Take One for the Team

I have a Pinterest Board entitled “Inspirations and Funnies” I collect sayings and quotes that speak to me. Some are displayed on my chalk boards around my house. They often inspire a blog topic like this one:

“Without the rain there would be no rainbow.”

Years ago Jodie Foster played a struggling mom in a movie. Her friend said, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”

Foster’s character’s response: “This isn’t lemons. This is dog shit.”

This is how I feel about cancer. It killed both of my parents. It disrupted my brother’s life before he turned 50. Cancer took many other relatives and friends. In recent years, it almost jeopardized my weekend getaways with my “sisters.”

I’ve seen sayings like, “cancer sucks.”

I just saw one that read, “Do not keep calm and carry on…bitch slap cancer.”  I thought that one was funny.

Without cancer there would be no….what?

When life gives you cancer, make….what?

There is no lemonade. There is no rainbow.

When cancer happens, people  desperately need a diversion. It’s the taking control over something we have no control over. Last weekend I hosted a get together. I was going to call it “Crafting for Cancer,” but I figured I would get a much better turn out if I called it “Crafting with Cocktails.” My friend who is being treated for ovarian cancer enlisted me to assume the role of Chief Costume Designer. Team “Z” is made up of over 25 friends who registered to walk in a 5K next weekend. The event is called “Turn the Village Teal,” to raise awareness for ovarian cancer.

I created a few ideas, and with my friends’ input we settled on floral headbands for the women and bowties for the men. I made a sample of each, and last weekend a small group of us got busy assembling the costumes. My friends joked that they were happy to help but not really crafty. I promised a “skill appropriate” task for everyone. Luckily, there was much cutting to do. They all proclaimed to be proficient with scissors.  Aside from them renaming my garage “B’s Sweat Shop” they were good sports about following directions. After hours of cutting out circles of tule, lace & chiffon, I instructed them in how to assemble the flowers. One friend said, “Wait, we are MAKING those flowers?” Hours later the sarcasm started. “I hate Brenda….I hate teal…..I hate these flowers.” I promised them it would be worth it and our design would get us on television.

As usual, when this group convenes, we laugh, eat, drink and make good memories. I knew I went a little overboard on the design. It was a little ambitious for the skill level of the crafters. I thanked them and told them we were in good shape. I could finish the costumes during the week. They insisted on coming back on Sunday. I love those girls! No matter what we are doing and why we are doing it, we have fun.

I like writing because I can think about it, edit and rewrite if I need to. I have a chance to consider if my sarcastic sense of humor will offend anyone. When our team leader “Queen  Z”  humbly asked if her costume could in some way stand out a little from the rest of the team, I accused her of being an attention whore. When she suggested deleting peacock feathers from the design because of cost concerns I said,” Quit making this about you. I want the damn feathers.” When you get a group text from a cancer patient that says not only just “LOL”, but “I’m crying I’m laughing so hard,” you know you have done your job as a friend.

This project of creating matching costumes was a diversion, something to think about other than cancer. When it happens, people don’t always know what to do or say. Suggest anything and people will happily spring into action as our friends did. Queen Z is so loved that her friends are making a mountain out of a mole hill.  A little 5K walk is now a 3 day weekend. Go big or go home. We will probably have a meeting this week to discuss our restaurant choices and activity plans in the area. Ironically, a cancer walk has become another reason for a weekend getaway, laughing and making memories.  I have never attended one of these events. If we get there and the costume competition is stiff, the men in our group will be taking one for the team. I promised Queen Z that we would be making a television appearance. My last minute plan is for the guys to streak in the 5K wearing nothing but a teal colored bowtie.  So, if you are a Metro Detroiter, tune into the local news Saturday morning, just in case.

 

Lake Neighbors

Four hours north of Detroit, in an undisclosed location, is a small, private lake hidden in the woods. I never saw the movie “Deliverance,” nor do I want to, but after first time guests ask us how we found the place they can’t resist but to make a crack about hearing banjos. It is in the middle of “Michigan’s Up North Nowhere.” Many of the cottage owners are second and third generation.

