Mary T. Wagner

Running With Stilettos

Tai Chi Knees

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I have a short list taped to my bathroom mirror, writ large in black magic marker, to remind me of the priorities I set when I retired a year ago—pay more attention to my health, write more, see the grandkids more, and get rid of a lot of STUFF!

It’s been a matter of public record and great personal lamentation that all of those things got swept clean off the table for many months as I dealt with serial family emergencies in 2018. But as the Old Year waned and the New Year waxed, I looked at the beginning of 2019 as a time to restart my engines. So I perused the catalog of the local YMCA and signed up for a twice-weekly Tai Chi class.

This is a bigger deal to me than it would seem. I haven’t made it to a regularly scheduled exercise class in thirty five years. My oldest child is thirty eight. You do the math.

For many, many years, given the random nature of being a soccer mom with four kids, I had given up any hope of ever arriving anywhere at a predetermined time once or twice a week. It seemed that there were always cookies to bake or diapers to change or lessons to drive to or… you get the picture. And so exercise became a solitary pursuit, squeezed in between checkups and field trips and toddlers who didn’t want to put their shoes on quickly.

For years I walked, swam, lifted weights, and rode exercise bikes at random times to keep the body moving. In bad weather I walked the track at the local “Y,” in good weather I indulged in walking around our home in the country. Three laps of hills and flat, woods and fields, added up to roughly two miles.

Then, after I started law school, exercise time was even more sporadic and lacking. But once I started working as a prosecutor in a charming Art Deco building only blocks from Lake Michigan, I picked up the pace of walking again. In good weather I walked along the lake front, and in bad weather, I paced laps in the allegedly haunted realm of the sixth floor of the courthouse. Then plantar fasciitis and a few other health hiccups got the better of me during my fifties, and my middle-aged spread just kept spreading.

I have often fallen short in the self-discipline department, and turning a page into 2019 seemed to be a good time to change things up and connect with a group of people who would be doing the same thing at the same time! Tai Chi had long been on my “to do” list, ever since I had turned my aches and pains over to a massage therapist about three decades ago who happened to also teach Tai Chi.

“Breathe,” he would constantly remind me as he stretched one body part of mine or another in therapeutic fashion. “Yes, Grasshopper,” I would reply, making sport of his enthusiasm. He took it in stride. I always remembered.

And so shortly after the New Year dawned, I found myself in the basement of the local “Y” amid an on-going Tai Chi group. To my delightful surprise, the instructors were a well-known local musician/songwriter and his wife, Jon and Jane Doll, who I recognized from several years of going to art gigs. He’d even composed a song to go with one of my photos as part of an art/wine/music event we’d participated in a year or two earlier. So I was in friendly territory already!

This, however, was not an “introduction to Tai Chi” class I’d landed in. This was a “keep up and learn as you go” event, and I dutifully tried to mimic and follow along. It was harder than I thought! Somewhere along the line and months after I started, Jon mentioned that the sequence of motions that we repeated three times during a class each contained 110 different positions, and required shifting our balance 220 times.

All I knew on that first day, though, was that during my first class ever, my quivering knees gave out after executing the first two “forms,” and I had to sit out the third, simply watching the rest of the class with admiration as they moved in grace and unison. On my way out of the building, my knees were so wobbly that I didn’t dare even try walking down the few steps to the sidewalk, but used the handicap ramp instead. And held on to the railing for balance.

Little by little, class by class, my knees grew stronger and steadier, and my shifts in balance became more natural and more fluid. I could still find myself hopping from one foot to another when my understanding of what position came next proved to be off by a mile. Blessed with a vivid imagination, I attached mental images to every one of the moves which involved, from time to time, repulsing a monkey, spreading wings like a white crane, parting a wild horse’s mane, and carrying a tiger up the mountain.

And a word about that poor tiger!! I’m sure that there is some well-grounded historical or mythological or folklore related reason for all these names, but when I have to navigate between shooting the tiger, boxing him in the ears, and then carrying him up the mountain I’m not sure that I could stitch together a narrative that reasonably covers all three. Mostly I just focus on the mental image of tenderly carrying a wee tiger cub up a mountainside while he purrs in my arms, and try to ignore what we plan to do with him later.

As time and Tai Chi classes went on, I noticed that it wasn’t just my knees that were feeling different and better. I seemed to be bending and stretching with more deliberation as well. My sense of balance, overall, felt subtly improved, and I found myself embracing a newly felt confidence of movement. Hey, it was all GOOD!!

But Tai Chi knees, it appeared, only got me so far. As I drove home after visiting friends in Iowa, I took the road less traveled (but still marked by a small road sign) to The Maquoketa Caves state park, which I’d heard were absolutely magnificent. I found a shady parking space, inspected a large map of the entire cave system, and set off down a large, wide staircase leading to “Dancehall Cave.”

“No problem” navigating the long staircase, I thought. “I’ve got my Tai Chi knees!” And so off I set, after tying my sneakers a bit more tightly, descending step by merry step closer to my destination in the mysterious underground.

The staircase was equipped, at first, with a handrail, always welcome on such an adventure. I stopped to take photos, and was absolutely overwhelmed by the beauty of the lush, green scene. Ferns and moss dripped downward like wet silk from dark rock walls. Trees arched overhead like cathedral vaults. Birds swooped diagonally across the incredible depth beyond. I felt like I was standing in a scene of primordial grandeur straight out of Jurassic Park.

I continued downward, but noticed that the handrail had disappeared. No worries, I thought, my knees and my sense of balance were doing just fine. Then a few steps later I noticed that the stairs were wet, no doubt a result of recent torrential rains combined with deep shade. No worries, I thought, I’d just take them a little slower. And then, a few steps further on, the steps went from being simply wet to covered with slippery mud. And I finally stopped short of the mouth of the cave which beckoned invitingly, and took stock.

The soul searching didn’t take long. Faced with the facts that I was 300 miles from home; absolutely NOBODY knew that I had taken this detour; and that if I slipped and broke an ankle inside one of the caves I wouldn’t get a cell phone signal and would have to pray for a random hiker to summon help, I called it a day. Reluctantly, I turned to make the trek back up to the parking lot, promising myself I would return to the caves again one day with friends along for the adventure.

And discovered, after trudging up just a few stairs, that despite my Tai Chi knees and improved sense of balance, I had no stamina whatsoever. Let’s face it, walking the dog on perfectly flat city sidewalks does not put much of a strain on the heart or the lungs. Huffing and puffing, sweating and sighing loudly, I finally reached the top of the staircase and came to two simple realizations—one, that those stairs would be much easier to mount if I lost twenty pounds, and second, taking Lucky for longer walks wasn’t really going to make much difference.

So nearly thirty years since I took a running step, I’ve invested in a new pair of jogging shoes. Lucky is being pretty game about this new development, although he’s happy about every step we take outside that gets the two of us out of the house. I jogged for a whole forty seconds the other day.

