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Tammie’s Sweet Lamb

Aug27

Tammie texted me, “When are you having your hair permed?”

I responded, “My appointment is in half an hour.”

My daughter messaged, “I’ll talk to you later, when you’re a curly-haired lamb.” I chuckled. Tammie liked to compare me to a lamb with curly fleece whenever I get a perm.

 Before leaving the house, I peeked into a mirror. What I saw fully displayed what I hate about my hair. Baby-fine strands were lying limp, flat against the forehead, sticking to sweat-beaded skin. I grumbled, “I hate my hair right before a perm, especially when the weather is hot and humid! It’s hard to believe that just yesterday, I washed, moussed, and set my hair.”

At the appointed time, Lisa, my hairdresser, greeted me cheerfully as she ushered me into her salon chair. Looking at our reflections in the mirror, I wanly smiled and admitted, “Not feeling good because you’re having bad hair day is a real thing. For the last two weeks, I’ve been counting the days till my perm. I feel messy and unattractive.”

Lisa professionally examined my flat tresses and commented, “Your hair is thick and healthy, but very fine and has very little body. The ends of your hair show that you had a perm four months ago.”

Shrugging, I said, “I’ve had my hair cut three times since the last perm. I thought all of it was gone. But it doesn’t matter, because today I’m having another perm!” With a chuckle, I confessed, “I like feeling like a curly-haired lamb.”

Expertly wrapping sections of my hair onto permanent rods, Lisa asked, “Aren’t you and Tammie leaving for an Alaskan cruise soon?”

I eagerly responded, “The cruise is in two weeks. I enjoy traveling with Tammie, so I’m looking forward to it.” With all my hair wrapped around the curler rods, Lisa applied the permanent solution. The next step was waiting for nearly half an hour before the hair wrapped curler rods were rinsed and the second solution applied to my hair.

During the wait time, I thought about the cruise, hoping I wouldn’t ruin our fun by being motion sick on the ship. To prevent this, Tammie made sure our cabin was in the middle of the ship, plus I’d asked my doctor for Scopolamine patches.

Why would a person who suffers motion sickness go on a cruise? For me the answer was easy. I want to do normal, fun activities. Once, while on vacation with my daughter, we stayed at a hotel with a water park. I enjoyed floating on the lazy river. Then Tammie suggested, “We should do the water slide.” I glanced up. The entrance to the slide was towering four stories above. Like a lamb being led to slaughter, I meekly agreed, “Okay.”

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Panning for Gold

Jul9

I carried two cups of tea into the dining room and placed one on the table in front of my daughter Tammie. Glancing up at me, she questioned, “Did you put sweetener in mine?”

Sitting down across from her, I admitted, “Your tea might be sweeter than you like.”

Taking a sip, my daughter raised her eyebrows and chuckled, “It is pretty sweet!”

I offered, “Would you like me to get you a fresh cup?”

“No, it’ll be fine.” Tammie assured me. “I want you to stay at the table with me so we can discuss where we will go for our vacation this year.”

Cupping my cold hands around the warm mug of tea, I confidently suggested, “This is the year we should go to Alaska.”

With a broad smile, Tammie commented, “We’ve talked about going to visit Alaska for the last dozen years. Somehow, it just never happened. Why do you suppose that was?”

Nodding, I admitted, “The idea of going there has always appealed to me, but we never could agree on what we wanted to see or do while in Alaska. We talked about going salmon fishing on the ocean, but I felt really reluctant about it. This year I’ve finally realized that fishing would be fun to do if Arnie were still with us, but not for us to do alone. A fishing trip like that was something he would have absolutely loved, but that doesn’t mean we have to do it! We also talked about Alaska’s gold rush history and how much fun it would be to try panning for gold in a stream. We never investigated finding a guide for that.”

             Tammie added more reasons why our plans to visit Alaska other years just never worked out, “We never could come to an agreement about which cities to visit, where to stay, nor how long to stay.”

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Escape Plans

Apr2

When the alarm clock rang at five o’clock in the morning, I lifted my head off the pillow to moan, “No, no, no!” My husband, Arnie, grunted unhappily, but sat up on the side of the bed.

Reaching over Arnie gave me a shake. He growled, “Come on, get up! I’m tired too, but I want to get to Canada before it gets dark tonight.” After having worked so many hours in the last few weeks, we were both tired. All I wanted to do was to start our vacation by sleeping in.

