Even though I was in moving water, I knew I was stuck. “How much is the ticket?” I asked, bracing myself.
“One hundred and eighty-six dollars,” she replied.
I just about toppled out of my boat. One hundred and eighty-six dollars! Was she kidding?! I looked at her pistol and decided probably not.
During this whole conversation, I was struggling to control my sail against a blowing breeze by heading into the wind and letting my sail go slack. It’s not exactly like stepping on the brakes or pulling the car over to the side of the road. But apparently, a sailor’s wind was not a warden’s worry.
With about thirty feet of water between us, she shouted out her questions: Name? Address? Age? I miserably shouted my answers back, ducking the wildly flapping boom like a middle-aged woman practicing hip-hop out in the middle of the lake.
For a moment, I thought about pretending my boat was out of control and just sailing away, but I figured she’d tailgate me until I ran aground. I also thought about capsizing as a diversion, but I sensed she’d probably hand me the ticket while I was treading water next to my half-submerged boat.
Thankfully, common sense prevailed, for I’d heard of this warden’s reputation. Newspaper accounts reported that she had once hidden in the woods for over forty-eight hours in an effort to entrap out-of-season hunters. You didn’t mess with this badge number.
Finally, she cruised up on my port side, handing me the ticket and actually pointing a finger at the boating regulations book for me to read as proof.
As luck would have it, my sailing ropes wrapped around her boat cleats, tangling our vessels up tighter than a fish on a barbed hook. Capsizing the warden would have been the last thing I needed.
At last I was set free (both literally and figuratively) and with my ticket tucked in the bottom of my swimsuit (an appropriate place if there ever was one), I cruised home, the wind, as they say, out of my sails. My husband and I immediately measured my boat upon return: thirteen feet, eight inches. Guilty as charged.
Several weeks later, to my further chagrin, an embarrassing newspaper account appeared. There’s misery in company, however, and over half the newspaper page was devoted to Department of Natural Resources violations, with a great many offenders coming from Illinois. It seems we Illinoisans keep the Wisconsin tills full, not only with our tourism but also with our negligence.
But I felt better when I read about the guy who got a $148.20 fine for failing to cover a battery in a boat; the fisherman who was nailed $248.60 for keeping a 13½-inch bass (apparently a smidge too short); and the dude who got socked for $160.80 for “overloading a pontoon with eighteen people—only two of whom were under a hundred pounds.” Was there a scale? And how exactly did the powers that be arrive at those odd dollar and cents amounts?
Obviously the laws exist for the protection of the lakes, the wildlife, and the people. And those big fines will make most of us pay much closer attention. My check’s in the mail and the registration is ordered. Mea culpa.
But as I scanned the columns for my crime, a lucky surprise greeted me. My tricky last name was botched beyond recognition. Thank you, Sister Wind!
At least, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Leap of Faith
They dream big. Rock star, business owner, international marketing director. Eighteen-year-old seniors on the cusp of their graduation look down the river of their dreams and see wide open spaces with endless possibilities.
As their teacher, I like it. I like their verve, attitude, and confidence. I want some for myself.
Sitting in the cool, gray high school cafeteria these last few days of school, I listened to my seniors in advanced speech class as they shared their goals and dreams in front of their peers.
I am amazed by their visions of success. Self-doubt does not exist. They speak with sparkling eyes and enthusiastic voices that lend instant credibility to their goals, no matter how lofty or obscure.
When Peter says he can hear musical compositions in his head and wants to be a rock star, no one laughs. We’ll be the first in line to buy his CDs. When Brittany says she wants to be a sports anchorwoman, we know we’ll tune in. When Kevin says he wants to direct films, we envision his name on the credits.
I ponder these youthful outlooks as I pack up my classroom for the last time, not for the summer but for good. I have decided to leave teaching.