We built our cottage from scratch, however, we tried hard to make it look like one of the originals. I like all things vintage and this lake neighborhood deserves to be preserved. I do second guess once in a while when, on one of the few vacant lots remaining, a new modular is plopped down in a couple of hours. We have been at this for 18 years and it won’t be perfect any time soon.

This morning I enjoyed my “thinking” walk on the gravel road that leads to and from our cottage. A lake neighbor drove by and yelled to me out of his window. In Detroit, depending upon what time of the month it was, I might have yelled, “Buzz off, perv!” Up here, he made me laugh. It was an inside joke from the 4th of July, that due to no shenanigans of my own,  won’t die anytime soon.

Most of the time my walk is on cement and very noisy. I can drown out the noise when I’m in the zone, but up north I don’t have to. Often times I take a pair of scissors and cut a wildflower bouquet of Queen Anne’s lace, chickory, & thistle. The locals probably see weeds. They probably are. I don’t care. I’d add a dandelion if I needed some yellow. To me, it is a little piece of nature and it isn’t growing through the cracks of the city sidewalk. It is an extra special treat when I see the twin fawns, still wearing their spots. I stop. I watch them, and they watch me.  It’s a stand-off to see who will move first. I usually win.

Like boats, many of the cottages have names. One is called “Casa Colibri” after the abundance of the ruby throat hummingbirds in the area.  One cottage sat empty for a few years after the older lady moved out. This year we have new neighbors. They can name their cottage whatever they want, but to me, it will always be known as “Fluff’s Hilton.” Now at Fluff’s, there is “No Vacancy.”

One neighbor bought a boat second-hand, so it already had a name on the back. It was a gold glittery speed boat that looked like it had been in a James Bond movie. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get the name off the back. The outline was still visible. That neighbor will be forever nicknamed “Uncle Winky”

We have another “uncle” on the lake. He could be described by most as “tall, dark and handsome.” He never ceases to amuse us with his decorative board shorts. How can I describe them? The best way to put it would be “adult” board shorts. This holiday weekend he did not leave anything to the imagination. The graphics were large….and graphic. A few years ago he had a pair with a small grey and black print. The mothers of the younger kids preferred that pair. You had to stare at his junk for a really long time to see that the tiny print was actually naked women.

Most holiday weekends a rafting party convenes somewhere on the lake. Neighbors we’ve never met raft up too. It is not exclusively for the cool people like the table in the school cafeteria, but we do tend to make a few snide remarks about “porta potty guy” or the people who choose chores over floating in the lake. Don’t get me wrong, there is always something that needs doing when you own two houses, but schedule a day off already.

The rafting party, no matter what holiday, is named Lake Palooza. On 4^th of July a neighbor brings a plank leading to a keg floating on its own raft. Neighbors have tshirts from previous Palooza events that read “I walked the plank at the lake.” If you are unable to successfully walk the plank, you are required to wear water wings that are normally made for toddlers.

One boat is especially equipped with a generator for making frozen drinks. This year a creative neighbor made a “tip ski.” It is a water ski with 4 shot glasses attached. I would suggest finding 3 friends who are about your height. Being about 5 foot nothing I am at an extreme disadvantage. If the other 3 are taller than you, you can bet that tiny daiquiri will not get in your mouth, but will go right down your cleavage. Live and learn.

One neighbor, I’m assuming a male, brought some cocoanut bras just for fun. After a wardrobe malfunction this past 4^th, one female neighbor was awarded at the next gathering, a necklace with two “exhibitor” ribbons strategically placed. We hope the fun will just never end.

I’m always a bit depressed on going home day. This morning I went out for a walk before packing it up. I was thinking about all of our lake neighbors. We have all made sacrifices. We probably could have gone to Europe every summer with the money we’ve spent on owning and maintaining a lake house. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I think we could all admit that we don’t actually know everyone’s names. I can honestly say I don’t know what everyone does for a living. It doesn’t matter. What we have in common is that we come to Lake Palooza. Yes, we get a little silly, but we get away from it all for just a few days.  I’m thankful for our lake neighbors. And just when I thought I had nothing to write about today, a lake neighbor drove by and yelled “nice cocoanuts.” Thanks, neighbor, for all the fun and memories, and for throwing a blog topic right out of your window.

