September 11, 2023
Favorite Bench Stories from Readers #5
Favorite Bench Stories from Readers #5
Sitting Pretty
The benches of GRJC
"A time it was, what a time it was" goes the song...and it was all of that. It was the spring of 1969. I was 19 years old and I was finishing my sophomore year at Grand Rapids Junior College.
Most of my classes were in the West Building (now Kendall School of Art and Design), a flat, gray concrete box that featured a cafeteria, counseling offices, classrooms, and the English department. There was a main entrance with double doors, but we always used the south entrance, a single door flanked by a pair of benches.
For most of that spring those benches defined us, a small group of nearly clueless boys who sat on them. In a year, we had gone from buzz cuts, khakis, and loafers to long hair, jeans, and boots. We knew little about the world around us, a fact that did not prevent us from proffering opinions. The Vietnam war was escalating by the day. We started seeing stories about guys we knew who weren't coming home. We wondered how long each of us had. Books alone weren't enough to take our minds off it.
So we started a game.
The door was maybe 40 inches across. The benches were about 30 inches or so high. One of us got the idea that the space made a perfect hockey goal. All we needed was a puck. We got one: a Joppe's chocolate milk carton. The games were on.
There was just a handful of us—me, Big Mike who came from a small town south of Grand Rapids, Dale the photo guy who came from an equally small town and whose mother, Vi, less than five feet tall, made the best fried chicken ever, Riley, who looked like a mini-me of Grizzly Adams and who always carried an inhaler to combat his asthma—although he still had a laugh that sounded like a vintage car trying to start on a cold day. There were a couple of others but they seldom showed. And then there was Larry the Poet.
Larry was lean and wiry, probably around 5-10 and weighing in at no more than 150 pounds. He had a perfect mustache. He usually dressed well, seldom in jeans, so much so that we once attended a writer's conference in Muskegon where the poet Chad Walsh was supposed to show. Walsh never did but Larry was wearing a cool vest and tweed blazer, topped off with a sporty fedora. So we told people Larry was Chad Walsh and they bought it.
Larry was soft spoken, shy, but he wanted to play goalie, which he did with an animal-like fervor. He'd position himself in front of the door, arms extended so he could grab hold and balance on the benches. Imagine a well-dressed crane.
The rules of our games were vague and I don't recall how we chose sides. When we did it was no more than two on two. Larry played goalie for both teams. His defense was near impenetrable. We'd send long shots and he kicked them back at us and out of reach. He broke up passes with one hand. If we tried to push the carton between his legs, he'd drop to the ground and smother it. Even high shots we hoped would fall behind him were swatted harmlessly away.
The games got more intense, although fair play reigned. No one got bloody shins, except maybe Larry. No punches were thrown. Most of the abuse was directed toward the Joppe's carton, but replacements were readily available from the nearby cafeteria.
After a few hard-fought contests, the stakes were raised. Someone found an empty industrial size Vlasic pickle jar outside the cafeteria kitchen. We had a trophy...the Vlasic Cup. Soon there were team names—Waytown South was the Cup favorite—and game stories. Players with goofy names—Kip Farkas and Morrell Fizell. We did postgame interviews on the benches and sometimes talked about where we wanted to be in 1970 and beyond.
And then summer came.
The Vlasic Cup disappeared. The games stopped. Big Mike and I went to MSU and finished school there. Dale got a job working for a wire service and we lost touch. Riley laughed and wheezed his way to a future far from us. And Larry...well, Larry. I saw him once that summer. He had a guitar. We went to the beach in hopes of finding girl he liked. We didn't find her. When we go back to the city, Larry and I waved so long. I never saw him again. And he never came back for his guitar.
Years later, I went downtown and walked past the old West Building. It hadn't yet been christened as Kendall but the benches were gone.
What a time it was.
GFK of Michigan
Most of my classes were in the West Building (now Kendall School of Art and Design), a flat, gray concrete box that featured a cafeteria, counseling offices, classrooms, and the English department. There was a main entrance with double doors, but we always used the south entrance, a single door flanked by a pair of benches.
For most of that spring those benches defined us, a small group of nearly clueless boys who sat on them. In a year, we had gone from buzz cuts, khakis, and loafers to long hair, jeans, and boots. We knew little about the world around us, a fact that did not prevent us from proffering opinions. The Vietnam war was escalating by the day. We started seeing stories about guys we knew who weren't coming home. We wondered how long each of us had. Books alone weren't enough to take our minds off it.
So we started a game.
The door was maybe 40 inches across. The benches were about 30 inches or so high. One of us got the idea that the space made a perfect hockey goal. All we needed was a puck. We got one: a Joppe's chocolate milk carton. The games were on.
There was just a handful of us—me, Big Mike who came from a small town south of Grand Rapids, Dale the photo guy who came from an equally small town and whose mother, Vi, less than five feet tall, made the best fried chicken ever, Riley, who looked like a mini-me of Grizzly Adams and who always carried an inhaler to combat his asthma—although he still had a laugh that sounded like a vintage car trying to start on a cold day. There were a couple of others but they seldom showed. And then there was Larry the Poet.
Larry was lean and wiry, probably around 5-10 and weighing in at no more than 150 pounds. He had a perfect mustache. He usually dressed well, seldom in jeans, so much so that we once attended a writer's conference in Muskegon where the poet Chad Walsh was supposed to show. Walsh never did but Larry was wearing a cool vest and tweed blazer, topped off with a sporty fedora. So we told people Larry was Chad Walsh and they bought it.
Larry was soft spoken, shy, but he wanted to play goalie, which he did with an animal-like fervor. He'd position himself in front of the door, arms extended so he could grab hold and balance on the benches. Imagine a well-dressed crane.
The rules of our games were vague and I don't recall how we chose sides. When we did it was no more than two on two. Larry played goalie for both teams. His defense was near impenetrable. We'd send long shots and he kicked them back at us and out of reach. He broke up passes with one hand. If we tried to push the carton between his legs, he'd drop to the ground and smother it. Even high shots we hoped would fall behind him were swatted harmlessly away.
The games got more intense, although fair play reigned. No one got bloody shins, except maybe Larry. No punches were thrown. Most of the abuse was directed toward the Joppe's carton, but replacements were readily available from the nearby cafeteria.