Our drive north began silent and grumpy, but as the sun rose higher into the sky, tiredness left us. Cheered by the anticipation of spending the week fishing together, our happy comradery returned. Passing through International Falls into Fort Frances we stopped to buy bait for the fish we planned to catch.

At a bait shop on our way out of town, Arnie bought four dozen minnows. The shop owner put them, along with a great deal of water in a large, clear plastic bag. This clammy, bag-o-fish ended up riding on my lap so I could keep it safe until we reached our destination.

I’d gone fishing in Canada with Arnie for the last three years. This time we were going to a new location. The cabins we usually rented were always very basic and plain, having no luxury features, so I wasn’t expecting anything different this time. Arnie had made the reservations for this trip without having ever visited the camp or lake. After turning off the main highway onto a side road and driving a long way, I asked, “What’s the name of this resort and the name of the lake?”

Stopping to study a map, Arnie said, “The place is named ‘Moose Track Cottages’ and it’s on Lake Despair.” The name of the lake didn’t sound promising. Seeing the disconcerted expression on my face, my husband quickly added, “The man who owns the place is a bricklayer in Minnesota during the winter and runs this place in the summer.”

We pulled in at Moose Track Cottages at 4 in the afternoon. Terry, the owner was there to greet us. Bright, early June sunshine made the lake shimmer, and a gentle breeze caused the tree leaves above us to rustle soothingly. Pointing to a small building near the shore, Terry said, “That’s the fish cleaning house.” Close to it was a brand-new dock extending out into the lake. It seemed unnaturally long-legged and stood high above the water. Terry explained. This part of Canada has been having a drought, so the lake’s water level is low right now. I hope we get rain soon.”

Leading us to a cabin that had a small deck along one side and a big one on the back, Terry opened the door, and I stepped in. My jaw dropped open. The place looked fantastic! The kitchen had a modern, full-size refrigerator, stove and dishwasher, lots of counters and cabinets. A gas fireplace in the living room was flanked by two sofas and rocking chairs. Through a sliding glass door, I saw a gas grill we could use on the back deck. The cabin had two bedrooms and two bathrooms. I gasped, “I love this place!”

Arnie had our boat in the water by 6 P.M. and was ready to go fishing. I caught the first fish, a small northern we didn’t keep. Arnie pulled in a walleye we kept. I felt relaxed and happy. In the quiet, we heard the water lap against the boat and birds in the trees singing. An eagle screeched in the distance. Looking up at the sky, I commented, “I see mare’s tail clouds overhead, and on the horizon, there are thunderheads. My brother, Billy, would say this means it’s going to rain.”

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A Luthier’s Gig

Sep18

A shaft of late afternoon sun peeked into the building’s smoky interior. The bartender stood, polishing drink glasses and watching the band setting up for their gig on the far end of the room between drawing fresh drafts of beer for customers. One of the musicians on the stage was my nephew, John.

John is a luthier. I like telling people this, but very few people know what a luthier is. One of the people I told was silent for a while before inquiring, “Do you mean, he is a Lutheran?”

I kindly explained, “A luthier is a maker of stringed instruments, which requires a lot of artistic skill. John has made and sold several huge upright bass instruments since he completed his training in Red Wing, Minnesota. When my nephew talks about building them, the wood he uses, the carvings in the wood, you can hear his passion for the job. He works for hours in his workshop to make an instrument produce beautiful music.”

Five lone drinkers dotted the long, polished bar. They were sitting slumped on tall stools, hitched to what I figured were most likely their favorite, and frequently used spots. A few steps from the bar, clusters of tables and chairs ran almost the entire length of the room. Due to the early hour of the evening, not all the places to sit were occupied.

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Sweet Relief

Sep11

Spotting a shaded bench in the garden, Tammie hurried over to it and quickly sat down before anyone else had the same idea. Slipping off one of her shoes, I noticed a spot on her foot where her shoe had rubbed the skin raw. She sighed with resignation, “Here we go again! The shoes I’m wearing today are rubbing and making my feet hurt, and I didn’t pack any band aids.”

This was our first full day in Seattle, Washington. The day before, my sister Agnes, daughter Tammie and I had done a lot of walking in the airports. Today, we were touring the Chihuly blown glass display and garden next to the Space Needle Center.

After thoroughly searching through her purse, Agnes handed a band aid to Tammie, proudly announcing, “I knew I had one in there somewhere!”

I sat down next to Tammie to apply the band aid for her. Slipping her shoe on again, she stood up, saying with relief, “Now it feels much better! We’re going to stop at a pharmacy to buy a box of band aids before returning to our bungalow for the night.” 