Clearly, this is going to be a long road toward getting into better shape and fighting trim for the next time I want to tackle anything like the Maquoketa Caves. One tiny step at a time, one tiny measure of progress after another.
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Pretty much like my Tai Chi classes and the first time I carried that tiger up the mountain.

Shop Girl!!

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Red Breasted Nuthatch

There are any number of things that I never saw coming before I jumped right in. Law school. Blogging. “Live Lit.” Sketching pictures of cats and mice and circus wagons for my own children’s books.

And along the way, all of the unknowns turned out to be just the entry points for some incredible adventures, happy thoughts, fond memories, and genuine “eureka” moments.

To that list, I’ve now added “Shop Girl.” As in, I now have a little shop in cyberspace called BooksBirdsBeauty where I sell porcelain birds and plates and knickknacks. I can genuinely say I had no idea how much fun I’d have and the learning I’d embrace!

As usual, I stepped into the great unknown sideways, or even backwards. After selling my empty nest with the fourteen acres and moving to a smaller place, I discovered that there was literally no place for me to set up a bird feeder to watch the feathered visitors that brightened my day every time I’d looked out the kitchen window. Blue Jays, Indigo Buntings, White Breasted Nuthatches, Goldfinches, Cardinals, Rose Breasted Grosbeaks… the list went on and on. And they were so close to my window I didn’t even need to break out the binoculars!

And so, in a fit of compensation, I began to collect porcelain birds at thrift stores and estate sales to sprinkle around my new digs, to remind me of my former delights. It grew into a habit. Did I mention that I live in a small space? There are only so many niches I could put my new acquisitions in, and they filled up in a hurry.

As I rotated through new “favorites” and other, earlier, birds fell from favor, I set up a little shop on Etsy to sell the extras. It was a nice little hobby, I thought, as I continued to upgrade my expectations as to what would make the strings of my heart go “zing” when I saw it sitting on a shelf. It also gave me a reason to actually walk into the occasional garage sale by myself without feeling self-conscious about it. Prior to my bird-collecting binge, I’d only ridden shotgun to these events with a friend who has a bona fide antique shop, and my primary aims were to get in some female bonding time, and to see how much fun I could have spending, oh, a quarter.

But life threw an unexpected curve ball, in the form of my elderly mother breaking a hip, and suddenly in the months that followed full of serial crises and emergencies there was no part of my life that was my own. I felt like a marionette, jerked by invisible strings at any given moment from brushing my teeth in the morning until falling into bed at night. Creativity and writing and inventiveness went out the window. In their stead I found that hitting a thrift store or two on my lunch hour still gave me a surge of endorphins as I searched for that inexpensive, elusive treasure that had been someone’s discard. It kept me amused, it kept me just a little bit busy, and it came without a deadline.

Along the way I managed to score dozens of interesting books to read to the grandchildren, some knockout vintage “clasp” bracelets for myself (I used to joke that they were my very own brass knuckles in a courtroom), and my all time favorite indulgence, a faux fur coat from the 1970s that makes me think I belong in some scene from Doctor Zhivago with a young Omar Sharif involving a horse-drawn sleigh on the snow-covered Russian steppes.

My “Doctor Zhivago” coat!

Little by little, as I looked up the backstamps on every porcelain cup and bowl and knicknack, every bird and squirrel figurine and vintage planter shaped like a fish or a deer, I added to that complicated ball of arcane knowledge in my head, and it was fun, and sometimes it was even inspiring! Some of it was just darned…entertaining. I now know what a “whistling sake” decanter is, and can recognize “dragon ware” (which looks just as dramatic as it sounds!), and know that an Imperial Cart of ancient Japan was drawn by an ox, not a horse. But some of these lessons have been far, far more important.

While researching some images painted on Japanese porcelain, I came across an image of “The Great Wave off Kanagawa.”

The Great Wave off Kanagawa

It is an iconic image of a giant wave cresting, published between 1829 and 1833 by the Japanese artist Hokusai, and it was the first of 36 fabulous woodblock prints he created featuring views of Mount Fuji. And he was in his seventies when he began this enormous project! I immediately added a book with the Mount Fuji series to my own library, both for beauty and inspiration.

Several months later I was in a thrift store and came across some porcelain plates featuring nature studies of game birds by the British artist Basil Ede. I had never heard of Basil Ede before, but I could certainly recognize that these were gorgeous renditions of birds in their native habitat. And seriously, anything with a bird on it will catch my eye from across a room.

Game Birds by Basil Ede on porcelain plates

And so I bought the plates, of course, but more importantly when I got home I began to pull on the internet threads concerning Ede. I learned that he was widely considered to be about as thoroughly and scrupulously talented an avian artist as John James Audubon. But the really inspirational lesson in human perseverance came when I discovered that he had suffered a stroke when he was in his late fifties, and it prevented him from painting with his right hand. And so he retaught himself to paint using his left hand and within three years was back to painting with considerable detail. I was awestruck by his resilience…and immediately added a book of his bird portraits to my own library.

And so it goes. For every piece of porcelain I pick up, there’s always a backstory to find and a bit more knowledge to absorb. And on occasion, there are examples of human endurance and creativity and resilience and courage that shine through as well.

I’ve finally resumed writing, by the way. But there’s absolutely no way I’m giving up this new habit. So onward…to the next estate sale! Who knows what the next piece of porcelain will teach me?

Christmas Cookie Magic

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I haven’t been in the most effusive of holiday sentiments over the past several Christmases, ever since I sold my empty nest with the two living rooms and the five bedrooms and the fireplace and downsized to a space that’s got room for two people in the kitchen and four in the living room…if they’re all standing up.

I haven’t been in Ebeneezer Scrooge territory…quite. But sharing this small space with the large dog and two cats has made for an easy excuse to not put up any traditional Christmas decorations for the past three years.

This was quite a departure from the former life, I’ll have you know, which featured colorful needlepointed stockings hung by the chimney with care and stuffed with chocolate and little gifts, and a nine foot “real” fir tree festooned with glass ornaments and colorful lights and strands of wooden “cranberries” and a plethora of small critters such as birds and raccoons. I don’t know if I could locate those Christmas stockings in a hurry now. I’m pretty sure they’re SOMEWHERE down in the basement, along with all the garland and the ribbons and the big plastic Santa that lights up and the Christmas ornaments I actually embroidered once in an earlier life oh, about a quarter century ago.

No, going into Christmas this year felt pretty much like going into the season every Christmas since I moved. Low key, with a touch of humbug.

And yet…I still was in the chute to bake Christmas cookies. Not because I had anyone else in the house to eat them with (although Lucky, the dog, would need not a second’s thought to wolfing them down if they fell to the floor). But because I knew I would be seeing two of my four grown-up children and the grandkids over the holiday, and wanted to share that link to a more festive, less complicated past. And also, even more, because the other two kids were living half a country away, and I obstinately wanted to give them that taste of the past as well, courtesy of the U.S. Postal Service.

