And one thought leads to another. In my recent, reminiscent rant about the fleeting magic of Michigan summers, I began to be assailed by otherworldly beach memories, remembering all the times that we'd circumvented the unpredictability and uncertainty of the Midwest summer by simply finding it somewhere else. In truth, the Great Lakes can be cold and cruel, emotionally unavailable nine months out of the year. But if a sunny beach were a glass of wine, it will always be five o' clock somewhere. Right? It's a northern thing. 

And which Michigander doesn't hold forth their first memory of Great Lake to ocean upgrade as something akin to sacred? Whether it was just a walk on the beach when you were wise enough to appreciate the majesty and the mystery of such a powerful earthly force, or if you literally flung yourself irreverently into the shock of rolling waves as a child, you're not likely to forget. I was somewhere in between, a blessedly adventurous thirteen year old, when an aunt and uncle invited me on a Florida vacation that included an ocean side stop on Daytona Beach. I'll always be grateful to them for opening up that world to me at that exact time -- young enough to play and old enough to remember. Even all these years later, the memory of my cousin and I rushing unreservedly, laughing into that roaring blue expanse still delights me.  As children, you don't worry about sand in your crack or swallowing saltwater or what monstrous creatures might lurk below the surface. It's pure unadulterated, uninhibited joy. That was us, rolling in the waves. We had cheap, inflatable rafts, and in no time, we discovered that if we pointed ourselves, well timed, into the advancing swells, that we could ride the waves, almost vertically for a time before they would roll us over and over onto the shore and we could do it all over again. We had invented our own brand of surf-flying, and nobody could convince us otherwise. We flew for hours, maybe days, oblivious to anything beyond us. 

The ocean is like that, I've discovered since then. It has a magical quality that can take us away from the world and remind us to play. It's pulled me back again and again, with my husband, my children, my friends, adding to that very first memory with layers of hope, humor, sun kissed romance, and bittersweet transitions.  

Hope - When my Kelsey Brooke was almost three, she was diagnosed with deadly disease that, in many ways, our family still fights today. For the most part, though, that's another story for another day. What's important here is that she got one of those wonderful, all expenses paid dream trips for critically ill children that restore your faith in humanity, and we all went to the beach for an afternoon. It was around her fourth birthday in late October, and it was a little too cold to actually swim. But I remember the blue . . . the blue of the sky and the breaking blue-white of the rolling waves . . . the blue of her dress, and the blue compassion in her sister's seven year old eyes as my girls held hands and walked along the sand . . . the blue of melancholy hope carried on the southern autumn breeze, and the blue of leaping dolphins that made a serendipitous appearance just off the shore as my husband snapped a picture. I felt the ocean speaking to me that day, and I'll always know peace as the color blue.   

Humor - Same daughter, eight years later (yeah!!!). It began with a random glance at a news feature and a rather presumptuous conversation in waist deep water off Madeira Beach in St. Pete and ended in a jet ski debacle so Hellishly hilarious that we still tease Kelsey about it to this day. I'd been hustling the family out the door for a vacation day at the beach, and in turning off the TV, happened to catch an aerial view of the Florida coast that captured hundreds of migrating, feeding sharks. Not being an alarmist and accepting the explanation that it was a normal phenomena and that shark attacks are relatively rare, I kept it in the back of my mind, but never mentioned it . . . until later that day. As if she'd read my mind, Kelsey asked me, as we frolicked in the murky shallows, "Mom, are there sharks out here?" Now my youngest daughter has always, from the time she was a baby, struck me as eminently sensible and precocious, so that was the reason why I felt okay conveying what I had seen on TV that morning, with a final assurance that went something like, "They're probably all over the place out here, but don't worry . . . they won't bother us." In retrospect, that probably wasn't the greatest idea, but she seemed to accept it . . . Later that day, Stephen rented us a jet ski (it was the perfect storm) -- one of those giant versions that would comfortably fit the three of us (Britty had opted out) -- and we were all tooling around in the Gulf of Mexico, exploring the byways and looking for dolphins. After a while, Stephen slowed to a stop to turn around and ask us a question. It was right at that second that we all heard and felt it (we commiserated later) . . . a distinct, reverberating THUD from somewhere in the nether regions of the jet ski . . . and the whole craft flipped over, dumping all three of us neatly into the water. Not to worry. The nice man at the rental place had explained to us just what to do in such an event. Stephen immediately attempted to give it a firm two handed grasp behind the seat to quickly flip it upright. This was very difficult for him as his daughter had shot up out of the water like a flying fish and was crab walking over his back in an attempt to reach the safety of the inverted jet ski. He went down like a stone and when he came up, spitting water, she was flailing around on his head, wild-eyed, toes curled over his ears. He shook her off and she came back with a vengeance, mowing him under again. The second time he came up, he looked over at me gaping at the scene, bobbing guiltily in the water at a safe distance, and asked, "Is she for real?" Uhhhmm. . . yeah, babe . . . sorry.  At some point I must have decided that whatever was lurking around under the boat might be scarier than my demon daughter, because I managed to distract her just long enough for him to finally flip the ski and get us all back on before it ate us or she drowned us. Kelsey is still afraid of fish. We are still a little afraid of her.