After a few hard-fought contests, the stakes were raised. Someone found an empty industrial size Vlasic pickle jar outside the cafeteria kitchen. We had a trophy...the Vlasic Cup. Soon there were team names—Waytown South was the Cup favorite—and game stories. Players with goofy names—Kip Farkas and Morrell Fizell. We did postgame interviews on the benches and sometimes talked about where we wanted to be in 1970 and beyond.
And then summer came.
The Vlasic Cup disappeared. The games stopped. Big Mike and I went to MSU and finished school there. Dale got a job working for a wire service and we lost touch. Riley laughed and wheezed his way to a future far from us. And Larry...well, Larry. I saw him once that summer. He had a guitar. We went to the beach in hopes of finding girl he liked. We didn't find her. When we go back to the city, Larry and I waved so long. I never saw him again. And he never came back for his guitar.
Years later, I went downtown and walked past the old West Building. It hadn't yet been christened as Kendall but the benches were gone.
What a time it was.
GFK of Michigan
August 28, 2023
Favorite Bench Stories from Readers #4
Favorite Bench Stories from Readers #4
Lutyens Bench and Courtside
Lutyens Bench
My Lutyens bench was designed by British architect Edwin Lutyens in the early 1900s when he worked with famed garden designer Gertrude Jekyll. I saw these benches often when I visited England in the early 90s. I coveted one for myself.
When I saw this bench in a garden catalog, I eagerly ordered it. My late husband and I spent many happy hours in this quiet spot, he pulled the grill out here to cook and smokers retreated here. I've enjoyed it tremendously. It communicates something timeless to me. I'm home here.
D.E. of Ohio
Courtside
Twice a week for many months, I sat on a park bench and watched my son play tennis. His movements and strokes were smooth and precise. It brought such joy to see him follow in my footsteps as I had followed in my mother's footsteps. There was a time when three generations took to the same court to share their love of tennis and each other.
H.M. of Arkansas
My Lutyens bench was designed by British architect Edwin Lutyens in the early 1900s when he worked with famed garden designer Gertrude Jekyll. I saw these benches often when I visited England in the early 90s. I coveted one for myself.
When I saw this bench in a garden catalog, I eagerly ordered it. My late husband and I spent many happy hours in this quiet spot, he pulled the grill out here to cook and smokers retreated here. I've enjoyed it tremendously. It communicates something timeless to me. I'm home here.
D.E. of Ohio
Courtside
Twice a week for many months, I sat on a park bench and watched my son play tennis. His movements and strokes were smooth and precise. It brought such joy to see him follow in my footsteps as I had followed in my mother's footsteps. There was a time when three generations took to the same court to share their love of tennis and each other.
H.M. of Arkansas
August 14, 2023
Favorite Bench Stories from Readers #3
Favorite Bench Stories from Readers #3
Miracle Bench and Better Shared
"Miracle Bench" alongside Lake Michigan and "Better Shared" in Wyoming
Miracle Bench
I think of myself as having mastered both walking and talking. At the end of every trip, I would walk down the stairs to the deck to feel the breeze and see and hear the sound of the wind, the waves, and the boats. Unfortunately, unexpected health-related issues curbed this enjoyment for the past year and a half. And, when I did try to walk to the deck, my body refused. How many times did I say I wish there was a bench before the stairs, so I could relax after my walk, enjoy the environment, while meeting and talking to my neighbors?
Well, thanks to some neighborhood association board members, supported by many of our neighbors, a miracle happened. A lovely bench was erected exactly where I always dreamed it to be and I use it every day.
P.F. of Michigan
Better Shared
My favorite bench is in no way ornate. It is simple and functional, hardly what one might call beautiful. Yet it places me in the lap of beauty. From late spring to early autumn, you’ll find me many mornings sitting on my friend at the edge of our prayer garden, content with a cup of coffee and a book of inspiration. It’s a comfortable seat amid flowers and trees, robins and sparrows, a special place where I feel melded with nature.
This summer I have come to share the bench with our grandson Henry. He is at a positively delightful age, two and a fraction, and as we sit and take in the glory of the garden, I point out all of the varieties that bloom before us. Then he takes me by the hand and says, “Grandpa, come.” We make a circuit of the stepping stones that Teresa has placed around the birdbath, and Henry announces columbine and daisies. I show him Maltese cross and orange globe mallow. We circle five, six, seven times, calling out the names of the flowers each time, before we return to our resting place. There, he sits close, resting his hand on my wrist as he looks around, ready to tell me more about this world so new to him.
E.S. of Wyoming
I think of myself as having mastered both walking and talking. At the end of every trip, I would walk down the stairs to the deck to feel the breeze and see and hear the sound of the wind, the waves, and the boats. Unfortunately, unexpected health-related issues curbed this enjoyment for the past year and a half. And, when I did try to walk to the deck, my body refused. How many times did I say I wish there was a bench before the stairs, so I could relax after my walk, enjoy the environment, while meeting and talking to my neighbors?
Well, thanks to some neighborhood association board members, supported by many of our neighbors, a miracle happened. A lovely bench was erected exactly where I always dreamed it to be and I use it every day.
P.F. of Michigan
Better Shared
My favorite bench is in no way ornate. It is simple and functional, hardly what one might call beautiful. Yet it places me in the lap of beauty. From late spring to early autumn, you’ll find me many mornings sitting on my friend at the edge of our prayer garden, content with a cup of coffee and a book of inspiration. It’s a comfortable seat amid flowers and trees, robins and sparrows, a special place where I feel melded with nature.
This summer I have come to share the bench with our grandson Henry. He is at a positively delightful age, two and a fraction, and as we sit and take in the glory of the garden, I point out all of the varieties that bloom before us. Then he takes me by the hand and says, “Grandpa, come.” We make a circuit of the stepping stones that Teresa has placed around the birdbath, and Henry announces columbine and daisies. I show him Maltese cross and orange globe mallow. We circle five, six, seven times, calling out the names of the flowers each time, before we return to our resting place. There, he sits close, resting his hand on my wrist as he looks around, ready to tell me more about this world so new to him.