And so a week before my “got to get it in the mail today” deadline, I pulled out my little mixer and my favorite recipes (usually undisturbed since I literally almost never cook anymore), and began to conjure up the Spirit of Christmas Past.

I began with the easiest recipe, for toffee bars, which is the batch that just needs one bowl, one baking pan and no cookie sheets, and got that out of the way. One batch down, two to go I thought as I snuck toffee bar after toffee bar out of the pan and scarfed down the rich, chocolate, buttery flavor. (I would eventually have to make a second “replacement” pan…)

A couple of days later, the traditional butterballs were on the list. Midway up the line in complexity and the capacity to fill the kitchen counter with powdered sugar, I efficiently lined them up on baking parchment, watched them through the oven window until the tops began to crack, and then quickly dredged them one by one through a bowl of sifted powdered sugar before they stopped steaming.

And then, finally, the cut-out butter cookies beckoned. The ones with the cookie cutters. And the icing. And the sprinkles and candies. The ones that my children decorated like little bloody Christmas Axes during the first Christmas after the divorce.

Now, a word about baking in my life, and baking cookies in particular. It has been something of a “through line” in my life since childhood, harkening back to when I was a little girl and would bake cakes with my Aunt Patsy. Through ups and downs, over years and traumas and stress, the action of pushing ingredients around in a bowl with a hand mixer to create sweet tasting magic has been a touchstone for me. (Read my essay “Cookie Therapy,” it explains A LOT!!)

Baking with my children over the years—making cakes, pies, chocolate chip cookies by the millions, Christmas cookies with sprinkles and sugar—always brought me a quiet sort of rapturous joy. And for them, self-expression in myriad ways. I recall one cookie making adventure that ended in a “flour fight” as the kitchen rang with their laughter. Then, of course, there is the tale of the iconic “Christmas Axe” cookies, which took on a creative life of its own, as the kitchen rang afterward with MY laughter.

And so into the home stretch I trod bravely, following familiar steps of creaming the butter and the sugar, adding the vanilla and almond extract, beating in the egg and then the flour to create a familiar magic. And what magic it WAS. Because as I flitted between counter and refrigerator and table and recipe box, I realized that I was SINGING, and I was DANCING. In my kitchen. All alone but for the dog who stared up at me from his comfy pad beneath the table as if I’d lost my mind but he still loved me.

Granted, I wasn’t singing to a Christmas carol but to the peppy beat of “Hard Candy” by Counting Crows, but still. The nearest thing to it was the scene in “Love, Actually” where Hugh Grant, playing the new British Prime Minister, finds himself suddenly boogeying through No. 10 Downing Street to the strains of the Pointer Sisters. It was nuts. It was thoroughly unexpected. It was GREAT!!

Eventually I quit dancing long enough to roll out the cookie dough and fashion some traditional snowman and gingerbread man shaped cookies and a few T-Rex and turkey cut-outs as well. As I boxed them up and got them ready to mail, I felt like I was putting a piece of my heart in there along with all the sugar and a pair of chocolate Santas.

The mixer and bowls and recipe box and cookie sheets have all been put away by now, but I still marvel at whatever alchemy caused such a spark of exuberance and joy in my heart on that day. I think it was pretty much the cookies, and the synapses they fired linking back to joys of motherhood and Christmas past.

I’m still smiling about it. I’m already thinking that maybe, just maybe, next December I may spring for a very small Christmas tree and break out a few of the old ornaments. And of course, I’ve now got a year to find that one particular cookie cutter that makes Christmas Axes.

“CHANGE”

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You can add “change” to that old truism that death and taxes are the only certainties in this life.

I got an unexpected lesson in that just yesterday, when I attended the artist’s reception for an art show titled “CHANGE: A Photo Exhibition on the Impermanence of Life” at The Arts Mill in Grafton, Wisconsin. I was one of the artists featured, and it was a juried show, and so this was big deal for me on several levels. For one thing, that I got anything into the competitive show at all, much less two of my three submissions. And for another, that I was exhibiting anything, anywhere, at all.

2018 has been a “lost year” for me in many ways. Despite retiring from my job as a prosecuting attorney a few weeks ago with great fanfare to ostensibly focus more on writing and photography and things that are by nature creative and fun, I’ve spent virtually the entire year responding to an ongoing, grueling family medical emergency. Shit happens. Plans change. Writing fell to the wayside immediately. Photography fell by the wayside as well. Creativity and self-indulgence and any semblance of self-care fell by the wayside. What’s left of me can be very un-pretty on some days.

And yet, when I saw the call for art for the “CHANGE” show several months ago, I was intrigued and inspired. And finally I forced myself to set aside my other worries and sit at my computer long enough to pull some images from my archives and my memory and formally enter them in the art show competition.

Two of the three images were chosen by the judge for inclusion. One, “Impermanence,” is a photograph of shadows cast by a group of sightseers against a giant outcropping of rock on the edge of the Grand Canyon. I think I’m one of the shadows, in fact. There is nothing subtle or nuanced about their image. They look like a kinder, gentler version of the shadows left by the nuclear bomb at Hiroshima. Evidence of our being on this Earth looks quite starkly ephemeral when compared with the thousands of years that the rock has endured wind and weather, driving snow and scorching heat.

Impermanence

The other, “End of the Line,” features a gloriously colorful old passenger train car far past formal retirement, decaying into rust amid weeds and rails and other hulking ruins. As an object lesson in how shiny functional things still can’t beat the onslaught of time, it works pretty well.

End of the Line

And so I ordered prints of the photos and framed them and dropped them off at the gallery weeks before the show opened, and marked the date for the “artist reception” on my calendar. I don’t have much time or energy for a social life these days, but for this I’d make an exception!

It’s always delightful to go to an art show and see what inspires other folks, and talk with them about where their ideas come from. Synergy is a wonderful thing! But as I chatted about my own photos, I gave voice to just what “changes” these particular images marked for me in a very personal way. This was nothing that I had had in mind when I chose them to enter in the art show, and nothing that I was even vaguely pondering as I dropped them off.

But seeing them hanging on the gallery wall presented me with a view of “change” in my life that was profoundly deeper. I love photography for its ability to freeze the “instant.” An athlete’s moment of triumph or failure; the curl of a wave; a forest drenched in fog; a butterfly’s wing illuminated by a shaft of sunlight like stained glass. These two photographs, I realized, were not just instants to be preserved, but markers of some very long personal journeys.