Romance - Between my husband and myself, I would definitely have to describe myself as the romantically challenged one. There is nothing like a beach rendezvous to access my inner damsel, though. One day, I was reading on the beach, and Stephen turned right into Thor, the God of Thunder, which is completely fitting because he is of distinct Scandinavian descent, all blonde and chiseled. On a late afternoon on Clearwater Beach, I lay on my stomach facing the water, elbows propped in the sand, so completely absorbed in a novel that I didn't notice storm clouds rolling in off the water. It was only when a shadow fell over my page that I finally looked up to find him standing directly in front of me, blocking my view of the water. "What are you doing?" I asked him, peeking around his legs.  At the same time he answered "protecting you" I saw the long, fractured streaks of lightning illuminating through the purple clouds down to the midnight blue waters of the gulf beyond the sand. There wasn't a question of why we were still there. It was so beautifully mesmerizing that people stood staring all up and down the beach. But I thought how sweet that his first thought was to stand in the gap of my electrocution. The air had cooled, and I stood up to gaze with him. He put his arm around me, and I snuggled into the warm, beachy-skinned scent of him. My Thor.

More humor - Same Beach, different day, different kid. We love Clearwater Beach. White sand stretches down from a quaint little town full of restaurants and beach bum shops, and past snack huts that sell cotton candy and ice cream and hot dogs. There's a fishing pier and a pirate boat that mysteriously traverses the water out beyond the beach, beyond the jet skiers and kite sailors. Clearwater Beach has everything. And there are seagulls. So many seagulls. One day, we decided to bypass the restaurants and eat lunch on the beach. My Brittany had been looking forward to her hot dog all morning long. She sat on the beach savoring it, about to take another bite, navigating carefully around the ketchup and mustard and her windblown hair. I saw them coming. I saw the whole thing. I heard them first. . . their dive bomb rallying cry, and saw them feign left, then come swooping back for a surprise attack, a whole flock of seagulls intent on heisting my firstborn daughter's Oscar Meyer Wiener. I opened my mouth to scream a warning, but they were already there. My guess is that they'd perfected the beat the kid over the head til she relinquishes the food tactic. But they had underestimated their opponent. Brittany screamed and held on tighter, mustard squishing through her fingers. I don't know that she was being stubborn so much as in shock. And maybe really hungry. They screamed and beat harder, wings pommeling her head into a blonde tangle. "Throw it!" I screamed. And she did. But by that time there was such a crowd of them that in the total chaos and confusion, nobody could find the offending hotdog. They continued milling around beating my Britty over the head just for good measure. My motherly instincts really kicked in then. I picked up my beach towel and began flapping them off like a flag in a hurricane. The last we saw of them, they were harassing a little red-headed kid down the beach for his ice cream cone. We don't eat hotdogs on the beach anymore. Brittany still twitches when she passes a hot dog stand.

Transition - On a late afternoon in late December the year before Brittany left for college, we walked along another Florida beach watching the sun sink into the clouds. It was too cold to swim, and the beach was lonely and quiet except for one little family gathering a few more Christmas memories before flying home to Michigan. The seagulls were all huddled together warming themselves in great flocks down by the water. Kelsey Brooke got a mischievous glint in her eye. She grabbed her sister's hand, and pulled her into a run straight towards those somnolent seagulls. Maybe she thought to pay them back for stealing her sister's hot dog some years before. But the effect was striking and symbolic. The seagulls flew up, and my daughters flew with them, towards the setting sun. I might have cried a little.  

For those of us who choose to live our lives far, far north of the equator, with the ever changing rhythms of our lives dictated by the four seasons, summer is teasing us again. It happens like this in Michigan every year, yet people continue to be surprised by it. It's part of the rhythm. It's April 23 today. Yesterday it snowed. This morning when I went to let the dogs out, an angry wind was chasing a few rogue, frantic snowflakes around the yard. In unison, my bewildered pair of Boxer dogs gave me a desperate look that said Seriously?! Again?  

Oh, Michigan Summer! That fleeting stretch of days that fall sometime between July and August and rival Christmas for the anticipation and the magic. Northern summers. Long, languorous days that ficklely fade into balmy, billion star nights or cool fire-lit forays . . . the buzz of cicadas and fresh garden tomatoes and children splashing in cerulean blue pools until the fading sun calls them to dinner . . . Fireflies at dusk and the earthy scent of thousands of backyard bonfires drifting over neighborhoods and stretching wide through campfire woods and to the riverbanks of the Grand and the AuSable and the Shiawassee and the Manistique . . . Sleeping Bear sand dune mesas reached on aching legs under an unforgiving sun . . . just for the multitudes to gaze over giant, ancient lakes. A cool glass of Merlot under a warm night moon . . . or the Northern lights over the Mackinaw Bridge for the very lucky . . . 