E.S. of Wyoming
August 3, 2023
Clue # 11 from the Bench Scavenger Hunt: The Rooster Bench
Clue # 11 from the Bench Scavenger Hunt: The Rooster Bench
Never Out of Harm’s Way
On a bench tucked alongside the playground,
a short walk to the windmill, safe distance from the coop,
she tells me why she prefers not to eat chicken;
how every morning the rooster watched her tiptoe
across the yard with a plate of table scraps,
reach up to unlatch the gate,
how the rooster raced toward her
squawking loud and angry,
how she’d fling the scraps over the fence and run;
how her mother insisted
she scatter the food from inside the pen
so all chickens could eat, not just the rooster;
how she could not, would not
walk through that gate,
how the bird sensed her fear.
She remembers the family parrot
released from its cage by her twin brother,
the sound of the screen door slamming
as he sauntered outside for his daily chores;
how she heard the parrot waddling
across the hardwood floor, claws clicking,
until it found her huddled in the kitchen,
how she clambered atop a small table,
and how the bird stood guard several hours.
She tells me of that first week as Scout Leader,
how the geese chased her and her charges
across the long field and why she’s glad
we’re not walking alongside the river today
as she can see the flock of long-necked fowl
from the bench on which we rest.
As I listen, a dog,
leashed and seemingly well-behaved--
unlike the one who took a bite out of my back--
strolls over and pees on my foot,
the scent of my fear lingering
even after so many years.
It felt good to wash the shoe.
a short walk to the windmill, safe distance from the coop,
she tells me why she prefers not to eat chicken;
how every morning the rooster watched her tiptoe
across the yard with a plate of table scraps,
reach up to unlatch the gate,
how the rooster raced toward her
squawking loud and angry,
how she’d fling the scraps over the fence and run;
how her mother insisted
she scatter the food from inside the pen
so all chickens could eat, not just the rooster;
how she could not, would not
walk through that gate,
how the bird sensed her fear.
She remembers the family parrot
released from its cage by her twin brother,
the sound of the screen door slamming
as he sauntered outside for his daily chores;
how she heard the parrot waddling
across the hardwood floor, claws clicking,
until it found her huddled in the kitchen,
how she clambered atop a small table,
and how the bird stood guard several hours.
She tells me of that first week as Scout Leader,
how the geese chased her and her charges
across the long field and why she’s glad
we’re not walking alongside the river today
as she can see the flock of long-necked fowl
from the bench on which we rest.
As I listen, a dog,
leashed and seemingly well-behaved--
unlike the one who took a bite out of my back--
strolls over and pees on my foot,
the scent of my fear lingering
even after so many years.
It felt good to wash the shoe.
July 24, 2023
Favorite Bench Stories from Readers #2
Favorite Bench Stories from Readers #2
Alongside the Boardwalk, Three Wolves and The Reading Bench
Alongside the Boardwalk
One afternoon I was strolling along the Grand Haven boardwalk which borders the Grand River. I stopped to rest and just admire the boats as they made their way to Lake Michigan. I was grateful to have found an open bench as they were a hot commodity this particular day. A scruffy fellow pulled his wagon of empty pop cans up to “my” bench and plopped down beside me. I relaxed my desire for personal space and had a delightful conversation. The highlight of our time was seeing a boat go by that had a pet rabbit riding on the bow of the boat . . . just motoring down the river on a little towel— up front, all by itself!
KDS of Michigan
Three Wolves
After 70 years of loving benches, the dearest is the one shared with my husband and granddaughter for the last 20 years. Before we say goodbye to our beloved SYLVANIA Wilderness after a week of camping, we sit together on "the bench" to reflect. After sharing, we let out an echoing “howl” into the wilderness.
This experience is so treasured by our granddaughter, that she drew the scene for us - each being a wolf on the bench.
K.N. of Michigan
"The Reading Bench"
"You may have tangible wealth unfold; Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I, you can never be--I had a Mother who read to me."
Discovered on a bench at Hemlock Crossing in West Olive by M. W.
Benches are a reminder to pause, strengthen one's relationship with others, with nature, with one's self.Do you have a bench story you're willing to share?
One afternoon I was strolling along the Grand Haven boardwalk which borders the Grand River. I stopped to rest and just admire the boats as they made their way to Lake Michigan. I was grateful to have found an open bench as they were a hot commodity this particular day. A scruffy fellow pulled his wagon of empty pop cans up to “my” bench and plopped down beside me. I relaxed my desire for personal space and had a delightful conversation. The highlight of our time was seeing a boat go by that had a pet rabbit riding on the bow of the boat . . . just motoring down the river on a little towel— up front, all by itself!
KDS of Michigan
Three Wolves
After 70 years of loving benches, the dearest is the one shared with my husband and granddaughter for the last 20 years. Before we say goodbye to our beloved SYLVANIA Wilderness after a week of camping, we sit together on "the bench" to reflect. After sharing, we let out an echoing “howl” into the wilderness.
This experience is so treasured by our granddaughter, that she drew the scene for us - each being a wolf on the bench.
K.N. of Michigan
"The Reading Bench"
"You may have tangible wealth unfold; Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I, you can never be--I had a Mother who read to me."
Discovered on a bench at Hemlock Crossing in West Olive by M. W.
Benches are a reminder to pause, strengthen one's relationship with others, with nature, with one's self.Do you have a bench story you're willing to share?
July 17, 2023
Favorite Bench Stories from Readers #1
Favorite Bench Stories from Readers #1
A Hospital, A Church, and Clue #14
A Hospital
The first significant bench of my life was anchored on the grounds of a Hospital near the lake front in Chicago where my mother gave birth to my sister Bernice. I and two of my younger sisters were placed on the bench and told not to get off of it and not to talk to anyone while our dad went to visit our mom. He told us he would be able to see us from the window of the room my mother was in and that we could wave to our mother. It was November. It was cold. I was five years old. There were too many windows and I thought our dad forgot us. K.M. of Michigan
(P.S. He did not forget.)
