Lake Superior Wisdom

It’s the late 1970s, about half-way into the fifteen years I’d endure living in the pristine, isolating terrain of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. My husband and I had moved here to realize his dream of becoming a building contractor. The several ski resorts in the area proved to be fertile ground and business was going well. The other aspects of our life, not so much. 

After yet another petty disagreement, I got into my car and headed out onto Powderhorn Road. I drove through the ski resort noting the ski lifts swaying in the wind and the ski chalets now vacant in the late summer. An eerie sight indicative of my recurring thoughts of my life in this unforgiving place.

From there, I turned onto Black River Road, a small county pathway; the canopy of trees gave the appearance of entering a cave. And that’s how it felt as I struggled for some sense of certainty.

It was only a twelve-mile drive to Lake Superior.  It was late afternoon and as expected Black River Harbor, part of the Ottawa National Forest, was deserted. The hikers, campers and visitors had gone home for the day. I was happy to have my favorite spot all to myself. 

It was only a short walk from the parking lot to the suspension bridge. Flowing under the bridge were the waters of the Black River, swelled by the gushes from Rainbow Falls as it emptied into Lake Superior.

Stepping off the bridge and following a rugged, stone path that leads to the lake, I saw the waves and whitecaps in the distance. As the locals say: it was an active day on the lake. From here, Lake Superior looked like an ocean. It often acted like an ocean.

I’ve marveled at the wonders of Lake Superior at Little Girls Point, at the 21 miles of beach near Porcupine Mountain, from Isle Royale, Marquette and Houghton Hancock. But nothing compared with Black River Harbor.

Walking farther, I finally reached the sandy beach. Nestled there were the rocks. If you searched long enough, you could find some agates. I watched the horizon for the passing of an iron ore freighter most commonly heading to or from Duluth. No luck today.

Herring gulls swooped everywhere with their distinctive and repeated calls that signal courtship, territorial disputes or nest selection. Also called a “choking call” because the birds deliver it while leaning forward, head down. 

Their furtive refrain and this regal body of water invited serious thoughts. When do the petty arguments become too much and hard decisions cloud the horizon? I’d be watching for other signs.

After sunset, as I walked back over the bridge to my car, my little world had eclipsed into darkness. Driving toward the strife of home, peace and calmness withdrew from the pitch darkness of this remote two-lane country road.   

Off to my left, I saw the faint shadows of a campfire back in the woods.  How nice I thought; its city people taking advantage of the last few months of our mild summer. That’s before the lake effect snows of the majestic Lake Superior lead the way to another long, hard winter.

As I came around a slight curve, suddenly, my headlights revealed eight or ten lily-white butts pointing back at me as I passed. I was being mooned!  Mooned by the campers standing in a row on the edge of the road. As I left them behind, I heard echoes of their hoots and howls. I laughed too. Maybe that’s the sign I’d been looking for!   

Answering the Big Question

During my orientation to become a volunteer at a local hospice I was asked what was called the big question. It was asked rhetorically so we weren’t expected to reply. But it reignited musings I’ve had for many years and given great thought to. Her question was: are you a spiritual person?

It was the volunteer coordinator/group leader who was asking the question; she then went on to explain her special relationship with Jesus. For just a moment I wondered if I’d be able to do this job where end-of-life issues, religion and spiritualty are at the forefront. As I thought through my answer to her question, I wondered if my beliefs would be acceptable or is it one size fits all.   

I am a spiritual person but I’m not a religious person. I don’t belong to or ascribe to any organization or church. I am agnostic. Agnostic about everything. Actually, I think everyone is agnostic on some level. Even the most devout religious person is agnostic.

Agnosticism is the view or belief that “human reason is incapable of providing sufficient rational grounds to justify either the belief that God exists or the belief that God does not exist.” Agnosticism can be called skepticism.

This is also related to faith. Faith is defined as belief in something for which there may be no tangible proof but there is complete trust, confidence, reliance, or devotion. Faith is the opposite of doubt. So that’s why I believe even the most devout religious person is also agnostic. All of us really don’t know, have no proof and there is no evidence. It’s what we choose to believe.

Recovering catholic that I am, I try to stay away from labels but if I had to define myself I’d say I’m an agnostic Buddhist.  Buddhism is a philosophy not a religion. Buddhists do not have a personal god but believe the universe is interconnected. They don’t have churches only meditation centers and there is no tithing or other requirements for admission. They meditate rather than pray.  It’s quite simply a way of life.