I realize that right about now I'm sounding like Tim Allen on a Pure Michigan ad, but really! Doesn't the yearning begin to take you there when you're hit with an icy blast on a Thursday morning in April? Ferryboats and fudge and dodging horses on Mackinaw Island . . . Drinking  wine coolers and falling off water skis on Wamplers Lake . . . Up North cabins on Crystal Lake, motorcycles on backwoods highline trails, telling ghost stories around campfires, and rainy night Monopoly games . . . Fireworks in the suburbs that scare your dog under the bed and fireworks for two countries over  the Detroit River . . . Farmers markets and county fairs . . . 

What is your Michigan summer memory?

​I know it's not just this Michigan girl standing at the window, palms gripping the warm ceramic of a sunflower teacup, while wrapped in a fuzzy, oversized bathrobe, and gazing imploringly Heavenward. Let's all curse and pray. Like all Michiganders do every spring on thirty-five degree days. It's that time of year again.

On a late December afternoon one day in 1975, I had a near death experience that was so hauntingly beautiful that sometimes I think must have imagined it with a little help from the poets. I was walking home alone from school, and was just two houses away from my own front door when I found myself slammed to the ground in my velvet green Christmas coat, and quite literally within the foaming jaws of  a snarling German Shepherd. I obviously did not die, but as the physical scars and the emotional trauma of that day have faded over these many, many years, a strangely comforting imagery has replaced that little corner of terror in my brain with increasing clarity. It had been near the winter solstice -- the shortest days of the year -- and my bright haze of memories, like quickly turned pages, reflect that. A breath of wind at my ear and the soft, almost imperceptible rhythm of fresh snowcrunch as each footfall brought me closer to home. The low-hanging, smoky gray-blue canopy that created an insulating, almost holy quiet against the fading light of the day that reached over my should from the west. Splotches of blood stark red against the green and the drifted snow, and the gleam of a black patent leather shoe. The dizzying shock of spinning sky and cold concrete against bare skin. It had been so dark, but there were flashes of light. I had been so alone, but a half dozen faces swirled around me and voices called my name from different directions.  

I wish I could say that this was the most exciting thing that happened the year that I was eight, but 1975 was a big, bad year for me. There was a bleak, unholy heaviness in my home that eventually culminated in the divorce of my parents. I was chronically sick with tonsillitis. There was a new baby. And I learned a poem. Which might, at least in part, account for the unique -- some might say strange -- perspective I have on life . . . that the brightest light can be found in the terrible places. That there isn't anything that happens to you that can't build your wisdom and character. That every single, little piece of your life, every storm -- especially the storms -- are a piece for you to honor . . . whether having been celebrated or merely survived.  

Robert Frost's Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening has been one of my favorite poems since I was little girl imploring life for words, any words, anywhere, that might explain things, soften the sharp edges. His words were woven early into the fabric of my tiny soul long before I could even understand why and long after I required my sixth grade students to memorize them every year. They are simple and antiquated in their phrasing, but timeless.

A popular interpretation is of the narrator's imminent death. I don't know, but that fits into my schema just fine, because even death -- especially death -- and all of the dark places on the way there, are cause to examine life. In the expanse of our journeys, each and every one of us are going to come to the dark places. It's non-negotiable. And when we come to those places, when the light begins to dim, we'll need to remember our choices. We can close our eyes, and rush headlong through, just waiting for the ugly to end. Or we can stop long enough to look for for the beauty, find it, and tuck it away to someday remember what built us. 

I can't say that this is what I intentionally did  that day when I feared being ripped apart by an angry, evil dog. I can't say why the memory of the lovely parts -- the sky, the blaze of colors and light, the sound of my name -- preclude the abject terror and fear, and the image of a little girl huddled, wracking with shuddering sobs (I just now remembered that - I swear). But it's a skill that I seem to have developed over a lifetime and one that serves me well as a writer. It's a skill that I've accessed again and again over these last few months during this time that I've very deliberately chosen to slow down and turn over the stones of my life.  

Last week my friend Jean challenged me on my writing, on my subject matter. Not in a critical or confrontational way, but in her quiet Jean way, Socratic and leading. She asked about my writing blog. Which one? I had asked her . . . the teacher blog? The back injury blog? No, she had answered . . . the "writing" blog. "Wasn't that the purpose?" she pointed out, "to write about writing." And If you're in the field of education (or used to be), you should especially understand this. There's a buzzword "metacognition" which is the process of knowing what you know. So I got it. She was pointing out that I should talk more about my writing journey . . . write about writing. So this blog is my answer for her. I won't -- probably can't -- stop writing about every little thing that pops into my head, or on my TV screen for the evening news. But her inquiry, her expectation, helped me to dig deeper. It helped me to understand how I want, how I need my story to end (which is actually the question that my Kelsey Brooke recently asked . . . I have more than one muse, obviously). That by whatever circuitous route I need to take to get there, happy is my preferred conclusion. That it is a possibility. And that all of these words that lead up to The Middle of July are soul searching and practice. Not just practice, but the most important part of my journey, the part where I've learned to revisit even the darkest places, stopping to just breathe in the light of everything.  

