really reach their potential, spend too much time beating themselves up for moments that have passed. There’s always a way toward salvation. A way to accept yourself. To live with your demons. But you have to cut yourself some slack.

We have skeletons in our closets. Secrets we’ll take to the grave. We shape our story each day with every moment. Action. Non-action. Love. Hate. Fun. Boredom. Generosity. Greed. Acts of kindness. Fights. The key is to focus on the good. Look for the light.

Like a fuzzy caterpillar on the sidewalk as you enjoy a sunshine morning stroll with your wife. A tiny thing of intricacy. Doing whatever it does. Thirty feet from the big lake. In a moment of time and space. Sharing existence and energy on this—our big trip—round and round the sun.

~ KJ
the obvious

June 27th, 2021

Mayflies dot damp sidewalks as we move along with the dogs. Our morning exercise between bouts of rain.

The routes we take are the same. There are only so many streets in this town. Best we can do is switch up our lefts and rights to see the world from different angles at different times.

An inchworm. Translucent green. Dangles from a Maple tree. Spins slowly round and round.

A robin bounces through thick green grass and stops near us. It waits. Listens to a worm move through the earth. Then, it pecks and pulls, stretches the worm out, until it pops from the dirt.

A white wicker rocking chair moves back and forth on the porch of a house on State Street. There’s no wind. Nobody in sight.

The dogs rub noses.

“Did you see that,” I ask.

“They do love each other!” my wife says.

I want to mention the chair. Point to it. Wonder with her at this obvious example of early morning energy, but it’s probably nothing. Things move. And everything’s been in motion forever, and will stay that way, so I keep the obvious to myself.

~ KJ
backroads

June 10th, 2021

Get in and ride.

Take the fork. Bend the spoon.

Let the roads expand perception and create our path.

Ignore the compass. Follow the shapeshifting clouds.

Climb the gravelly hill. Roll and brake down the sandy slope. Gas it through the water hole.

Let’s open the moonroof and the windows. Let the lake, earth and forest whirl up all around us, and let’s breathe it—deeply—over and over again.

The miles and miles of hope.

~ KJ