I had taken the “Impermanence” photo twelve years before. At that moment in time, I was on a vacation out west with my older son, who had just turned nineteen and was leaving for college in just a few weeks. The dissolution of our nuclear family had been formalized less than a year before with the divorce. The “mom and me” trip was a ritual that I indulged in for all four of my children. This adventure was third in the lineup, but the first occurring since family contours had changed. We drove. We hiked up and down rocky trails. We watched the Perseid meteor shower from the rim of the canyon in the middle of the night. Another evening passed as we sat on rocks at the edge of the canyon, waiting for the sun to set, and talked about both the past and the future.

In the twelve years that have followed, he has grown from an incredible young man with a passion for justice to an amazing adult realizing his heart’s desires for making the world a better, kinder, richer place every day in his life’s work. In the twelve years that have followed, I’ve grown as well. I’ve adjusted to my once-full nest finally growing empty, experienced romance and heartbreak, found wells of resilience and reinvention that I could not have imagined. Neither of our paths to the present have been without stumbles or pain, but we are still standing, and still push forward, with our faces to the sun.

I took the “End of the Line” photo a few years later during a road trip I had taken with the man who shared my life for several years. Our formal destination was Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin, which was the site of an annual “carriage horse” competition, replete with gorgeous period costumes and gleaming, fancy wagons. But before we got as far as the carriage horses and the grounds of the Victorian mansion that was hosting the show, we spied some decrepit railroad cars looking abandoned and derelict near an old grain elevator that was no longer in use. We couldn’t resist getting out of the car and looking around, both of us snapping away with our cameras.

The weekend itself was a happy snapshot, freezing lovely moments such as watching the sun set from a quiet boat dock on the Mississippi, in a relationship that experienced major ups and downs before it finally fell apart. When it began, I had never been so radiantly happy. When it crashed, well…no breakups exist that don’t leave scars. But I know that I have changed along the way, both by being with this man who introduced me to gardening, power tools, and the view from the back of his motorcycle, and then by learning to live without him. I’ve become…and had to become…stronger, more self-reliant, more accepting of my own flaws and strengths.

And so, without further fanfare or explanation…a salute to CHANGE! Because without it, we’re not remotely alive.

Salut!

My Greta Garbo Day

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Sometimes a person just wants “to be alone.” Those words, drumming a dramatic tattoo in my mind with film icon Greta Garbo’s sultry Swedish accent, fueled my solo drive this morning to the Milwaukee Art Museum for a morning by myself. Never mind that when I looked it up later, Garbo’s exact quote was actually “I want to be left alone.” And that I was seeking solitude in a  public museum. A gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do.

I didn’t need to just “take a moment.” I needed to take an entire day. The past six months have been challenging in the extreme. Physically challenging, emotionally exhausting, utterly depleting. Just a couple of weeks after I had happily announced my retirement plans last winter, my elderly mother suffered a hip fracture. As the only family member in this hemisphere available to respond, all responsibility fell to me, and many things went wrong in serial fashion. My mother is now doing much better, and has relocated to a safer place, but I am still trying to regroup.

And so a morning at the Milwaukee Art Museum seemed like the perfect place to recharge. The grocery giant Meijer sponsors free admission to the museum every “first Thursday” of the month. And it was the first Thursday in September, and the sun was shining. I love art. And I love “FREE.” And the combination of those two things was as irresistible as catnip to a kitten.

Art Museum Selfie!

Just how much walking on polished marble floors I should be doing was sort of an open question, though. Only days into finally closing up my mother’s apartment and beginning to cautiously let myself feel “retired,” I had managed to accidentally drop an old-fashioned metal trash can full of yard trimmings edge-first on the bare bridge of my right foot. An X-ray managed to show that nothing was fractured, but six days later my foot was still tender and beginning to turn some lovely shades of greenish yellow, with purple accents. Still, I knew what I needed, and so I searched my closet for my most comfortable shoes and set out to drive to Milwaukee.

The Quadracci Pavillion’s Brise de Soleil

The Cudahy Gardens

This time, for a change, I was going alone. I am usually considered a pretty convivial person. I like to schmooze. I like to travel. I like to chat! Visits to museums usually involve friends, and lunch, and sometimes a little shopping afterward. Not today. I was entirely off the leash of social convention. And relieved from my end of keeping up a conversation, I stopped and stared for as long as I wanted, at anything that caught my eye.

First, it was the collection of art glass that lines the part of the Quadracci Pavilion, designed by architect Santiago Calatrava, leading into the original modernist War Memorial Center that houses both permanent art collections and various time-stamped exhibitions. I could stare at the  miraculous shapes this brittle substance has been conjured into for hours. I took my darn sweet time appreciating every piece.

Then, upon entering the museum proper, curiosity led me to check out a temporary exhibition called “Goya and the Art of Engraving.” Not my usual thing. I’m usually drawn to color, and scenes of natural grandeur, and seascapes, and Impressionism, and even sculpture. But as I soaked in every word on display around these works created in black and white by means involving metal and resin and wax and acid and ink, I was spellbound.

Since the exhibit had been up for several months, the gallery was not crowded. And so I took advantage of the magnifying glasses provided by the museum, and got my full “art nerd” on, going nearly nose to glass with etching after etching and engraving after engraving, admiring at length the incredible detail and drama and depth rendered on every single one of these small surfaces. I learned a lot. And in my unlikely solitude, I could feel my soul start to replenish.

Finally finished with staring at etchings in black and white, I meandered at will and in no particular order through more familiar halls of the art museum, through seascapes and portraits of the Madonna, epic visions of nature and Renaissance depictions of well-heeled Flemish burghers. I even felt replenished enough to pull out a copy of my Finnigan the Circus Cat book and indulged in some “photo bombing” for Finnigan’s Instagram account, which has been sadly neglected along with nearly all other writing projects, since winter. The tide is starting to turn!

A Kiss for a Kitten!

Finally, after two hours of wide-eyed amazement and total saturation by beauty, my aching foot told me to call it a day. I limped (slightly) back to my car, and then stretched out the self-indulgence (or self-care) a bit more, driving along the Lake Michigan shoreline for several miles and stopping along the way just to watch the waves and the horizon.

It was a day very well spent…even without the usual conversation, lunch and shopping!

 

The Last “Intake Monday”

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After eighteen years of spending all of my “working” Mondays in the intake branch of Wisconsin’s criminal court system, I had my last pedal-to-the-metal “intake Monday” yesterday. Retirement, complete with punch and cake and goodbye hugs, is just hours away. I would be lying if I didn’t say I felt quite…unmoored. It has been quite the amazing journey. Rather than having an “empty nest” at my own home, I suddenly feel like I am leaving a sheltering nest of my own. What a cosmic turnaround!

Last day in court for these shoes!

To mark the occasion, I wore one of my stalwart pairs of stiletto heels, pumps with a grey and white faux snakeskin pattern and an equally fake illusion of having more expensive “stacked” heels. After ten years, the shoes had become a little wobbly, and one of them occasionally squeaked as I walked. But they were like old friends, and a familiar sight in court.