Tonight I saw something on TV so ridiculous that I was actually astonished. Speechless even. I rewound three times just to make sure I had seen, heard, and understood correctly. And only succeeded in confirming that yes! The world is slowly going crazy in ways that we could never have imagined. And the media is at the front of the line leading us all straight to the loony bin. Okay, I guess THAT'S not a big revelation. But listen. A local news station, for reasons that in retrospect, I cannot fathom, decided to do a feature on the rise of food allergies in children. This got my attention right away as I happen to love a few children who fit the profile. So I tuned in, tearing myself away from my Louis L'Amour novel to completely focus, naively believing that I could be enlightened, informed, maybe learn something new. It was a full three and half minutes of my life that I'll never get back (that turned into ten and half due to the rewinds -- the third time I rewound, I actually felt compelled to clock the crazy). So here's what we got. Three news anchors and an allergy specialist from a reputable local hospital repeating the burning question Why? WHY? for a full three and a half minutes . . . all four appearing to be totally befuddled and confused as to WHAT WHAT? could be causing the astronomical rise in allergies that cause (my list here) asthma, hives, skin disorders, digestive problems, vomiting, malnutrition, vitamin deficiency, anemia, ear infections, upper respiratory infections, headaches, ADHD, behavioral disorders, insomnia, anxiety, depression, and anaphylactic shock. They actually mentioned none of these things, but were specific about some foods. Okay, one food. Peanuts. And the ultimate solution, after all the palms up, shoulder shrugging, and headscratching?  Wait for it . . . throw away the hand-sanitizer, and be sure to expose children to plenty of dirt, germs, and all foods as young as possible in order to build their immunities . . . because kids these days play too many video games. YOU CANNOT MAKE THESE THINGS UP.

Okay, I want to be fair here. . . in all respects. First, they were not taking themselves to task to explore the symptoms of allergies, but the causes. So it would seem reasonable that they might specifically mention the rise in allergies in regard to the major and very highly publicized culprits . . . wheat, dairy, milk, gluten products, artificial sweeteners top the list right off the top of my head (and I'm just a retired educator trying to make a go at a writing career -- what do I know?) . . . And then they might have wanted to explore the reasons why WHY? the incidence in allergies associated with these particular foods have manifested and increased exponentially over the last thirty years. That number is documented by various sources (I'll provide references). And it's actually a very interesting number to me, because with it I can personally trace the history of this seemingly strange phenomena of mysterious food allergies, while also demonstrating the perplexing history of denial from the mainstream medical field.  

My Brittany (momma to the two litte allergy ridden cuties pictured above and below) will be thirty years old this December.  I nursed her until she was about a year old, and then, as was - maybe is - standard protocol, I began to give her whole milk from a sippy cup. And the very first time I ever did, she broke out in bright red hives from just below her eyes to her to the top of her belly and began wheezing like a dying cat.  By the time I got her to the doctor, the hives had faded and she was breathing normally (of course).  Now at the time, my husband was in the military, and we didn't have one particular pediatrician with whom we'd built a relationship. So this doctor didn't know me from a flighty Eve.  When I explained what had happened, she looked at me condescendingly, and just said no.  No, what? I asked.  No, it wasn't the milk.  I must be mistaken, she said.  True milk allergies in children are very, VERY rare, she told me.  It had to have been something else.  So I took Brittany home, fed her normally for a few days, and then tried the milk again. Within seconds, she had hives the size of strawberries, and back to the doctor we went, but this time I packed up the sippy cup and brought it along. The next doctor was slightly less condescending when I told the story, and took the time to explain to me just how many mothers actually believed that their babies were allergic to milk. "They think that just because they throw up, that it means an allergy. Intolerance is not the same thing." Although that explanation sounded suspect to me, it wasn't my most immediate concern.  Obviously, she hadn't listened to a word I said.  So I plopped my baby up onto the table, handed her the sippy cup, and said, "Watch this."  It seemed the only way. Pretty soon there was a whole crowd of doctors gathered around as if this was the strangest anomaly they'd ever witnessed.  

And maybe it was thirty years ago. Maybe the newness of the allergy epidemic genuinely challenged everything that doctors had learned in medical school. But what I can't understand, what I absolutely cannot fathom is the persistent, pervasive, and collective denial that has been maintained over the course of the last three decades. Case in point: not long ago I visited my own family practice doctor for a routine physical and she noted my chronic, mild asthma.  There's no rhyme or reason, I told her.  It flares up at the oddest times.  I can do a hard forty-five minutes on my elliptical without the slightest wheeze, but then, I'll eat something and have to run for my inhaler. . . Is it possible, I had asked her, that it's connected to my diet?  She gave an emphatic no. She wasn't interested in exploring any further. She didn't seem to want to even entertain the thought. 