Livestrong

Seven hours south of Detroit sits a little Victorian town surrounded by rich soil, miles of corn fields and family farms. It is also home to a factory that builds turbo chargers and superchargers. It is the bread and butter for many locals as well as the marketing guy from Detroit to whom I am married. It was here that 22 years ago,  I romanticized about living on a small farm, growing my own food & owning a small art gallery in town that featured the locals’ woolen knits, wood carvings, and hand stitched quilts.

School, neighborhood friends, hockey teams, dance competitions, and family ties kept us in Detroit. I am struggling to get used to this new chapter, but now that my kids are away at college I can tag along with my husband to the fun business destinations. I don’t really have any interest in flying over the Atlantic Ocean for 13 hours, but I will definitely go to Sin City for a trade show, the Miami Boat Show in February, or this little Victorian town near the Kentucky border.  

On the long car ride down, not only did I hear a lot of Bob Dylan and BB King on Classic Vinyl and Bluesville, I also got a few physics lessons. The semi in front of us had black smoke because his turbo charger’s oil to fuel ratio must have been off. The last batch of hard boiled eggs I made were too soft because I used a pot that was too small and the thermal mass was wrong (or something like that). This is the price I pay to be married to an engineer and go on a little get-a-way that is partially covered on company expenses.

We stopped at a rest area somewhere between Indy and Effingham, Ill. The only other car in the lot was a dull blue minivan with a paper temporary plate. The luggage rack was stuffed with thin, black garbage bags, barely secured with twine, and tattered from the wind. About 20 yards away a little boy sat at a picnic table eating a bag of chips. He had a tiny wirey-haired white dog that wasn’t more than four pounds on a makeshift leash from the same twine that was securing the "luggage."

A man slid open the side minivan door and hopped out. He wore black jeans and a neon yellow “Livestrong” shirt. I, myself love thrifting, so I am not being snobbish when I say that I doubt he bought the shirt at Dick’s Sporting Goods for $32. It was 90 degrees. His jeans were not appropriate for the weather, but by the looks of things, he might not have had a change of clothes nor a place to change them. The exposed van revealed another man. He was holding an infant. The van looked stuffed with blankets but no car seat in sight. I couldn’t help but wonder where two men and two kids might be traveling.

I said to the man in the parking lot, “Your dog is very cute.”

In very broken English, with a very crooked-toothed smile he said, “Her name Maya.” Later I felt bad that I didn’t also say his boy was cute. He couldn’t have known that I like dogs more than most little kids.

I went inside and saw 5 people huddled around the area’s map. They were all very dark in a very white farming community. Being the only other car in the lot, I assumed they were also traveling in the overstuffed minivan. I was glad to see women were traveling with the baby and boy. They looked as though the only meals they had that day were vending machine chips and breast milk.

God gives you what you can handle. Everything happens for a reason. Say it however you want. I’m feeling a little guilty that I am sitting on a balcony of a Victorian bed and breakfast sipping coffee and writing as my husband is working down the road at the turbo plant. Since my kids left, I have been begging to rescue a senior dog. My house is abundant in 4 legged fur babies, but it has been 2 years since our Clover died. Although I have 3 cats, without my kids, I am lonely.

Years ago I saw a documentary about migrant farm workers. They live in their cars and drive season to season wherever the work might be. This morning I was thinking about the 7 adults, 2 kids and 1 little dog parked next to our company car. What if their van broke down? What if they realized this area’s corn is harvested by heavy machinery and there is no work? What if they run out of gas? 

The documentary I watched interviewed families just like the one I saw at the rest stop. They said life was still better here than in Mexico. They were street-smart survivors. They were together. They survived on faith. When I left the rest stop I felt sick to my stomach. I felt sorry for them. But this morning, I thought about the guy in the Livestrong shirt. He had a big smile on his face when a stranger made small talk. His nest was far from empty, and best of all, he had a dog.