My twelve-year career in education began in the early 1970s at a junior high school, when I was fresh out of college and pursuing my own dream as an English teacher. It stopped six years later when I started my family and resumed twenty years after that. In between, I raised my three sons and worked as a freelance writer. Ten days before school started in the fall of 1997, nursing a need for change, I answered the call for a high school journalism teacher.
But on a cold day this past January, as I stood alone in my classroom, the idea slid slowly but perceptively into my head: perhaps it was time to make a course change and move on. My reasons are varied and complex, but mainly I want to get back to my own writing and see where it leads. If there is anything I’ve learned from teenagers these last six years, it’s that the shackles of fear and failure do not hold them down. And so with a big breath, I run off the end of the dock and take a flying leap, not sure of where I’ll land.
There are things I won’t miss about teaching: the apathy and indifference of some students, the endless after-school work to read and grade, the challenging students that tested my patience and temper.
But there are so many more things that I will miss: amazing creativity, belly-shaking laughter, and some of the finest, most dedicated colleagues one could hope to work with over a lifetime.
On the last day of school, I took my advanced speech class down to the river to provide a picturesque setting for their farewell speeches. Although they couldn’t wait to graduate and get out of town, I wanted to place them in the midst of their hometown to say their goodbyes.
As we sat in the shade of the river walk pavilion, the early morning sunlight sparkled off the river and bounced up to the pavilion’s pitched, cobwebbed ceiling. Behind us, the historic Challenge Windmills spun in lazy circles, casting symmetrical shadows across meandering paths.
One by one, each student strode confidently to the apex of the eight-point star in the pavilion’s center to say farewell. As we listened intently to their funny high school stories and plans for the summer, the sweet song of water rushing over a nearby dam whispered that freedom was just around the bend.
I knew that I was experiencing the epitome of teaching: when all is going well, when laughter, camaraderie, and ideas fill the air, when clear-eyed youths look down a river of hope and see a bright light beckoning.
For me, it was a perfect way to end a teaching career. And with that youthful energy embedded in my soul like a sparkling prism, it was a perfect way to step into my own flowing river of hopes and dreams and begin again.
Child-Rearing Changes
Thankfully, the babies haven’t changed. But the rules for caring for them have, and that spells trouble for new grandparents.
When our daughter-in-law was rushed to the hospital for an emergency appendectomy, Grandpa and I were called on to care for our four-week-old granddaughter. Racing to the emergency room to retrieve her, we were confident that the wisdom and experience of raising our own three sons would guide us through the next two nights and two days with her.
We quickly discovered, however, we were once again nursery novices.
Our first hurdle was the car seat. Locking her bucket in place was no problem. Getting it out was. Even at four weeks old, our little granddaughter knew something was up as she watched Grandpa wrestle to unlock her from the car.
“You just push this red button in the back,” our son had advised. But in the dark of night, where the heck was the button and why wouldn’t it unlock?
Other grandparent friends have struggled with this same issue and admitted to just about pulling out the whole back
seat to get the dang car seat out. In fact, thirty years ago when our first son was born, we didn’t even have car seats. Our friends confessed that they put their toddlers in the back end of the station wagon and let them crawl around. Clearly, those were very different times, before the introduction of safety regulations or safety devices to guide us.
Our next challenge was thawing out the frozen breast milk in order to feed the now hungry baby. Thankfully, our other daughter-in-law, who is mother to our five-month-old granddaughter, became our mommy consultant.
No microwaving (it breaks down the enzymes). No placing in boiling water. Just gentle, warm water thawing.
This was all fine, except at my first 1:30 a.m. feeding, by the time I got my granddaughter’s diaper changed and the bottle warmed, she had gone back to sleep.
There are also new methods for putting babies to bed. Back in our Dark Ages, we were instructed to put the babies on their tummies and cover them with warm blankets. Nowadays, this is a big no-no. Babies are to be placed on their backs with no loose blankets. Consequently, this has dramatically reduced the incidence of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.