Aunt Mary’s bracelet

The other thing I made sure to wear was the ornate carved silver bracelet that my godmother had given me at my law school graduation. She envisioned it as my “signature” piece of jewelry, something that would catch the light as I made theatrical hand gestures in court. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that my wrists and hands were so tiny that if I made such a flourish, the bracelet would likely fly off my arm and clock someone on the side of the head. But for the last day, I wore it to honor her. She had been a trailblazing, world-traveling high school teacher, and had served as the inspiration for many, including myself.

My Aunt Mary

This becoming-a-lawyer thing was my second career…or my third, if you count the “soccer mom” years where I multi-tasked by writing magazine and newspaper articles while my youngest children were napping.

Who knew I’d go back to school!!

I was forty when I started law school as a part-time student, with four kids ranging from kindergarten to high school under the familial roof, and a life-long, bone-deep fear of public speaking. Only a year before I had spent several months in a body cast, the result of a horseback riding accident that left me with a broken back and a wake-up call to start heeding my “inner voice.”

Law School diploma day!!

Three and a half years later, I was getting sworn in as a newly minted attorney and soon found my dream job as a state prosecutor, working part-time handling everything from speeding tickets to appeals before the Wisconsin Supreme Court. I worked in an incredibly beautiful Art Deco courthouse on the shore of Lake Michigan, and always felt like I was working on the side of the angels, blessed to be charged with a job whose professional ethics literally required us to seek justice rather than just to win at any cost. Talk about being part of a real-life “Justice League”!

The Sheboygan County Courthouse

What an amazing Art Deco interior.

As the part-time prosecutor, I had few cases of my own that I followed from start to finish. Rather, I provided backup for the other full-time prosecutors, who were called to be in two places at once on a regular basis. Mondays in particular were top-heavy with cases as the attorney “on intake” spent the morning reviewing police reports and dictating criminal complaints for people who had committed felonies over the preceding weekend, and I furiously worked to get up to speed on a combination of pending cases and new “initial appearances” for folks who had been given misdemeanor citations and told to come back to face the music and their formal charges several weeks later. I describe it as “catch and release.”

My “Running with Stilettos” shoes.

And over time, I overcame the challenges of public speaking…and picked up the challenge of mastering life in high heels. I was a late bloomer when it came to this, way past the age of 40 when in a moment of weakness and curiosity and urged on by my younger daughter, I bought a pair of sling-back faux alligator brown stilettos. And then bright pink stilettos. And then plaid stilettos with little bows.  And then…you get the picture. I figure that after tomorrow, unless I’m giving a speech somewhere, I’ll be in flats for the rest of my life. No more the echoing snap of spike heels on a polished stone floor, announcing that trouble is just around the corner…and closing fast.

But that was just a bonus. More than the challenging and personally rewarding work, and the steadfast and wonderful people I worked with and the friendships that bloomed, and the closeness to the Lake Michigan shoreline that drew me to the water on so many lunch hours…the past eighteen years have also provided a solid anchor during tremendous personal storms.

My tenure at the job has seen me through the end of my marriage; the divorce; several serious health crises involving my kids; my own health setbacks; endless 240 miles loops of crisis management and medical response involving relatives in my home town of Chicago; the decline and deaths of my father and godmother; the wrenching move from my “empty nest” home of 32 years in the country to a place in the city close to my job; the whole “empty nest” thing at all; the passing of several beloved pets including the two horses I had loved and cared for since I was a teenager; and just this year the typhoon of chaos revolving around my 94 year old mother suffering a broken hip. Whether up or down, feeling depressed, exhausted, elated, triumphant, happy or some combination of all, I could count on the fact that every single Monday I had a seat in a courtroom and a job to do, frequently starting with the words “The State appears by…” It provided me with a routine, and a structure, and a set of familiar duties, and a specific place in the universe. And now, in less than a day, I will be casting off from this solid, secure dock and setting sail on unknown seas to a new stage of life and adventure.

It feels more than a little scary!

Perhaps I shouldn’t be quite as dramatic as all that. I still have the same children, the same friends, the same hobbies, the same inquisitive nature. Perhaps instead of looking back at the past eighteen years as a prosecutor with such a sense of wistfulness, I ought to look back at a few years before that, when I threw myself off the familiar path of journalism and with a “carpe diem” sense of destiny, took the plunge into law school.

Perhaps. All I know is, when I was starting to take things down from my office bulletin board this week, I not only uncovered photos of some treasured moments, I also found a pin that a friend had given me when I graduated from law school nearly twenty years earlier. I laughed when I studied it closely before packing it to bring home.  Right now, I can’t think of a better message to begin this new journey with!

My “Carpe Diem” bear!!

Pulling the Ripcord to Early Retirement

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Mosaic

The countdown has begun. After two years of noodling the idea of “early retirement” around in theory; after an entire year of attempts by my very practical friend Judy to talk me out of it; after a stretch of several days around the Christmas holidays when I actually got to wake up when it was daylight instead of the bleak darkness of 5:15 a.m. and realize that it felt so normal and healthy…

In less than half a year I will step out of my role of nearly two decades as a state prosecuting attorney—my second career, the first was journalism—and into a another brand new slice of life. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous about it! Remember that scene from the 1991 movie “Point Break,” where Keanu Reeves, playing an FBI agent who has infiltrated a gang of bank robbers who are also surfing buddies, jumps out of an airplane without a parachute? (Spoiler alert: if you haven’t seen the movie,  he’s still alive at the end of it.) I love that movie, but that adrenaline-filled scene of ultimate uncertainty kept playing over and over in  my head for the first couple of weeks after I first told my boss that I planned to leave the job which, just a year before, I had described to him as “my part-time retirement job.” You know, that part-time job retirees are urged to look for by countless advice columnists because they say it’s good to have a routine that gets you out the door and meeting people on a regular basis.

Yes, just a year earlier I’d donned my usual rose-colored glasses, looked at the glass as half-full, and proclaimed far and wide that the half-time job that I had been in for seventeen years fit the bill perfectly, particularly since it came with health insurance. These days that’s the functional equivalent of having captured a unicorn in my back yard, and keeping him around with jam sandwiches and tea.

And then two things happened. I got another grandchild. And I got healthier.

The “new grandchild” thing was a no brainer. Of course I want to spend more time with my “and-Eleanor-makes-three” grandchildren who range from brand new to nearly five years old. The closest one lives forty miles away, while the other two are a clean hundred miles from my front door. Getting together takes planning, and foresight, and if it’s an overnight stay, a reservation at the kennel for the dog. Try as hard as I might, I’ve never managed to squeeze more than 24 hours out of a single day!

And Nora Make Three!