Some Buddhists believe in reincarnation and some don’t. That’s more a Hindu belief. I’m on the fence about reincarnation. But I find it just as probable or improbable as the belief of going to heaven when we die and seeing all our family and friends there. No one knows for sure. There’s that agnostic thing again. It’s all what we decide to believe.

My final decision: While I don’t share the most common form of spirituality and am not religious, I’m still able to meet the needs of patients and families as they face their end-of-life challenges.

If they want, I pray with them, read the Bible or any religious or secular text they prefer. I also listen as they review their lives or process age old family conflicts. Sometimes, I just hold their hand. My beliefs or non-beliefs are inconsequential. I’m there in whatever way is best for them.

Looking for the Cookie Monster

The mystery began one day when I found a plastic grocery bag hanging on my door; inside was a tin of Danish butter cookies. An attached note said thanks for the paper. No name.Oh, such a mystery and yet it wasn’t.

I have the newspaper delivered every Wednesday and Sunday. Once I’m finished, I take it down to the library in my building. Why not share it. I know three men, fellow residents, who’ve told me they appreciate this gesture. So, the cookies and note could be from any one of them. I wanted to know. And thank them, of course.  

It’s got to be either Dennis, Dave or Aldo. They are all friendly and we have good conversations when we meet in the library, waiting for the mail.  

My first guess was Dennis. Since he knows I’m a writer, he’d once left a poem he thought I’d like hanging on my door. He’s also alerted me to interesting poem-a-day web sites. When I saw him I asked: do I need to thank you? He was genuinely surprised, so my first guess was wrong.  

Later, I spotted Aldo and Dave sitting outside and approached them. Dave takes care of the in-house library and we’d had several conversations when management discontinued the building’s newspaper subscription. I knew the paper was important to him.  Dave had also been helpful with my printing problems in the computer room.

I asked Dave the same question: do I need to thank you? He answered right away. Oh, you mean the cookies. I’d never do something like that. I’m too cheap. Okay, Good to know. And another wrong guess.

Aldo also enjoys the paper, especially the sports pages and the obituaries. It’s quite remarkable how active he is even though he’s ninety years old and very hearing impaired. He’s always doing something for his kids or grandkids.

Aldo hadn’t heard my question, so I asked it again: do I need to thank you? He quickly admitted it and said he thought he’d told me he was going to get me cookies. Then, he figured he hadn’t told me but had told Dave. Whatever.

The point is I appreciated this small gesture. Actually, Aldo was last on my list, the least likely and it turned out I had misjudged him. Maybe that’s the thing. We think we know people when we really don’t and incidents like this help us to appreciate each other more.

Another point is that Hawthorne Terrace gave up its senior housing designation some years ago, a change that sacrificed history and friendliness to become a generic apartment building. Gone are the days of hallway hellos and calling everyone by name.

Since then, it’s become very quiet during the day with most residents off to work.  Our senior cohort has drastically dwindled, and I wanted to hold onto whatever sense of community I could. Looking for the cookie monster was such an opportunity.

Letter to a T-Shirt

I noticed you immediately. The ad was in a writing magazine. There you were, center page among various writing related products. You’re black, with large white letters emblazoned across the front, saying UNRELIABLE NARRATOR. I entered a fugue state.

I envisioned myself behind the screen; I’m on stage at the latest episode of “To Tell the Truth.” I was one of three mystery contestants. The curtain rose and I said loudly, affirmatively: I am an unreliable narrator.

I know, dear t-shirt, this hardly compares with the strange occupations usually on the show. Like: I am a celebrity piercer; I am a magot farmer. So much less unique but still jolting to my psyche is admitting I could possibly be an unreliable narrator.

I’ve spent scads of writing time telling authentic stories and priding myself in sticking to the truth. Now you broadcast this to me with such fanfare and flourish.

In my lifelong reading, I’d been aware of this term but now needed to see if it applied to me. Definition was the first thing. Google told me an unreliable narrator was one who was not credible and could be found in a wide range of characters. The term was coined by Wayne C. Booth in 1961 in Rhetoric of Fiction. 

Unreliable narrators are those telling their story in the first person. So, this might indeed apply to me in my memoir world. If so, I’m in questionable company.

Poe’s Montresor in “The Cask of Amontillado,” whose mental state affects his decision-making. Or Salinger’s Holden Caulfield, in Catcher in the Rye, whose negative worldview prevents an accurate version of events.

But it got more complicated when I found there were three types of unreliable narrators. Perhaps this will clarify and put me at ease in my contrariness. I forged ahead.  

First, the deliberately unreliable narrator is aware of their deceptionand does so intentionally to get readers’ attention. Alex from A Clockwork Orange is one of those whose desire for individual freedom supports his flagrant lying.