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Swimming Through Crowds

Sep4

I had a hard time following my daughter Tammie and sister Agnes. A river of people surged past market stands displaying everything from honey, jewelry, large bouquets of fresh flowers, meat, candy, fresh fruit, and clothing. Just when I thought I could catch up to them, another group of people intent on reaching a nearby stand stepped between us. Despite it being a weekday, the determined crowd at Pike Street Market reminded me of a strong current of downstream water that I had to swim against to get where I wanted to be.

Pike Place Market in Seattle Washington doesn’t require an entry fee to enter, nor does it have official entry gates. People just flood in through the many entrances from the surrounding neighborhood, or up the steps and elevators from the wharf level stores and the stores on the floors in between. Small stores and shops also line the streets and back alleys outside of the market. Tammie, Agnes and I visited an alleyway tea store and a leather goods vendor.

In all, Pike Street Market District covers nine acres. It is described as Seattle’s largest incubator of small, independent businesses where there are a couple hundred independently owned shops and restaurants. It provides income to over three hundred farmers, entertainers and crafts people and affordable housing for over 450 people.

I finally caught up to Tammie as she was examining skin care items made with honey. Agnes was nearby, looking at earrings. I said, “I wonder if there is a public bathroom nearby?” The friendly shopkeeper nodded and pointed further down the hallway saying, “You’ll find one just beyond the Pike Place Fish Market, then down one floor.”

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Looking Down

Aug28
Seattle’s iconic skyline

We stepped off the elevator and looked down. Seattle’s Space Needle has an observation deck with a glass floor near the top of the structure. Through it, we clearly saw the ground below…500 feet below. Heights don’t usually bother me, but when I noticed the floor under me wasn’t stationary, my stomach gave a lurch. Tammie announced, “The top of the space needle turns 360 degrees in an hour.” I nodded to indicate I’d heard her. Agnes nonchalantly walked away from us across the glass floor to get a good spot to look out over the city.

Rejoining us, Agnes commented, “Isn’t there supposed to be a restaurant up here?”

Trying hard to remember what I’d read about the space needle, I squinted as though trying to reread the article from a distance, “I think there were two restaurants. They were closed a few years ago so the space could be remodeled and opened in the future as one big restaurant.”

My daughter, sister and I had arrived in Seattle less than 24 hours earlier. Since then, we made good use of our time by exploring the neighborhood around our bungalow, attending Mass at a nearby church, shopping and finding a wonderful restaurant where we had a relaxing meal. Since today was a Sunday, one of Agnes’ sons and his wife who lived thirty miles east of Seattle, had come to spend the afternoon with us.

I had visited the Seattle Space Needle in 2000 with my late husband Arnie, and Tammie. So many changes had been made to this area that the only thing recognizable to me was the Space Needle, which had been built in 1962 for the world fair held in Seattle that year. All the restaurants, hotels, flower-lined sidewalks, gift shops and the Chihuly Garden and Glass were new to me. The carnival atmosphere that afternoon was supported by food stands selling unusual treats, and a street entertainer playing an electric violin for money thrown into his instrument case.

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Unseen Blessings

Aug21
July 24th 2024, off the shore of New Hampshire, a whale breached, and landed on a 23-foot fishing boat. Two people were thrown from the boat as it capsized. They were quickly rescued.

My daughter stood at the door of the adorable 1920-era bungalow, watching my sister Agnes and me buttoning our coats. The sky was heavily clouded, so the shadowed rooms inside our Airbnb house made us feel like it was earlier in the morning than it really was. Tammie stated, “We need to leave now, if we want to get to Pier 69 in time to go whale watching.”

A slow-moving train made us stop and wait while trying to find a place for us to park. After finding a parking spot in a nearby car ramp, we then had to walk across the railroad tracks. Another train was going through, making us wait some more. We could see the wharf and the boat we would be spending several hours aboard through the gaps between train cars. I nervously glanced at my watch. Tammie assured me, “We’ll get there on time.” There were half a dozen other people waiting with us for the train to pass. I nodded. The only place they could be going was Pier 69, and a tour boat wouldn’t leave so many people behind.

Light rain spattered down from the gray blanket of clouds overhead as we boarded. A cold wind whipped around us. With a shiver, I commented, “Let’s hope there’ll be seating in the enclosed part of the boat. It’s hard to believe that the Midwest is having hot and humid weather this week. I’ve been slightly chilly ever since we arrived in Seattle a couple days ago.”