Here's a more extreme example, and one that makes me angry.  In 2006, when she was thirteen, my niece, Whitney, woke up one morning with a headache that would persist in varying degrees of pain over the course of the next several years.  Her pediatrician initially diagnosed her with a sinus infection and prescribed antibiotics. When the pain persisted unabated, she went to have her eyes checked, and nothing unusual was noted. At a loss, her pediatrician referred her to a pediatric neurologist who ordered a series of extensive tests which included cat scans, an MRI, and a spinal tap. Nothing yielded any answers. Subsequently, she was prescribed a regimen of medications, often up to four or five at a time, monitored, and switched to different medications every eight weeks or so. In addition to pain pills, these included blood pressure and anti-siezure medications. Whitney's parents drew the line at suggested anti-depressants, but they agreed to take her back  to an ophthalmologist  - a specialist this time -- and hit another dead end.  Finally, Whitney was scheduled to be admitted to a renowned head pain clinic for a two week stay for the purposes of more extensive testing and monitoring.  Once there, She was hooked to an IV drip that administered heavy doses of pain medication 24 hours a day, given daily injections in her forehead, and sent to see a psychiatrist to make sure that the pain was not all in her head.  Seriously. And, as if to make up for the indignities, she was allowed to eat anything she wanted . . . anything.  And because we felt so terribly bad for her and wanted to do anything we could to make her feel better, my husband and I stopped by Subway on the way to the clinic to see her, and picked her up a 6" tuna sub on Monterrey cheddar bread.  And the headache continued.  Not long after that someone suggested that maybe, just maybe . . . Whitney had a food allergy. Her parent's scheduled an appointment with a doctor who specialized in homeopathy, and who recommended the tedious process of extensive allergy testing.  On a late December day, three years after the Hellish ordeal began, Whitney was officially diagnosed with Celiac disease and altered her diet dramatically to include no   wheat products or wheat byproducts, which include the gluten protein responsible for making her sick for years.  Within two weeks, she was pain free, and has since remained.  Except for those times when something unexpected creeps up on the menu, like French fries that have been cooked in the same basket as a previous food and one that contains gluten laden oil residue, or a sauce that has amounts of gluten so minuscule that it's not listed in the ingredients.  At these times, when the poison manifests, it takes Whitney days to fully recover; since the time that her malady developed, it evolved to severe digestive problems in addition to the headaches.

Sadly -- and I'm not trying to minimize her plight by any stretch of the imagination -- Whitney is far from from alone in her new normal - horrifyingly far when you consider the numbers of children, tens of thousands like her, like my grandchildren, who are being plagued by something so prevalent that it's common knowledge.  That any intelligent, informed person would dare to throw up their hands and feign ignorance is infuriating.  

Of course nobody tries to deny the allergies anymore. There's too much evidence.  But what I want to know is exactly how long it will be until the mainstream medical field, as well as other people (like the media) who can be be influential in reform, and who have a responsibility to inform the public, will actually be courageous enough to confront the source of the poison(s) in our food, and fully acknowledge the full range of side effects that plague the American public . . .  Because for all their shuffling and sidestepping, they have to know it's in the food.  And in circling back to my intent to be fair to the news anchors (and even the allergy specialist), I understand, of course, that they are accountable to higher powers that ultimately dictate how and what they report in the news.  And I even understand the dangers in committing blame in something so pervasively sinister.  But what I don't understand is the decision to illuminate the problem while ignoring the obvious causes and solutions.  So since they put it out there, here's what they should have talked about, the direction they should have pointed the people. . . 

Thirty years ago in the U.S. began the widespread, worldwide hybridization of crops, specifically wheat, but corn and soy to name a few others, ostensibly for the purpose of growing and harvesting crops more efficiently, more economically.  The process is commonly referred to as genetically modified organisms (GMOs). The whole genetic structure, the gluten protein in the grains that make bread, a staple of the common diet, was changed, and people all over the world have been falling ill with strange maladies ever since.  This has been so widely recognized  that the "new" crops have been dubbed Frankenfood . . . recognized to the degree that the European Union and other countries have long since banned GMOs.  Over the course of those same years, animals raised in captivity for the production and manufacture of meat have been treated inhumanely, bred for mass production in confined quarters, often chained in darkness for their entire lives, and fed that same diet of GMO grain. To counter the effects of the resulting sick animals, they're injected with antibiotics and hormones to fatten them up, sent to the slaughter, and butchered for human consumption.   When grocery stores offer choices of grass fed beef, free range chicken, wild caught fish, and organic milk, this is the process they are trying to counter. Although it's not conventional doctors and it's not the media, it's good to know that at least somebody is giving inadvertent acknowledgment to the problem by offering a solution.  But there are others that give more than just a tacit nod.  The aforementioned homeopathic doctors, and chiropractors, whose philosophies include all natural healing and diet . . . doctors who are not beholden to the American Medical Association and reliant on kickbacks from pharmaceutical companies, the big corporations who would prefer to just keep handing you the box of very expensive band-aids rather than just collaborate the ultimate solution.  