The “got healthier” was a more nuanced revelation. Over the past decade, my attempts to stay healthy by cramming some regular exercise into a busy, busy life have seemed to be a case of “one step up, two steps back.” In addition to several years of responding to serial family emergencies far from home, there were physical setbacks of my own, one after another. A couple of surgical procedures. A painful knee injury that cut back on even walking much for months. (And Lucky was not happy with that development!) Fibromyalgia. Severe GI trouble that lasted several years. Back trouble related to an old accident. Plantar fasciitis that flared up with a vengeance. Ever mindful of how much “image” can project strength or weakness, I refused to concede to the pain and mastered the art of subtly balancing my weight on one foot in spike heels when I was in court.

And then, little by little, over the past year things started working again like they were supposed to. I started to feel as though, after too long a time, I was finally beginning to function on all four cylinders. Or, at my age, perhaps the eight cylinders in the V-8 engine of my old Chevy! At any rate, in flash of insight, I felt as though I was approaching a tipping point, a window of opportunity that would not always be there, for cutting back on stress and focusing more on getting into better shape and working on keeping it.

And so I finally took the plunge and told my boss that I planned to retire later in the year. Once he got over his initial shock, we had a great conversation about life and health priorities and seizing the moment. I knew that the health focus would resonate with him. Before he (1) became a father and then (2) stepped into the top spot in the office, he had spent many a lunch hour lifting weights at the nearby YMCA with another attorney in the office. I once had the occasion to grab him by the upper arm for some unremembered reason, and noticed that his bicep felt a lot like a branch of an oak tree.  Yes, he got the “I want to spend more time working on keeping my health” thing immediately.  And if either of us needed any more of a nudge from the universe that this was absolutely the right choice for me, we got word the same day that another attorney who had stayed in the job longer and been quite sedentary as a result, was going in for open-heart surgery within days.

And so. I have lot of plans for what to do with my time once my time is more my own. There are walks in the woods with Lucky that beckon; strolls on the beach; photos to shoot; books to write; friends to visit; grandchildren to cuddle and read bedtime stories to; a gym membership to restart. And I’d like to learn to paint.

Daffodil by Moonlight

I will miss this job tremendously, for so many reasons. Changing career horses in mid-stream at the age of forty and going to law school (with four kids still at home) was a terrifying leap of faith at the time. It was also the first time I’d just plain announced “I need to do this for me” and followed through. The journey has been nothing short of thrilling in places.

In law school, I had to confront my fear of public speaking, learn to think analytically, compete with overachieving fellow students who were young enough to be my children. On the job I’ve learned to juggle tasks and priorities like I’ve never juggled before. I have literally handled speeding tickets and a state Supreme Court oral argument in the same week. On several occasions! Representing the interests of the people of Wisconsin in criminal court to hold people who break the law accountable has been an honor and a privilege. Here’s a link to an essay I wrote years ago, “Law & Disorder”, about just why I have loved this job.

Even the building itself has been a factor that lifted my spirits and challenged my imagination. Built during the Great Depression as a WPA project, the courthouse is an Art Deco gem, lined with polished pink Georgia marble and festooned with ornate wall fixtures. I have walked many miles during inclement weather on my lunch breaks in the locked top floor of the building, which once housed a jail and is now used for storage. And solving the mystery of what had become of a legendary mural that had disappeared from the Courthouse decades earlier became a grand adventure!

The Courthouse Lobby

A Courthouse Sketch

The Old Jail

The job has also been a significant anchor for me as well. No matter what storms swirled around me in all that time–a faltering marriage; children with medical needs; the trauma of putting my  horses to sleep one year apart after thirty three years together; countless emergencies involving elderly parents and relatives; the divorce; dating and heartaches; the death of my father and my godmother–I knew that come Monday afternoon, I would be hitting my marks in the intake branch of the criminal courts. And at least in that space, the rules and the roles of the participants were plain and simple, and I had total certainty about what I was doing and why. For at least a few hours. And then again the following week.

But now it is time for me to take another new direction. I still haven’t decided on what I’m going to do immediately after I leave the office for the last time, to formally mark the occasion. I may convene some friends and go to a Denny’s Restaurant to spend that first Monday morning happily anticipating the arrival of an omelet instead of sifting through my closet for the right combination of spike heels, jewelry and a blazer to convey that “iron fist in a velvet glove” vibe I strive for, or scrambling to get up to speed on any variety of bail motions and sentencing arguments and suppression hearings. Or, I may take a long-overdue trip to Slovenia to visit my brother and his family, and see a part of Europe I’ve only read about until now. Those are the two main contenders, but I’m sure others will present themselves!

All I know is, the future is wide open. And the adventure continues.

Empty Nest

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My official notice that my nest was finally going to be really and truly empty for the first time in 36 years came, without warning, in the mail. After a thoroughly lovely, sunny morning spent at an art museum with a friend, I had returned home and then checked the mailbox by the front door. I leafed casually through the assortment of bills and catalogs and other junk, and then there it was.

A perky, colorful notice from the postal service verifying that my younger daughter was officially changing her mailing address to a city across the country.

This wasn’t actually “news” in the strictest sense. She’d been gone for several months, and this new location was something she’d been working at putting roots down in for a long time. It was a very good thing for my daughter, in fact, by any measure. She had had something of a love-hate relationship with that particular city for a number of years and had come and gone from there on more than one occasion, but this time the place just felt “right” for all the right reasons.

But all of that cool mature rationality didn’t stop me from standing at the kitchen sink and bursting into tears. Go figure.

Since my first child was born (the “training baby” that paved the way for the next three) I’ve tended a nest in one form or another. For most of that time it was a nest in the country that grew to have five bedrooms and was surrounded by acres of fields and woods, hawks and foxes and deer and birds of all feathers. And while my fledglings were young, there was plenty of hiking and cookie-baking and story-reading and minivan-driving that utterly and joyfully consumed my life and identity. I didn’t skip a beat at keeping that nest in place even after I went to law school and then the marriage collapsed after twenty five years. With teenagers still in high school, I kept trimming the Christmas tree and cooking dinner and baking cookies and keeping the spare bedrooms primed and ready for the older ones to use when they came home from college.

Then, at last, I sold that large place and moved to much smaller digs a couple of years ago. Now if I want to visit the forest primeval, I actually have to get in my car and drive there, though the drive is quite short. And yet…it still has a spare bedroom and that is very important to me.

For the past several years, my younger daughter has still called my location “home” as she has come and gone at various times to other parts of the country for professional or personal reasons. She is an artist who practices in a physically demanding art form, and she has a severe chronic illness, and she is the bravest person I know. And somehow the fact that I could still keep a safe landing pad for her kept me on an even keel despite the wrenching emotional upheaval of moving from the only stable home I’d known in my own life.

I’m pretty sure one could draw a direct line from my own life experience to the importance I place on having that “nest.”

The simplest way to describe my family’s functioning would be to say that my mother was in charge. Nothing of importance happened without her approval, and often times at her initiative. I remember that no matter where she was, she always wanted to be elsewhere. She is now 94 and widowed and has been crippled for decades. She lives in a very nice apartment with a good view of a river and a majestic historic building that she loves to see as the sun sets, and friends and excellent amenities for wheelchair accessibility, and she is still striving for one more move.