A Church
I painted this bench located in our “Memorial Garden” lavender. Located at our church, it gives visitors a place to meditate, contemplate, and pray. Lavender makes it a bright spot in the garden. M.W. of Michigan
Clue #14 “Bravo for Benches” Laflin Family Scavenger Hunt: Worth 50 points. On property owned by the famous and most-loved captain in the Holland community whose business attracts thousands (maybe millions) each summer.
“My team would not let me even stop and get ice cream. They said the lines were too long!” J. M. of Colorado (His team finished first for most points scored! I promised J.M. I’d buy him ice cream at Captain Sundae’s next time he is in town. Did I mention my family is a bit competitive?!)
Do you have a favorite bench story? Please send it my way! And thanks for noticing benches. And where there is a shortage.
The first significant bench of my life was anchored on the grounds of a Hospital near the lake front in Chicago where my mother gave birth to my sister Bernice. I and two of my younger sisters were placed on the bench and told not to get off of it and not to talk to anyone while our dad went to visit our mom. He told us he would be able to see us from the window of the room my mother was in and that we could wave to our mother. It was November. It was cold. I was five years old. There were too many windows and I thought our dad forgot us. K.M. of Michigan
(P.S. He did not forget.)
A Church
I painted this bench located in our “Memorial Garden” lavender. Located at our church, it gives visitors a place to meditate, contemplate, and pray. Lavender makes it a bright spot in the garden. M.W. of Michigan
Clue #14 “Bravo for Benches” Laflin Family Scavenger Hunt: Worth 50 points. On property owned by the famous and most-loved captain in the Holland community whose business attracts thousands (maybe millions) each summer.
“My team would not let me even stop and get ice cream. They said the lines were too long!” J. M. of Colorado (His team finished first for most points scored! I promised J.M. I’d buy him ice cream at Captain Sundae’s next time he is in town. Did I mention my family is a bit competitive?!)
Do you have a favorite bench story? Please send it my way! And thanks for noticing benches. And where there is a shortage.
July 4, 2023
Clue #1
|
A family gathers in June, a tradition that began with a mother, a widow, a grandmother, a woman celebrating the safe return of her four sons from World War II. A woman everyone called “Mom.” Even the townspeople.
The year was 1948. Seventy-five years later the family gathers in June, as it has every year save two—during the pandemic. This year’s reunion is in Holland, MI, home of the last of “Mom’s” children. A twin. Jane. A mother. A grandmother. A widow. A woman the family calls “Exceptional Aunt Jane.” |
For the reunion, Mother and daughter design a scavenger hunt to celebrate benches—all benches—but especially their favorites. Sixteen benches. Sixteen clues. Two and a half hours. Seven teams. All members must be photographed on the correct bench. Points awarded based on difficulty, accuracy, creativity. One team wins for most points scored. The other for submitting the most creative photograph.
A family vote.
The most creative goes to a team’s response to Clue #1.
Clue #1: Known as the “Breakfast Bench” for its close proximity to a bakery and perfect view overlooking Lake Macatawa near a statue of immigrants.
Team members used their bodies to spell the family name, Laflin, alongside the statue of immigrants. A gentle reminder. Most families immigrated to this country from another.
Ours included.
Happy Independence Day.
A family vote.
The most creative goes to a team’s response to Clue #1.
Clue #1: Known as the “Breakfast Bench” for its close proximity to a bakery and perfect view overlooking Lake Macatawa near a statue of immigrants.
Team members used their bodies to spell the family name, Laflin, alongside the statue of immigrants. A gentle reminder. Most families immigrated to this country from another.
Ours included.
Happy Independence Day.
June 12, 2023
Coffee on the Boat
|
She is awakened before dawn by the sparrows,
not the symphony of song she hears in the forest but the clicking of claws on the fiberglass overhead. She rolls over, on vacation, closes her eyes. Ripples drum steadily against the hull as fishing boats motor toward the channel. Dawn’s light peers through ports and she is awake. Out of bed. Turns on the coffeepot and opens the sliding hatch to the morning’s stories. Three ducks glide past the stern, pause, move on. A fish lunges, breaks the surface, disappears. A tapping under water near the closest piling is a puzzle. Both shrug. Watch the seagulls. He tells her drinking coffee in the cockpit together is a favorite time of the day. She agrees. The forecast calls for wind in the face. Whitecaps. He pulls out a book; she, her journal and pen. Both are asleep before noon. Tomorrow they’ll sail out the channel and head north. Or maybe they’ll stay another day. |
June 5, 2023
Bravo for Benches
Do you remember your favorite bench? What made it your favorite? Would you be willing to share your story—in a sentence or two? And a photo, if you have one? At https://www.facebook.com/mary.mckschmidt1?
I never noticed benches until several years ago, when my outdoor adventures with Mother—so essential to her health and mine—changed, based on the availability of benches. Our hope is to get others to notice benches, too. And join us in making more benches available for seniors in public spaces throughout Michigan communities. Maybe even beyond.
Awareness is the first step. And why not make it fun?
Later this month, 55 members of Mother’s family—to include several of her children, nieces, nephews, their children and grandchildren—will come to town to celebrate our 75th annual gathering as a family. The tradition began when Mother’s mother (a woman we called “Mom”) decided to invite her children to gather in June of 1948 to celebrate the safe return of her sons from World War II. We have been gathering as a family ever since.
This year, since we are the hosting the reunion, Mother and I decided to create a Bravo for Benches Scavenger Hunt focused on our favorite benches in town. We had such fun taking photos of the benches, thinking about why we liked them, and then creating clues for the teams, we thought you might like to join in the fun.
Submit your bench story with a photo (if you have one) at https://www.facebook.com/mary.mckschmidt1 and you’ll be entered into a drawing to receive a copy of our new book, Miracle Within Small Things: A Mother and Daughter’s Journey Through Loss and Aging. Mother will pull a name from a hat while sitting on her favorite bench the weekend of June 30th. The winner will be announced July 3rd.
Please join us!
I never noticed benches until several years ago, when my outdoor adventures with Mother—so essential to her health and mine—changed, based on the availability of benches. Our hope is to get others to notice benches, too. And join us in making more benches available for seniors in public spaces throughout Michigan communities. Maybe even beyond.
Awareness is the first step. And why not make it fun?