But there, now I've said too much, more than I have time to elaborate, and I haven't even touched on the chemicals (Round Up by Monsato), and the artificial sweeteners, and the genetically modified sugar  (Monsanto again). . . and the genocide of the bumblebees (yes, the bumblebees) . . . but I'm assuming you've heard . . . particularly if I've held your attention this far . . . at least you've heard.  But maybe you didn't know quite so much, or didn't want to.  I would consider my knowledge base just slightly above average only for the fact that I've witnessed firsthand effects of the crazy . . . and also I'm insatiably curious and have a little time on my hands. If you want to know more, go ahead and google "the history of Monsanto" . . . It's interesting that in terms of search engine optimization (SEO), that the official company history and timeline ranks one below the demonization of the company.  Read both and YOU decide, if you're a skeptic . . . if you don't believe that a single company in pursuit of the almighty dollar can and would victimize an entire nation, the world even, and hold the power to create cowards.  And that's just one company. Google around a little, and read Seeds of Deception by Steven M. Druker, or explore the website of the same name that features the documentary of Jeffrey M. Smith Genetic Roulette, the Gamble of Our Lives.  Order Wheat Belly from Amazon (William Davis) or explore the philosophies of Dr. Joseph Mercola through his website or his book The No Grain Diet. This is common knowledge and nobody has to ask, in earnest, why our children are growing up sick.  There is a watershed of information, and easy solutions.

When the doctors finally had to acknowledge that my daughter did, indeed, have  a true milk allergy, they sent me home with a bee sting kit and pretty much just bid me good luck.  It took three miserable years to correctly diagnose my niece.  But with the help of some knowledgable people and natural remedies, I no longer need to use an inhaler (yes, I'm gluten sensitive, as well). . . and I'm grateful . . . so grateful that, in spite of a difficult, sometimes painful, and often winding road to adjust to their specific needs, that my grandchildren were diagnosed early and live in a world where they can grow up healthy and with viable, healthy food choices . . . and that even if they don't know, they really don't know . . . at least some of us have got this figured out.  Thank God. 

Could we pretend that airplanes in the night sky were like shooting stars?. . . cause I could really use a wish right now. ~ Bob with Hayley Williams

Like most people, or at least anyone who gives any thought to self-improvement, which includes most of us, I have some notable regrets in life. Some of them can be worked out before I die (God willing), and others will never be resolved in this lifetime. I wish I hadn't let myself be talked into stealing that coveted, sharp tipped purple crayon in the 1st grade. I wish I'd worked to my greatest potential in school, and stopped believing that "I just wasn't good at math." I wish I hadn't wandered off the forest path that day, and that I HAD gone off the beaten path in Paris . . . that I'd chosen the stick shift over the automatic for my first car . . .. and that I'd been kinder to the chubby girl (who could likely be that hauntingly beautiful and willowy book publisher that lofted past me in the grocery store yesterday). I wish I'd listened to my high school counselor when he advised that I choose the year round office job over blind loyalty to my seasonal job employers. I wish I'd kept up with old friends before it was too late . . . because sometimes it is. And on that note -- and here's one that makes me ached with regret whenever I think of it -- I wish I'd taken the time know my grandfather, Max Wayne Ditmore, better, and that I'd recognized his good-bye.

In a recent post You Can't Escape Your DNA, I spoke about the importance of family, the mysteries of heritage, and the circumstances that might lead to estrangement in familial relationships. If my grandfather had lived to be a very old man, I have no doubt that he wouldn't have fallen into that last category. Every day I wish myself walking slowly alongside him, imagining myself extracting every bit of wisdom he could impart, and delighting in the electric blue twinkle of his steely gaze. He died suddenly when I was eighteen, foolish, and full of myself, still believing nothing bad could ever happen or shake my foundation. I remember the day I was called to the hospital where he'd been rushed by ambulance with abdominal pain. The last time I'd seen him, a few weeks before, he'd been virile, a big man moving with the conviction and confidence of John Wayne, and as funny and fond of me as he'd ever been, no matter how seldom I carelessly breezed in and out anymore, as growing grandchildren do. At the hospital, I had navigated the halls to an elevator that would take me up to his room, but moved back out of the way to let a nurse, who was pushing an old man in a wheelchair, go in first. The old man was bent and shriveled, and you could see his boxer shorts and t-shirt through a partially opened hospital gown. His head was bowed, maybe in pain, or the indignity of his circumstances, and out of respect, I sought to avert my eyes. But in that very second, to my horror, I recognized the old man as my grandfather just as the doors closed. To my eternal shame, I fled, shaken. I went back the next day and a bevy of relatives crowded his small hospital room. He lay in a bed, appearing to sleep, in a jumble of intimidating tubes and machines. I still held back, in my stupid inward, adolescent angst, bereft in the shattered image he presented. But amidst the chatter of the relatives, who had turned their attention to me, I looked past them and watched him briefly lift his arm, elbow resting on the bed, his hand aloft as if beckoning someone to come and hold it, and realized too late, it was me. I should have held his hand. I kissed his forehead at his funeral, but among the million regrets I have in life, I fervently wish I had held my grandfather's hand the day before he died.