This did not generally lend itself to a feeling of tremendous permanence as I was growing up. But a particularly disastrous initiative had us leave my native Chicago when I was sixteen in order to move to an abandoned farm in northern Wisconsin with no plumbing except a kitchen sink. The nearest town had 143 people and that was two miles away.

In order to continue my education at a Catholic high school, I was sent off to a small city forty miles away and I boarded there, at least for the first few months, with a family recommended by the high school principal. It didn’t go well. I came back to the farm every weekend, and there was literally no room there for me. There were only two bedrooms in the unfinished farmhouse. My parents slept in one; my younger brother slept in the other one, which had just enough room for a twin bed nestled against one wall and a dresser tight up against the other. I remember having to sleep in a hammock in the living room when I came home for the weekends. And things only went downhill from there.

In short, any illusion of having firm ground beneath my feet vanished when I was sixteen, replaced by a yawning, inarticulate terror of abandonment and isolation that has haunted me through the rest of my life. It drove making some of my biggest life decisions, and blinded or paralyzed me from making others. My parents and brother moved back to Chicago four years after leaving it for the farm and picked up at the same address they had left off. It was too late for me not to have been utterly broken.

Fast forward to college, marriage and motherhood. As one, then two, then three, and finally four children arrived, I found an incredible source of fulfillment and happiness in making a stable home for them. With every bedtime story, every Halloween costume sewn, every batch of cookies baked, every Christmas stocking hung by the fireplace, I could feel something heal inside myself.

As they grew older, of course, their needs changed. Instead of fresh diapers, a corsage for the prom. Instead of lunch in a brown paper bag, money for gas. Instead of help preparing for a science quiz, reassurance that a major life decision was a good one. And so it went, through the college years and beyond.

Bringing me, inevitably, to the arrival of the change-of-address noticed that sent me, at least for the rest of that day, into a bruised and weepy tailspin. If there had been a pint of Hagen Daz ice cream in the freezer, I would have eaten it right out of the carton.

I have dried my tears since then, put my chin up, and claimed the entire bathroom counter for myself since I no longer have to share. And with the approaching Christmas holiday doings, I haven’t had much time or inclination to brood.

But there is a new year about to start in just another couple of weeks. The turn of the calendar from one year to the next is always a time for reflection on the past and optimism for the future. Sometimes I make resolutions, and sometimes I don’t.

This time around I hope I’ll make some adjustments in my thinking. I’m already known for relentless optimism as a coping mechanism, but let’s take the glass-half-full analogy a step farther and say that when all is said and done, my nest isn’t quite empty yet. None of my kids may be getting their mail sent to my house anymore, but I’m still here, along with the four-footed pets. And so I might as well start picturing and investing in my current surroundings as a warm, comforting nest for myself.

Because you know, after all these years, I have damn well earned it.

Christmas Axes, redux

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Snowy Christmas

I’m going to go back to the beginning here, and share the very first  essay I ever blogged at the tail end of 2006, just as it turned over to 2007. The end of the year seemed like the perfect time to launch something new, and that “something” was my first blog, “Running with Stilettos,” which friends had pushed and pushed me to do as a way to get back to creative writing after I’d switched careers turned into a lawyer. A prosecuting attorney, no less! Not a job exactly brimming with humor and creativity, though you’d be surprised.

I think there are several good lessons to be drawn from it, including (1) listen to your friends as they encourage you to do new stuff (except breaking and entering, that’s always a bad idea!); (2) you’re never too old to try something new; (3) who knows where that “something new” will take you; and (4) your kids will never stop surprising you.

In this case, I’d been casting around for an idea of what to write about to launch this new thing with. Essays had never been my forte. But then my kids came home for Christmas, one of those divorced-family holidays, and I handed them the rolling pin to make cookies and then couldn’t stop laughing afterward! Santa had a bloody axe…and it went on from there…

I got a lot of mileage from this first, inaugural essay. Not only did it give me a starting point for the blog, it was later reprinted as an offbeat Christmas story in the Milwaukee paper, it’s made it into a couple of my books, and it’s even out there on YouTube because I did a long-distance performance for a reading series in Illinois a couple of years ago.

So without further fanfare, here it is!! Merry Christmas to all, and may the New Year bring us good health and good luck.

The Tale of the Christmas Axes

Martha Stewart, stop reading right now.  I can’t be held responsible for the stroke sure to follow if you find out about Christmas at my house or my friend Barb’s house this year.  It’s all about what happens when you finally turn over the reins of control.  In the end, you laugh a lot harder. 

Barb and I could be templates for that tired stereotype, “women who do too much.”  Not because we’re perfect, but because we’re both coming from behind.  Barb’s still got some recuperation issues from back and neck surgery that slow her down from time to time.  And after a riding accident eleven years ago, I still run out of steam—and the ability to just keep standing—on a long day earlier than I used to.  Which doesn’t keep either of us from pulling out all the stops at the holidays.  I hadn’t been over to Barb’s for a few weeks before Christmas, but I know her usual standard—warm and inviting and really pretty. 

This year, I had three of my four kids coming home from college or beyond right before Christmas, and I wanted the short time they could all spend together to be as cozy as a Norman Rockwell picture turned into a Hallmark television movie.   There was a wreath on the door, and a nine foot Christmas tree with dozens of glass-blown and hand-embroidered ornaments, strung with strings of red wooden “cranberries,” festooned with ceramic birds and various cute critters.  Homemade pumpkin pie, homemade banana muffins, homemade Christmas cookies in four varieties.  Needlepoint stockings hung by the chimney with care.  So what if I couldn’t find the crèche for the second year running, I found the stuffed moose that sings “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” and put fresh batteries in it before they got home.  Somebody sat on it as if on cue.  Sixty pounds of fresh firewood in the wrought iron stand next to the fireplace, along with a basket of “fatwood” to start the fire in a hurry.  Coffee in the pot, and whipped cream to go on the hot chocolate. 

But the high point for fun has always been rolling out and decorating the butter cookies.  And this year was no exception.  They set to the task almost as soon as Michael, the freshman, walked in the door and dumped his gear.  By this time it was late afternoon, and I was done in after days of shopping and wrapping and baking.  And two days spent on a last-minute felony drug trial.  I poured myself a glass of wine, pulled down the bowl of cookie cutters from the top shelf, and handed off the rolling pin to the younger generation.  “Knock yourselves out,” I said, and sat down on the sofa to read the paper as the flames danced in the hearth. 

The kitchen was like a beehive, and I enjoyed the energy from a distance.  As soon as the last batch of cookies was finished and cooling, we had dinner and ripped into the present exchange.   Then the kids left to go open presents at their dad’s house, and I finally started to take inventory of what they’d left behind.    