Later this month, 55 members of Mother’s family—to include several of her children, nieces, nephews, their children and grandchildren—will come to town to celebrate our 75th annual gathering as a family. The tradition began when Mother’s mother (a woman we called “Mom”) decided to invite her children to gather in June of 1948 to celebrate the safe return of her sons from World War II. We have been gathering as a family ever since.
This year, since we are the hosting the reunion, Mother and I decided to create a Bravo for Benches Scavenger Hunt focused on our favorite benches in town. We had such fun taking photos of the benches, thinking about why we liked them, and then creating clues for the teams, we thought you might like to join in the fun.
Submit your bench story with a photo (if you have one) at https://www.facebook.com/mary.mckschmidt1 and you’ll be entered into a drawing to receive a copy of our new book, Miracle Within Small Things: A Mother and Daughter’s Journey Through Loss and Aging. Mother will pull a name from a hat while sitting on her favorite bench the weekend of June 30th. The winner will be announced July 3rd.
Please join us!
5/29/23
I never imagined that I would hike the Tucson, Catalina, and Rincon Mountains with Mother; climb the 47 steps of the DeZwaan windmill with her on her 95th birthday so we might view the “Jane Tree Corner”; discuss sailing lingo together from a bench alongside Lake Macatawa; or sit at her feet every morning at 8:00 a.m. for a ritual we call “chair chat.” I call these things “healing.” For me. For Mother. To read our story—in poems and prose—purchase A Miracle Within Small Things: A Mother and Daughter’s Journey Through Loss and Aging by Jane McKinney and Mary McKSchmidt at your local bookstore or https://www.amazon.com/author/marymckschmidt. And because nature plays such an important role in both our lives, proceeds from the sale of our book will provide shade benches for seniors in Michigan communities.
May 22, 2023
Dockside
|
There is something soothing
about the slap of the waves against the hull, the warmth of a long-awaited spring sun, the sight of a lone seagull soaring overhead and then a runabout flying a “F_ Biden” flag chugs toward the channel and I forget my resolve to leave all angst in the parking lot until I remember how the women in the church took mother’s hand, said they’d pray for her, and how one, her dark eyes catching mine, whispered “And you, too” and how tears trickled down my face that morning, as they are now this first afternoon on the boat watching the sunlight on the water sparkling as it does on the vase he gave me for no reason save one. |
|
May 15, 2023
5.39 Minutes of Joy
Last week, I had the opportunity to share the stage with Mother as we presented our talk, "A Bench, a Tree, and a Flower" to residents in her senior living community. Standing next to Mother, my heart was as full as when I hear the call of the first bird in the forest at dawn.
As spring unfolds its glory, please take 5.39 minutes to listen, watch and be open to the beauty of the earth as seen from behind the lens of my camera and the magical voice of singer, songwriter, and Muskegon native Ruth Blumquist. Based on the reaction of the audience last week, I promise you won’t be disappointed.
As spring unfolds its glory, please take 5.39 minutes to listen, watch and be open to the beauty of the earth as seen from behind the lens of my camera and the magical voice of singer, songwriter, and Muskegon native Ruth Blumquist. Based on the reaction of the audience last week, I promise you won’t be disappointed.
May 8, 2023
Daughter: The dandelion is her favorite she tells me after I pull the gangly plant flourishing outside her bedroom window in the green carpet of the mock strawberry.
Daughter: The dandelion is her favorite she tells me after I pull the gangly plant flourishing outside her bedroom window in the green carpet of the mock strawberry.
Special Plants
by Jane McKinney, co-author of Miracle Within Small Things
|
They are invasives--
the most hated ones-- the ones no one wants growing in their gardens. They thrive in ditches along country roads. On a Sunday drive I saw them and cut a few to put in vases throughout my apartment. Some are purple, some white-- one even orange. Some are large blooms, some small. All are beautiful. They are called weeds. |
Daughter:
The dandelion is her favorite
she tells me after I pull the gangly plant flourishing outside her bedroom window
in the green carpet of the mock strawberry.
I should have known better.
|
“Special Plants” is an excerpt from our book, Miracle Within Small Things: A Mother and Daughter's Journey Through Loss and Aging. Combining poems and prose, we explore loss, change, commitment, aging, loneliness, and joy. Especially joy. A perfect Mother's Day gift, the book is now available at bookstores and online.
May 2023--the season of weddings, graduations, celebrations
'Don't Let It Fly'
|
Don’t Let It Fly or the Great Lakes Will Cry
A campaign to eliminate balloons from the skies above the Great Lakes First launched by Kathy Nemeth and Donna Altman's 4th grade classes at Quincy Elementary in Zeeland, MI in 2007 Join the Campaign & Spread the Word
|
Someday, I hope the only colors we see in the skies above our Great Lakes are those gloriously painted by God!
|
April 24, 2023
Birth of a Book
Eavesdropping on an Interview with the Co-Authors
|
Daughter: Creating this book is the result of “chair chat,” the thirty-to-forty minutes Mother and I spend together every morning—she in the recliner, me on the floor at her feet.
Mother: “It’s very precious time together. We share our writing, plan outdoor adventures, get to know each other better. It occurs first thing in the morning—and that’s important.” Daughter: “It occurs before the necessary ‘to-do’s’ like helping her get dressed, having breakfast, slogging through exercises. Chair chat enhances the great days, gets us through the tougher ones. The most meaningful mornings are when we share our poems. That’s why we created this book. Mother: It was a great joy to work on this book with my daughter. The |
book details many things that are important to me: God, family, nature, joy, my dog, life outside my window.
Daughter: During COVID, chair chat was also a time we planned “adventures,” fun things we could do together to break through the suffocating isolation of the pandemic. Initially, the focus was on visiting city and public parks—where chair chat could continue on outdoor benches. But Michigan’s weather can be limiting, particularly in the winter.
Mother: That’s true—especially since I was born in Oklahoma, spent a good portion of my youth in Texas, and the last twenty-plus years in Arizona.
Daughter: Creating a book together became an “indoor adventure.” We hope Miracle Within Small Things becomes a Mother’s Day gift from child to mother; but also, from mother to child. We hope it serves as an invitation to engage in dialogue about those things that really matter in life. And because outdoor benches make it easier to begin those conversations—when immersed in the lively, often breathtaking, never-dull world of nature—proceeds from our book will put more benches in more public spaces in Michigan communities.