Thirty years later, and all the days in between, I still feel the sting of that regret, and the ache in knowing that there are some things that you can never do over. And all that is compounded by the regrettable circumstance that I never knew him as an adult. I wish I had had the opportunity to gather more pieces of him that I could relate to now. What I do remember -- one of my earliest memories -- are the books he read. Like me, like my father, he developed a habit of reading at mealtimes. My grandmother would serve him at his place at the table, and he would hold a Louis L'Amour novel aloft in his left hand while he ate with his right. But he would often beckon me to sit on his right knee, retiring his fork long enough to bear hug me and send me scampering on my way.. He never put down the novel . . . not even for me. Louis L'Amour wrote eighty-nine novels, and I would be willing to bet that my grandfather read every one of them.

Which brings me to a point from an interesting full circle. I am an avid, voracious reader, like my grandfather, and I have been for as long as I can remember. I've easily read thousands of books over my lifetime, some over and over. And although my husband is a wonderfully literate person (his father and his wife are English teachers:), reading has never been his greatest passion, with the exception of a few authors. He likes the political plots of Jeffrey Archer. And he has mentioned to me many times that when he was growing up, he would while away his summers reading Louis L'Amour novels. So this past Christmas, I researched and tracked down the first three novels in a Louis L'Amour series (The Sackett's) for a nostalgic gift. I can't fathom WHY in a lifetime of inhaling words and novels and anthologies and camping out in bookstores -- and being familiar -- that I've never picked up a Louis L'Amour novel. The idea of a western genre would not have deterred me as I'm extremely eclectic in my tastes. I have devoured everything John Jakes and Allan Eckert ever wrote.

So I'm going to call this serendipity. Yesterday morning, I began my first Louis L'Amour novel. The very opening paragraph answered a question that I posed in my DNA blog a few weeks about my great-grandfather (Max's father) as I pondered the nature of a killer. It reads:

I read this with a sense of wonder, knowing that at some point in time, my grandfather had turned these pages, and read these very same words. Maybe he, too, stopped and pondered. Maybe they answered his own questions. Maybe he already knew the answers and was drawn to the wisdom and teachings of men like his father. And as for me, maybe reading my grandfather's books are a way to get to know him thirty years after his death. I can live the same lives, travel to the same places, meet the same people. I don't think it's an accident that I've never "discovered" this particular author. I'm a firm believer that life happens to you when you're ready for it and not a moment sooner. And just for a bit more affirmation, in the very same book, just a few pages later, were these words. . . . I think I heard them in an echoing whisper through the generations.  And I know, in my mind's eye, I caught a glimpse of twinkling blue.

April 2013 - Becoming Aerin Leigh 

On April 12th (2013) I changed my name. Well, it wasn't that simple. I should clarify that after months of standing in line, filing paperwork, making phone calls, navigating the halls of a very large government building, waiting, parking, filing more paper work, one long morning in court and a conversation with a very nice judge, my name change was finalized. It was official. I was staring at a legally stamped and sealed document that verified that I had, in fact, become Aerin Leigh-Amann. And that randomly chosen date, April 12th, that just happened to coincide with the start date of the American Civil War, was NOT a harbinger of trouble. My husband looked over my shoulder and approved. As a matter of fact, he will proudly tell you that he paid for the whole thing. He bought me my new name. From the very beginning, he insisted on paying all of the exorbitant fees attached to the process, as well as supporting me (and double checking the fine print) every step of the way. His gift was a reflection of the fact that no one knew better than him the pain that I had suffered in the shadows of my former name and it meant the world to me that he was so incredibly supportive of my new beginning. Writers understand the care that can go into just a few words.  Graphemes, alliteration, syllables that flow, symbolism. . . Aerin Leigh-Amann. . . essentially three simple words . . . representing  the single most empowering decision I've ever made in my life. It's right there in black and white. And every time I see it written on paper, every time I hear it spoken, the possibilities of who I am, who I'm becoming, take my breath away.

First you fall, and then you fly . . . and you believe that you belong up in the sky . . . You fall asleep in motion in uncharted hemispheres, and you wake up with the stars falling down around your ears. . . and when they hit the ground, they're nothing but stones . . . 