As I slept (and I use that word loosely) on the couch next to my granddaughter’s bassinet, I checked on her all through the night to see if she was warm enough. When she peeped or sighed, I checked to see if she was hungry. When she was quiet, I checked to see if she was still breathing. Nana resembled the Energizer Bunny.
She, of course, slept like a baby and that’s all that mattered.
By Day Two, I knew she needed a bath, but the baby tub was some new-fangled contraption that fit over the kitchen sink with a sling strung in the middle. Who knew which end was up? Back in our day, we just used the kitchen sink, holding the baby in the crook of an arm as we soaped and splashed. Baby and mother were usually both soaked by the end, but it worked.
The mystery tub was too much of a challenge after a sleepless night, so I opted for a sponge bath and nixed the task of shampooing her fine, dark hair. To my sleepy eyes, she still looked presentable.
Of course, a myriad of other things have changed since our early days as parents. Crib slats are required to be much closer together to prevent little heads from getting stuck. (You might as well throw away those old cribs you’ve been saving all these years.) Strollers resemble a complete jungle gym and, together with the car seat, weigh enough to stress even the buffest mom or dad. Bottles are completely aerodynamic, as long as you can figure out how to screw the nipple on. Doctors recommend that solid foods be presented at a much later age and that they come from an organic source. I don’t think my granddaughter’s first sentence will resemble my son’s at eighteen months: “John wants more Coke!”
Thankfully, burping and diapering are pretty much the same, provided you can figure out the front of the diaper and how to unstick the tabs. Grandpa had not changed a diaper in twenty-three years and, as luck would have it, he was treated to a very poopy one. But he managed to get the job done.
Fortunately, my daughter-in-law’s surgery went well, and when our son brought her home from the hospital, they walked in to see their beautiful baby snuggled on her grandpa’s warm shoulder. Both were dozing.
There was a little poop stain on the back of her pretty sleeper, the result of Grandpa’s changing technique, and her hair looked a bit greasy, I admit. But she was clean and dry and burped and fed. Most importantly, she’d been held, read to, and even sung to in Nana’s off-key voice.
Despite all the changes in child-rearing, there is one thing we outdated grandparents are very good at. And that is providing our steadfast love.
Never changes. Never ends.
Owner’s Manual
It was a dark and stormy night. Or at least in my nightmares it seems that way. Actually, it was a bright and sunny day when our tire blew out. If it had been a dark and stormy night, we would really have been in trouble.
It was difficult enough trying to figure out how to assemble the jack, locate the spare, and find the axle in broad daylight. Current car commercials make one think that the technical engineering of our automobiles would put them right up there with the Mars spacecraft. Alas, somewhere along this high-tech pursuit, someone forgot about keeping the jack and spare tire instructions simple. After our recent experience, I’d put changing a tire right up there with solving a Rubik’s Cube.
Setting off on a twenty-mile trip to town from our cabin on a beautiful fall day in northern Wisconsin, my husband and I heard a weird noise coming from the right side of our car, as if we were dragging a big stick. For once in our lives, we decided not to ignore a car sound we could not identify and stopped to take a look.
To our surprise, the back right tire was flatter than a run-over penny on a train track. Turning the car around, we slowly drove the half mile back to the cabin where we would be able to change the tire on the garage floor’s hard surface. At least we knew that much.
Like a swat team, the two of us searched the car for the jack and spare tire to no avail. Finally, my husband discovered the jack. Located in a cleverly camouflaged compartment behind the second row seat, it consisted of four skinny pipes that looked like Tinker Bell’s wand had been in a fight and lost.
My husband and I looked at each other in dismay. How the heck did this contraption fit together and where in the world did it jack up the car?
It was time to pull out the owner’s manual.
Oh the shame of it, the shame! What dignified, self-respecting person ever reads the owner’s manual? And while I am at it, whatever happened to the good old days when a jack was a jack?