Daughter: During COVID, chair chat was also a time we planned “adventures,” fun things we could do together to break through the suffocating isolation of the pandemic. Initially, the focus was on visiting city and public parks—where chair chat could continue on outdoor benches. But Michigan’s weather can be limiting, particularly in the winter.
Mother: That’s true—especially since I was born in Oklahoma, spent a good portion of my youth in Texas, and the last twenty-plus years in Arizona.
Daughter: Creating a book together became an “indoor adventure.” We hope Miracle Within Small Things becomes a Mother’s Day gift from child to mother; but also, from mother to child. We hope it serves as an invitation to engage in dialogue about those things that really matter in life. And because outdoor benches make it easier to begin those conversations—when immersed in the lively, often breathtaking, never-dull world of nature—proceeds from our book will put more benches in more public spaces in Michigan communities.
April 17, 2023
Presence of the Divine
for Reverend Fabio Garzon
|
It is like the first time I chanced upon a radiant
cluster of pink blossoms emerging from a prickly hedgehog thriving on the slope of a mountain; or the seemingly cold gray limestone of a glacier that cracked open for the royal blue of the gentians, white cups of the avens, yellow bells of the cowslip; or flitting about the blooms of a ninebark bush growing wild on Turnbull Island, so many monarchs, admirals, skippers, and swallowtails; or the site of two burrowing owls, heads gyrating, yellow eyes frowning beneath thin white eyebrows; or the wail of loons wafting across still waters as we waited in the cockpit for the moon; or the way a rainbow quietly appears in a misty rain; or how he made Mother and me feel in the unfamiliar church that Easter morning. |
April 10, 2023
'I Just Want to See the Sky'
When Mother and I decided to co-author a book together, we were looking for a crack in the isolating wall of COVID—something fun we might do together. We had no idea we would be starting a conversation with so many people about how we might help each other through the difficult years of aging. Like a poem, the book is taking unexpected turns as it creates a life of its own.
|
‘I Just Want to See the Sky’
Although it is raining, I open the door and step into the chilly air of April to feel the closeness of a sky heavy with spring’s moisture. Oblivious to the rain, I am lost in a downpour of emotions, my face turned upward by an email from a woman writing about her mother who, now confined to a wheel chair, sees only the stark white of a ceiling as she repeats her wish on every call to a daughter living so many miles away. |
|
April 2023, National Poetry Month
Now Available
‘A beautiful book about a powerful bond’ between mother and daughter
Excerpts from Miracle Within Small Things: A Mother and Daughter's Journey Through Loss and Aging
|
…a beautiful book about a powerful bond.” I love how this mother/daughter pair weaves their love for each other through each page as together they explore loss, pain, fear, change, commitment, aging, loneliness, and loss." |
|
Mother
Promise of Spring
Walking on the path
along the river with the trees budding and the birds singing I am overcome with the promise of spring. Everywhere there are “twos”-- the ducks in the water the geese along the shore-- even birds in the trees call eagerly to each other. Sometimes, instead of “twos” there are “threes” or even “fours” as little ones follow along behind the parents. It is spring-- joy and promise brighten the world. |
Daughter
Turquoise Plaid Pajamas
Will I remember how peaceful she looks tucked in the recliner, her comforter pulled up against her chin, the life-like golden retriever draped across her lap? How her head lists to the right as she sleeps? How delight sweeps across her face when she opens her eyes and I am there? How she raises her arms for a hug and her excitement is like a flock of robins feasting on the berries of a crabapple tree in winter? How anticipation, hers and mine, swirls about our shoulders as I slide down the side of the bed to the floor at her feet for our chat? How our conversation flows as a river, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, but always moving? How, when I help her rise from the recliner on the count of three, we pause for a morning embrace? How her hair tickles my nose as I kiss the top of her head? How the softness of her fleece pajamas breaks my heart open to the possibilities of each new day? How I left a note to the caregivers asking that mother’s pajamas be spared the whirling efficiency of the dryer? How I hoped air-drying would preserve the feel of the fleece?
|
March 2023
A Flower, a Tree, a Memory
Gardeners Sharing Stories That Matter
|
I was three. I remember a honeysuckle vine winding over the stoop and sitting there with my dad when he was on leave from the Navy in WWII.
My favorite memory is of dandelions. I was two. Yellow everywhere. I remember the roses in my grandpa’s garden. I was five. I knew then I wanted to be a gardener. The best of our family life happened under a huge maple tree in our front yard. Zinnias. My mom planted them every year. |
The bright spot in our neighborhood was my mother’s flower box on the porch. It was always filled with pansies and geraniums. I was seven.
I was eighteen when I planted a yellow rose in memory of my mother. It was her favorite.
There was an apple tree in our back yard. I was five, maybe six. It seemed huge, had blossoms and was perfect for climbing.
I was nineteen, a student at Michigan State. I gathered the seeds and acorns from white oak, apple, catalpa, and honey locust trees and planted them in pots. When they were strong enough, I transplanted them to my parents’ yard. Today they are huge.
When I was two, my mother and I planted tulip bulbs in the fall. She promised me flowers in the spring. They were beautiful!
My favorite is an apricot tree. When I was a child, I was told it bloomed on my birthday. I felt special.
I was four years-old and I remember picking tulips from our neighbor’s yard for my mom.
I was three when I discovered peonies. They were my grandmother’s favorite.
I remember the blue bachelor buttons in my grandpa’s fruit tree orchards. I feel nature through my ancestors.
When I was seven, I discovered a wildflower at the cabin and then learned its name was a German Chamomile.
The weeping willow is my favorite. It was such a great hiding spot! I was seven.
Sunflowers will always remind me of my time with my mom in the garden.
I think of tulips and lilac bushes. When I was a child, I took cuttings to school for my teacher.
I lined the sidewalk to my garage in my first home with impatients. I was nineteen.
Birch trees will always remind me of my aunt’s summer place along Munuscong Lake. I was five.