I'm feeling a little melancholy today.  I woke this morning to a shadowy, sunless room and the trickle of rain on the roof.  Low thunder rumbled on the distant horizon . . . and I felt the weight of it on my spirit, too . . . before my feet even hit the floor. If you've been following me these past few months -- specifically over the past week -- you'll understand that I mean that quite literally. Since retiring from a long educational career this year to write, I've been in a hurry to get things done, and I have no time for life's little interruptions . . . like the one the that hit me like a falling house last Monday. It took out my back and it took my hurry with it, replacing it with pain and frustration. And because I let it, because I wasn't willing to accept my current circumstances, sadness and fear. Fear is my very best fair weather friend; he only shows up when I've lost my control . . . and he's never, not once, ever offered to help me find it.  I'm seriously considering breaking off the relationship. 

Ever have those times when something happens. . . or lots of somethings all at once . . . and you can't seem to stay in the moment? . . . everything right now is overshadowed by the what ifs of the before and what's going to happen after. Everything becomes magnified and looming and dooming until you begin to question every decision you've ever made, and you're living in a place of deep anxiety and fear? And if there's not somebody there . . . some wise and faithful confidante, intuitive and omnipresent, who shadows your every move and tunes into every emotional nuance that's written on your face . . . You might just have to tell yourself to BREATHE . . . and maybe give yourself permission to rest in the rainy places . . .

Last Friday was the first day I ventured out (with the exception of the chiropractor's office) since last Monday when the searing pain of a back injury forced me into unwelcome immobility. A friend asked me to lunch, and I went, and stayed just a little too long. My back was aching terribly when I started home, and that place that I so desperately wanted to escape just a few hours before was my only focused thought as I exited the highway to come home. Funny little detail about that particular exit . . . A few months ago, I had been in a hurry to get home after a long day of work in the city. And when I approached the flashing red light, I paused . . . almost stopped . . . but really just paused and turned right when I was sure there was no one approaching. It has always seemed prudent to me to move along when there is a line of cars behind you with other people that are also in a hurry. The policeman that pulled me over didn't agree. Fast forward to last Friday. Same exit ramp. Same flashing red light. I stopped. And was bulldozed by an AT&T truck.  He took out the whole left backside of my lovely wine colored Ford Fusion. You can't make these things up. And just to put things in greater perspective, this is the third time, with some variation, that this has happened to me in the year and a half since I acquired this particular car. I know, right?! You can imagine that right in that moment, on impact, and when the full realization of what had just happened hit me (it took about a second and a half) what I must have said, what I must have done . . . Except that I didn't. Yes, there was an immediate ARE YOU KIDDING ME? to no one in particular (not even the poor, hapless AT&T kid whose inattention evoked my sense of deja vu) . . . but then . . . I let it go (no Frozen pun intended). I was still in pain, but not much worse for wear. My car was wrecked. Again. I had to wait forty five minutes for a police report. And as I sat in my car gritting my teeth in pain, I heard the poor kid getting fried by his boss, who had arrived on the scene, and ran interference . . . "Hey, listen . . . it happens . . ." (I swear I didn't mention exactly how often it happens to me) . . . and when the cop asked me if I was hurt, if I was feeling pain anywhere, I actually laughed. And then I was glad to go home. Strangely, the fight - the resistance to the direction my life had suddenly taken, even after yet another beating - was gone, and replaced by a sense of peace.  


It don't feel right, but it's not wrong . . . it's just hard to start again this far along . . . and brick by brick . . . the letting go . . . as you walk away from everything you know. . . 


So I had to remind myself about this again this morning. I had to check my fast forward instinct., and find that place of peace instead of fear . . . accept the quiet over the hurry.. And to do that, I needed to think about where I've been, and where I am. I left a thirteen year, frenetically paced career to pursue another one that comes from my heart and renders me on my own, and now I'm stuck, for this moment in time between the two. And stuck in a way I could never have imagined. Things are not moving along exactly the way I'd planned. It's a little scary. And for a person that thrives on accomplishment, for someone who routinely enumerates each item of completion on a daily to do list when someone asks me about my day, it's an adjustment. I'm going to feel emotion on top of emotion. And I accept that. But I will BREATHE and reach for that place of peace and fearlessness that brought me here in the first place, and remind myself that this - this beyond my control place - just may be the best thing that could have happened to me. Because today, after finishing my third book in two days. . . and walking my dogs along a winding woodland path. . . and perusing a Pinterest gallery of colorful art. . . and then reading a children's book (so that I could remember it with my granddaughter), .I'm remembering who I used to be, and wondering when, exactly, I began measuring my value solely by how much I could accomplish, how much I could DO in a day. . . and usually for someone else. I am reveling in the fact that life doesn't have to be a list, and am beginning to realize . . . slowly and and painfully . . . that that was never what God intended for my life, or anyone else's. Maybe slowly and painfully was the only way He could get my attention, and lead me home to myself.  


. . . You release resistance as you lean into the wind till the roof begins to crumble and the rain comes pouring in, and you sit there in the rubble til the rubble feels like home.  And that's how you learn to live alone." ~ Jonathan Jackson from How to Learn to Live Alone