In our defense, we are not tire-changing neophytes. We changed our first tire together as dating teenagers on another deserted Wisconsin road in the middle of a forest with only the starlight to guide us. We found the escapade hilarious; my parents understandably did not.
In addition, I am a veteran witness to tire-changing, having grown up in the 1950s when my family of seven experienced a tire blowout on virtually every annual summer vacation to the Northwoods and back that I can remember.
Sooner or later on our 450-mile odyssey, the familiar thumpity-thump-thump would resound through the open windows of our packed-to-the-brim station wagon with a canoe on top. With a few swears under his breath, my father would deftly pull the car to the side of an empty country road where a cluster of cows served as our only company.
But we didn’t panic. We had this tire-changing nailed, so to speak. Our biggest challenge was to untie the canoe from the top of the car and unload all the luggage and vacation paraphernalia from the back end of the station wagon in order to retrieve the jack and spare.
Back then, even kids knew the spare tire’s location; all jacks basically looked the same and always fit next to the wheel well; and no one needed an owner’s manual to assemble them, nor was there one even if you’d wanted it.
With a few good cranks of the jack, that car rose up faster than a phoenix out of the ashes. A couple good twists of the wrench and the bolts came flying off. On went the spare, back went the bolts, back went the belongings and the canoe, and we were back on the road in a matter of hours. Child’s play.
Unfortunately, the old adage “Don’t fix what ain’t broken” got overlooked in the computer-age tire tune-up department.
And so I have to admit, we opened the owner’s manual to the index and looked up “jack,” page 342. In a flat and halting voice that sounded like Frankenstein’s, I slowly read the instructions out loud to my husband.
“Assemble the jack and jacking tools as shown. Connect jack handle driver (A) to two extensions (B), then to the lug wrench (C).”
Now, ours is not a fancy car. It is a basic American-made model, a medium-sized SUV, but I’ll be danged if we couldn’t identify the axle where we were instructed to fit the jack because there was so much metal hanging beneath the carriage of the car.
Before long, we two grandparents, college educated with master’s degrees, were slithering under the car on the sandy gara
ge floor like a couple of snakes.
“I think I’ve found it!” I shouted. “Look at this picture on page 344. It matches!”
We were so happy, you’d think we’d won the lottery.
Luckily, in our search beneath the car, we also discovered the spare tire. What genius decided to hide it down there is beyond me because our next quandary was how to disengage it. Back to the owner’s manual, page 340.
“The spare tire is stowed under the rear of the vehicle by means of a cable winch mechanism. To remove or stow the spare, use the jack handle to rotate the spare tire drive’ nut. The nut is located under a plastic cover at the center-rear of the cargo floor area, just inside the lift gate opening.”
There you have it. Easy as pie.
As a bonus, there were enough CAUTION! warnings surrounding every direction that I felt I was entering Bill O’Reilly’s No Spin Zone.
Somehow we figured it out, and slowly, slowly the spare tire floated down beneath the car like a spaceship twirling in an outer galaxy. Our sense of being in the twilight zone was complete.
Eventually, we accomplished our task. The manual’s parting note was to stow the tire “beauty” side up. This must have been an inside joke, because, believe me, if there was a beauty side to that tire, I failed to recognize it.
Gratefully, we were soon back on the road to town where the nice tire man informed us that our flat tire was ruined. When he replaced the spare a few days later, I watched in wonder as he whipped that tire off and put on the new one in a matter of minutes.
Of course, he was using a power jack that could have shot our two-ton car to the moon. I’ve put one on my Christmas list.
Yet, like all good nightmares, mine was not over. Recently, I bought a car seat for my two infant granddaughters. After a few mind-boggling attempts to connect it properly, I was beginning to think tire changing looked easy.
As frustrated as a two-year-old and in fear of going ballistic, I once again succumbed to the instruction manual. Imagine my horror when I read:
On a Clear Night Page 12