As a child I loved the trumpet vine and its red blossoms covering my grandmother’s kitchen window.
There was wild mustard growing in our yard. It was pretty and had a velvety feel. I was three.
I was five. I loved to walk through the oak trees on a hill covered in white—as if snow. They were spring beauties and awe-inspiring.
There was a pear tree in a nearby vacant lot. I was six. I remembering climbing the tree to eat the pears. Today there is a library on that lot.
Pine trees will always be my favorite. They remind me of my grandparents’ house.
Me? I was fifty-five when I discovered my first wildflower. It was a hepatica, discovered in the sand dunes of Indiana. I took a photograph and wrote a poem. It changed my life.
Please consider sharing your story of the first flower or tree you remember and why on my new Facebook page—mary.mckschmidt1. It is a memory that matters.
I was eighteen when I planted a yellow rose in memory of my mother. It was her favorite.
There was an apple tree in our back yard. I was five, maybe six. It seemed huge, had blossoms and was perfect for climbing.
I was nineteen, a student at Michigan State. I gathered the seeds and acorns from white oak, apple, catalpa, and honey locust trees and planted them in pots. When they were strong enough, I transplanted them to my parents’ yard. Today they are huge.
When I was two, my mother and I planted tulip bulbs in the fall. She promised me flowers in the spring. They were beautiful!
My favorite is an apricot tree. When I was a child, I was told it bloomed on my birthday. I felt special.
I was four years-old and I remember picking tulips from our neighbor’s yard for my mom.
I was three when I discovered peonies. They were my grandmother’s favorite.
I remember the blue bachelor buttons in my grandpa’s fruit tree orchards. I feel nature through my ancestors.
When I was seven, I discovered a wildflower at the cabin and then learned its name was a German Chamomile.
The weeping willow is my favorite. It was such a great hiding spot! I was seven.
Sunflowers will always remind me of my time with my mom in the garden.
I think of tulips and lilac bushes. When I was a child, I took cuttings to school for my teacher.
I lined the sidewalk to my garage in my first home with impatients. I was nineteen.
Birch trees will always remind me of my aunt’s summer place along Munuscong Lake. I was five.
As a child I loved the trumpet vine and its red blossoms covering my grandmother’s kitchen window.
There was wild mustard growing in our yard. It was pretty and had a velvety feel. I was three.
I was five. I loved to walk through the oak trees on a hill covered in white—as if snow. They were spring beauties and awe-inspiring.
There was a pear tree in a nearby vacant lot. I was six. I remembering climbing the tree to eat the pears. Today there is a library on that lot.
Pine trees will always be my favorite. They remind me of my grandparents’ house.
Me? I was fifty-five when I discovered my first wildflower. It was a hepatica, discovered in the sand dunes of Indiana. I took a photograph and wrote a poem. It changed my life.
Please consider sharing your story of the first flower or tree you remember and why on my new Facebook page—mary.mckschmidt1. It is a memory that matters.
March 1, 2023
Tipping Point
|
The first time I was in the Fountain Street Church in Grand Rapids was 2005. I sat in one of the leather chairs in a standing-room only crowd of people listening to a coalition of scientists, business leaders, government agencies, mayors, and others report the Great Lakes ecosystem was at a tipping point. If steps were not taken immediately, damage to 20% of the world’s fresh surface water could be irreversible.
After that evening, I and many others in attendance, became advocates for the Great Lakes. Working with people and organizations across the region we created the political will necessary to get bipartisan legislation drafted, passed, and funded. Over a decade later, with the continued involvement of the people, the Great Lakes Restoration Initiative remains a Congressional priority. A year ago, while watching the horrific scenes of the unprovoked attack on Ukraine by Russia, the heartbreaking faces of families fleeing their |
|
homes, I experienced the same bubbling anger I did when I sat in the church that evening in 2005. Remembering the power of political will, I wrote the poem, “Standing United.”
On Friday, February 24th, the one-year anniversary of the invasion of Ukraine, I returned to the Fountain Street Church. Thanks to the tireless efforts of editor GF Korreck, I joined seventeen of the poets who contributed to the anthology Busy Griefs, Raw Towns, a book whose proceeds benefit relief efforts in Ukraine. Standing at the podium, I recalled that when I wrote my poem, my hand was in a cast from my fingertips to my elbow. Today, both hands are functional and healthy, but the message the same. The future of Ukraine depends, in part, on the political will of the American people; on our willingness to make financial support a priority; to engage those who represent us in Congress. It is something we can actually “do” to make a difference in this war. It is the very thing the people of Ukraine are fighting to protect—a government of the people, by the people, for the people.
On Friday, February 24th, the one-year anniversary of the invasion of Ukraine, I returned to the Fountain Street Church. Thanks to the tireless efforts of editor GF Korreck, I joined seventeen of the poets who contributed to the anthology Busy Griefs, Raw Towns, a book whose proceeds benefit relief efforts in Ukraine. Standing at the podium, I recalled that when I wrote my poem, my hand was in a cast from my fingertips to my elbow. Today, both hands are functional and healthy, but the message the same. The future of Ukraine depends, in part, on the political will of the American people; on our willingness to make financial support a priority; to engage those who represent us in Congress. It is something we can actually “do” to make a difference in this war. It is the very thing the people of Ukraine are fighting to protect—a government of the people, by the people, for the people.
|
Standing United
With my one good hand I type an email to my Republican congressman to thank him for standing united with the president with Ukraine with NATO with all democracies including ours fighting to survive an invasion by a predator so common it is has become invisible like the PFAS in our water yet so debilitating it threatens the health and lives of all. It is called power. |
February 16, 2023
Influence of Gardeners
For the Petal Pushers Garden Club of Kalamazoo
In the autumn, a mother removed dead leaves from geraniums and hung them upside-down in the cellar. Winter skeletons. A child slipped down the stairs to the dimly-lit room to wait for the green sticks to become leaves. Journeys through darkness. Decades later, a neighbor’s pile of deadheaded geraniums. Can she take them? the daughter asks. Hooks hung on basement walls. In late spring, two neighbors walk through the lime green of their gardens. On their porches, pots of crimson red blossoms.