Most of the seating options on the San Juan Clipper that day were within cabins on two different decks. People who didn’t want protection from the cold wind and possible rain could sit on the open top deck. My sister wondered, “Do you think weather affects a whale watch?”

I answered, “I was wondering that myself. We’ll just have to wait and see. The tour promises guaranteed whale sightings. They have a 97% success rating.”

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Home Sweet Bungalow

Aug14

My daughter Tammie stopped the rental car, and announced, “Here’s the house we will be staying in while visiting Seattle.” I scanned the row of houses lining the street. They were all older homes tightly embraced by shrubs, flowers and bushes that had been planted around them many years ago. The houses looked messy, but cozy, like happy, comfortable homes.

“Which house?” My sister, Agnes inquired from the backseat of our vehicle, a Grand Cherokee Jeep. Tammie motioned to the house alongside the parking spot she’d just backed into. I turned to look and recognized it from a picture that my daughter showed me when making trip arrangements. It looked older and more cluttered than other places we’d looked at, but that was my choice.

Tammie and I were calling this trip to Seattle, Washington, a small trip. Instead of spending an entire day traveling to a faraway place, like Europe, our flight halfway across the United States had lasted roughly, about three-hours. The tiring part of the trip was all the waiting, the treasure hunt search for the right place to check in, the TSA line, the gate our plane was, and hopes there wouldn’t be delays. My travel savvy daughter made doing these things easier.

As we lifted our suitcases out of the Jeep, I thought about how I’d been lugging mine around since leaving home and decided that the word ‘luggage’ perfectly described suitcases. Even when they have wheels, a person must do a lot of lifting and lugging to get them from one place to another.

Hauling my suitcase up the porch steps, I hoped this would be the last lift for the day. The effortless roll of my suitcase was stopped by the threshold.  Glancing down, I lifted my wheeled suitcase over the bump and walked through the open entryway into the living room.

Glancing around to take in my surroundings, I breathed, “This place is beautiful!” From watching HGTV, I recognized the house was most likely a craftsman style build around the 1920’s. Other than upkeep, it appeared to never have been remodeled. The floors were wood, and the living room was open through a large arch to the dining room. A built-in buffet sideboard separated the dining room from the kitchen. Off the dining room was a small hallway with a bedroom on either end. Between the rooms was a bathroom. It was small but had everything a person would need.

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Hearing Problems

Aug7

The highway wound through a valley, over a river, past fields, small hamlets, and many stands of vibrant green trees. Tall, thickly forested baby mountains surrounded us. People were busy riding bikes along the two-lane highway, while others worked in their yards as we zipped past. One of my eardrums suddenly and painfully popped while going up a steep incline and then down again into another valley. The sounds in the car became distorted, as if coming to me from an empty void through a hollow tube. I swallowed hard, trying to make the eardrum pop back to normal.

Several months ago, Tammie and I were reminiscing about the trip to Seattle that Arnie, my late husband, and I took her on in the summer between high school graduation and the start of college over twenty years ago. It was a wonderful trip-a special time that we all treasured. Tammie asked, “Would you ever want to go to Seattle again?”

I didn’t have to think for long. I enthusiastically responded, “Yes, I would!” and added, “You know, three of my nephews live in Washington state. What do you think of this idea: we take Agnes with us? Her sons-John, Karl, and Gary-all live in different cities, but maybe we can coordinate our schedules, and get together.”

Tammie took care of the details. She bought our airplane tickets, arranged for a rental car, found an Airbnb for us to stay at while in Seattle, and then a hotel for while we were in Snoqualmie, where John and his wife Gail live.

When Tammie asked me what I wanted to see while in Washington, one of the things I mentioned was an art museum showing the art and artifacts of indigenous people who lived in the Pacific Northwest long before white men came.

Tammie assured me she’d found an interesting place for us to visit. She said the place we were going to was called the Hibulb Cultural Center. Gail had the day off, and since she was more familiar with the area, offered to drive. Karl came along, too. As we got into the car, my daughter Tammie instructed, “Mom, you sit up front next to Gail. That way you’ll be less likely to feel motion sick. I’ll sit in the back seat with Agnes and Karl.”

Instead of traveling on a main highway, Gail took a beautiful, scenic route. Repeatedly, as we wound through the valleys, turning left and right, up and down, we were treated to grand, quintessential state of Washington vistas: imposing, but distant, snowcapped mountains, which were framed by innumerable smaller peaks in the foreground, and richly covered with pine and poplar trees.

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