It looked like a holiday bomb had gone off.  Every open surface was covered with flour, or gingerbread crumbs, or frosting.  Red sugar crystals.  Green sugar crystals.  Candy hearts, candy sprinkles, candy flowers.  Discarded coffee cups and wine glasses were everywhere.  Cookies were everywhere, too, and as I started to pick them up to store them, I laughed out loud.  My late mother in law had given me the cookie cutters two decades ago, and every year I’d pulled out the most obvious holiday ones:  there was Santa, and an angel, a reindeer, a fir tree, a bell, a star, a heart, a flower.  And every year, for some reason, the censor in me had missed pulling out the cutter clearly shaped like an axe.  Why Santa might need an axe on his journeys, I can only guess.  But the kids found the axe-shaped cookie cutter in the bottom of the bowl I’d handed them, and had taken it to town. 

There were lots and lots of Christmas axes in this cookie collection.  Bloody axes, in fact, as they’d decorated the edges of the blades with red sugar crystals.   Keeping the theme going, they’d brought the angels into the act as well, with bloody little angel hands to go with the little bloody axes.  I was surprised they left Santa with his head on his shoulders.  The extra dreadlocks they added to Rudolph’s antlers and colored red, making him the “Sideshow Bob” of the reindeer team, seemed almost like an afterthought.  I packed cookies and laughed.  Then I packed some more cookies, and laughed some more.

The next day I called Barb to tell her about the new Christmas tradition.  She had one of her own to match.  Seems she ran out of holiday steam a bit early too, and turned the task of decorating the gingerbread men at her house over to a twelve year old niece.  Henceforth, gingerbread men at her house will now have three eyes instead of the standard two.  It’s always nice to have tradition to look forward to.  Next year, if the kids want to do bloody axes and murderous angels again, I’ll make sure they’ve got red frosting. 

 

 

 

 

 

The Mouse and Me

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The Mouse and The Chicken

I’ve been discovering a great many things in the past couple of years as I’ve been getting more and more acquainted with my “inner child.”

For one thing, I believe I’m going to take up drawing again with pencils and pastel chalks for the first time in decades. For another, that inner child seems to have taken the form of a wise-ass mouse.

Ah, the things we don’t see coming when we just drop the reins or the steering wheel and just let life happen!

This unexpected journey to the past began a few years ago, when I set out to write my first children’s chapter book, “Finnigan the Circus Cat.” Up until then, I had done a lot of writing in my life for a lot of different audiences—newspapers, magazine, courts of law ranging from trial courts all the way to SCOTUS, and of course, essays about life for my Running with Stilettos blog and others. The one thing they had in common was that they were all written for grownups.

But the combination of a rescue kitten named Finnigan in the family and a daughter who is a contemporary circus aerialist combined to spark the germ of an idea for the Finnigan book. There were plenty of interruptions after I first put pen to paper, close to two years of them in fact! Most of the interruptions related to putting my empty nest up for sale and then moving, lock, stock and barrel, for the first time in three decades.

When I sat down to write the tale, however, it nearly wrote itself. The book—the series in fact—revolves around the arrival of a foundling kitten at a small-town circus museum, and is told through the voice of one of the two “circus mice” cousins who befriend the kitten and take him under their wing. At the time I didn’t stop to think why it felt so natural. Did I mention that the mouse doing the narrating is something of a wiseacre?

The hard part of the book was something I hadn’t planned on at all, and that was drawing the pictures that start each of the chapters. A lot of crazy last-minute stuff went into that decision, including the strong encouragement of a good friend who’s quite free with the “I know you can do this!” attitude. But after the first 24 hours of pushing back and saying “no, I can’t,” I remembered that I’d drawn horses obsessively—and very well—when I was growing up, and figured that I could likely make it work for drawing a kitten, two mice, and a friendly Golden Retriever. At least just for the first book. Or so I told myself.

Cat Burglar

Between when the first book was finished and the second book started, yet another trip down memory lane opened some more windows into the dusty recesses of my past. And that happened when a group of folks I had gone through grade school with in Chicago lo these many years ago connected on Facebook, and suddenly an informal class reunion was in the works. We finally gathered at an upscale bowling alley (kind of like the Taj Mahal of the lanes) on the outskirts of Chicago, and spent the next few hours sharing hugs and life stories and drinks and good wishes. Many of us hadn’t seen each other in 45 years. And even if we hadn’t been particularly close friends back in the day, by this age we were so darned happy to still be upright and walking under our own steam that hugs and smiles flowed non-stop.

There was something so wonderfully liberating and simply joyous to reunite with those people who we knew as children. Before the posturing and jostling and stratification of high school roles. Before the race through college and internships and work study programs toward a job or a career. Before the responsibilities of families, or the heartbreaks of divorce or other breakups, or worries about health or livelihoods or mortgage payments, and bills from the veterinarian and the auto repair shop. And so as a result I began to remember more of my childhood, and more of what I had done and what I had enjoyed back when the universe was still relatively new and the horizon relatively uncomplicated.

And then I wrote the second Finnigan book, and drew even more pictures this time, and went all out on some of them, really “upping my game” in terms of complexity and detail that I poured into the sketches.

Gliding Swans

And when I finally finished the second book, I realized that the distinctive voice telling these stories wasn’t simply a fictional character I’d invented out of thin air, a persona I’d deliberately created as a means to an end. The reality was so much more fun than that!

No, Maximillian the circus mouse, the guy with an answer for everything, the guy with the lightning-quick sense of humor and a sarcastic streak a mile wide, was pretty much me as a ten year old. It just took me a while to remember her.

Elephant

No wonder the words came out so easily! After a lifetime spent as a “responsible adult,” trying to live up to the virtues (or demands!) of “maturity” and “decorum” and “patience” and “reliability,” it is a thoroughly freeing experience to just crack the door open in my mind, and let that mouse sneak out and say whatever pops into his unfiltered head!

It won’t be long before I start writing the third book in the series. This one will take place in a traveling tent circus, and so I’ll have all the fun of imagining the circus through the eyes of a wiseacre mouse…or a ten year old girl.

And in the meantime, I’ve begun noodling around the idea of taking drawing classes…and then possibly painting classes. After years of branding myself as a photographer in my local arts community, I’d like to finally push the envelope and take a few artistic risks that I was too afraid to take when I was a kid because I never wanted to make any mistakes.

I have so many people and things to thank for this new approach to art and life. Finnigan, of course. My daughter. My friend who pushed and said “yes you can!” when I thought “no I can’t!”

But I’d also like to give a shout-out to Maximillian the “circus mouse.” He may be tiny, and a smartass from the get-go, and thoroughly imaginary, existing only on the printed page. But writing his character has given me the chance to finally remember—and reconnect with—the young girl I once was, and to give us both another chance to grow, and shine.

Cat…and Mouse