add compost to the soil
use care to not overwater
she misses her mother
The first Monday of the month the gardeners knock on the door of the memory care facility, a twenty-year-ritual halted for three by the pandemic. The aroma of fresh-cut flowers announces the women’s arrival. Laughter and chatter echo down hallways as they gather around tables typically used for meals. On the smooth veneer surfaces, they place blossoms and boughs watered with the sweat of experience, fertilized with the wisdom of prior generations. Included are buckets from a local grocer. “Flowers faded in the eyes of discerning shoppers,” he says, “but still plenty of life remaining.”
unfamiliar sounds
scent of fresh-cut Fraser firs
a face softens
Timidly, residents crack the doors to their rooms, peer through the sliver of light to eye the colorful chaos splayed across the scripted inner world of their lives. Slowly, they shuffle to the tables and finger the flowers.
morning’s frost gone
red berries among glossy leaves
she remembers robins
The face of the recreational therapist beams at this return to normalcy as she walks around the tables, listening to voices rarely heard. “Can I give this to my daughter?” “Yes.” “Can I take this to my room?” “Yes.” Perhaps the flowers will usher afternoon’s sun into the sundowning shadows of evening.
whetstone-sharpened shears
snow swirls in billowing winds
a voice whispers “rose”
This month, I, too, am at the table. I remember my grandmother’s roses climbing a trellis outside her bedroom window, soft pink petals peering at me as I sat at the foot of her bed. A widow for most her adult life, she raised seven children alone. I hear her voice, instructing her grandchildren on how to pick beans from the rows adjacent the chicken coop. I see her boney fingers filtering the earth, crumbling the red clay of Oklahoma so her plants would thrive.
we called her “mom”
she asked us to gather every June
plates of fresh vegetables
On my drive home from the facility, I stop to meet the local grocer and purchase two brightly-colored bouquets. One is for my mother. The other is for my husband—the gardener I unknowingly married; the one who plants tomatoes, cucumbers, and zinnias in the community garden; the man tending hyacinths and amaryllis in the room in which we have coffee every winter morning.
add compost to the soil
use care to not overwater
she misses her mother
The first Monday of the month the gardeners knock on the door of the memory care facility, a twenty-year-ritual halted for three by the pandemic. The aroma of fresh-cut flowers announces the women’s arrival. Laughter and chatter echo down hallways as they gather around tables typically used for meals. On the smooth veneer surfaces, they place blossoms and boughs watered with the sweat of experience, fertilized with the wisdom of prior generations. Included are buckets from a local grocer. “Flowers faded in the eyes of discerning shoppers,” he says, “but still plenty of life remaining.”
unfamiliar sounds
scent of fresh-cut Fraser firs
a face softens
Timidly, residents crack the doors to their rooms, peer through the sliver of light to eye the colorful chaos splayed across the scripted inner world of their lives. Slowly, they shuffle to the tables and finger the flowers.
morning’s frost gone
red berries among glossy leaves
she remembers robins
The face of the recreational therapist beams at this return to normalcy as she walks around the tables, listening to voices rarely heard. “Can I give this to my daughter?” “Yes.” “Can I take this to my room?” “Yes.” Perhaps the flowers will usher afternoon’s sun into the sundowning shadows of evening.
whetstone-sharpened shears
snow swirls in billowing winds
a voice whispers “rose”
This month, I, too, am at the table. I remember my grandmother’s roses climbing a trellis outside her bedroom window, soft pink petals peering at me as I sat at the foot of her bed. A widow for most her adult life, she raised seven children alone. I hear her voice, instructing her grandchildren on how to pick beans from the rows adjacent the chicken coop. I see her boney fingers filtering the earth, crumbling the red clay of Oklahoma so her plants would thrive.
we called her “mom”
she asked us to gather every June
plates of fresh vegetables
On my drive home from the facility, I stop to meet the local grocer and purchase two brightly-colored bouquets. One is for my mother. The other is for my husband—the gardener I unknowingly married; the one who plants tomatoes, cucumbers, and zinnias in the community garden; the man tending hyacinths and amaryllis in the room in which we have coffee every winter morning.
February 1, 2023
The Holiday Card
“We’ll Be Friends Forever, Won’t We, Pooh?”
Piglet in A.A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh
Piglet in A.A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh
|
He waits until making eye contact, shoulders hunched
over a red walker, black jacket zipped to his chin, hood pulled about his head as the uncharacteristic winds roar through the month of holidays. Gloved hand clutching both walker and envelope, he inches toward me slowly but with resolve. He asks if I know the area—a sidewalk as familiar as the road to my house. Pointing to the block-like printing on the envelope, he says he is looking for #229. I offer to run ahead to my mother’s building, to scan the roster posted outside locked doors, see if there is a match on the second floor. There is not and I am surprised by how few names I now recognize since first opening these doors eight years ago. I offer to jog to the other building. He shakes his head. “I live there. He does not.” In halting phrases, he tells me about his friend, an entrepreneur, a man of influence. I key the name into my phone and gently ask if his friend might have passed, not mentioning it has been twenty-seven years. The man’s shoulders shrug beneath his jacket. “I might have used an old address list,” he murmurs before turning and beginning the walk home, envelope still in hand. |
|
In May, from a mother and daughter comes a book in prose and poems
Miracle Within Small Things:
A Mother and Daughter's Journey Through Loss and Aging
January 2023
|
After she loses her husband of sixty-three years and six weeks later, her beloved dog, Jane McKinney turns to writing poetry to find comfort. Residing in Arizona and feeling isolated from her six children located in the eastern part of the country, she moves to an independent senior living facility in West Michigan to be closer. Her daughter, Mary, lives seven miles away. Together they find comfort and delight in writing, in nature, in a variety of outdoor adventures as they weather the loss of loved ones, the often grim realities of aging and the threat of the ever-lurking coronavirus. When Jane falls in the midst of the pandemic, Mary becomes the primary caregiver. Her mother in the recliner, Mary on the floor at her feet, the two create a daily ritual they call “chair chat.” Sharing their writing, an intimacy develops between mother and daughter as they reveal their respective journeys to find peace of mind and joy of heart, even in life’s most difficult times. Threading through both their stories is the importance of nature in healing.
|