This can’t possibly be me. I report stories from various segments of my life. My family. Friends. I take great effort to tell the truth. And I realize, I’m telling my truth though much has been written about the vagaries of memory. No. I’m deliberately reliable.  

Second, the evasively unreliable narrator is one who unconsciously alters the truth; this often stems from the need to tell the story in a way that justifies their actions. Contradictory characters keep readers anxiously awaiting the narrator’s moment of truth as does Nick in The Great Gatsby.

So, dear t-shirt, I don’t think this is me either. But then perhaps any altering of my truth is done unconsciously. There’s something to be said about self-protection or wanting to present my best self. I’m getting more confused.

Third, naively unreliable narrators are honest but lack all the information. This kind of unreliability can help the reader see the story through their own experience. Any Jodi Picolt book fits here.

Now this category might fit me a little better. Perhaps it means I tell the story with a slant or only remember those details that add to the point I’m trying to make. Give me a break. I’m only human and that is the eternal battle for memoirists. To tell the story with edge or drama and still be truthful.  

But wait a minute, black t-shirt. On second thought, I’m not sure any of this applies to me because the unreliable narrator refers to fictional characters. What about me, a writer of memoir? But there is more.

Brevity Magazine, a non-fiction journal, has addressed this topic at length. Creative Nonfiction Magazine and Wikipedia likewise. It gets vaguer the more I read and I’m not at all sure where the line is drawn. If I recall a minor detail wrong, am I then unreliable in the conclusion I draw?   

This has set about an explosion in my thinking. I have a disclaimer on my blog saying I’ve done the best I could with facts and memories and welcome correction. Isn’t that enough? There are stories I purposely haven’t written because I don’t trust my memory or might hurt someone in the telling.  

Okay, okay, t-shirt. Don’t get your chemise in a bundle. I admit it. I am an unreliable narrator. Somewhat. A little bit. I guess all writers are on some level. Who hasn’t played with words to drive home a point or added some flash to a story?  

But I won’t be wearing a t-shirt advertising that fact. It’s our little secret and I plan to keep it that way as I continue my unrelenting struggle to write the truth.

Drug Experiences

Written for Readers Write, SUN MAGAZINE, August, 2022

It was in college in the 1960s, where I met my future husband. He’d just returned from Vietnam and was going to school on the GI Bill. One night, at a friend’s house party, the noise and chatter faded to silence until we were the only two people left in the room. We wondered where everyone had gone.

Well, they were upstairs doing drugs. Experimenting with pot, most likely. I asked my him what we should do. I’d probably have gone along with whatever he decided. He was adamant. We weren’t doing that! We left.

On the way home, he told a long and involved story of his bad experiences with drugs while serving in Vietnam. He hadn’t used himself but watched what he described as an ugly scene as fellow soldiers over indulged and acted badly.

From then on, we avoided the ever-growing drug scene beginning to envelope our social group. He and I would stay together for the duration of college, live together, marry and divorce.

Toward the end of those years, I experienced the most chaotic time of my life. It had slowly devolved due to his excessive drinking (just another drug?), night-time flashbacks, an obsession with guns, paranoia, and explosions of anger.

In the early 1980s, we were just getting divorced when PTSD was identified and accepted into the DSM-III. When I learned of the diagnosis a few years later, I recall the relief of being able to name what I’d experienced.   For a moment, just for a moment, I wondered, if I’d known what it was, perhaps I could have helped him.

Looking back on all that sorrow and trouble, I appreciate one thing. Due to his early insistence, I’ve never taken a drag of pot or used any other type of drugs. Small consolation but gratitude, nonetheless.  

Reading Carl Sagan on the Patio

I visit the patio before noon
A wobbly wooden chair
With a book and chai tea

I read Carl Sagan’s thoughts
How ancient myths and beliefs
are disproven by the scientific eye
Science is a candle in the dark

I’m lost in reverie
Stark blue sky, clouds intermingled
Looking up I see the crescent of the moon

Vague, half hidden, but visible
Tiny, little me
Hello Carl Sagan

What About the Children

It’s the question asked most often of women. Asked throughout their child-bearing years. When will you have a child? How many children do you plan to have? Why haven’t you had a child?

That last one is the kicker. And so it was with me. I’d skirted the subject often with always the same answer. I have no children and have proudly carried the badge of “voluntarily childless.”  But children have haunted and added joy in various ways throughout my life.

My mother said, (I don’t remember this) when I was fourteen or so I announced to her “I’m never doing this” meaning have children. I’m sure it was one of those typical days when I, as the oldest of six, was saddled with everything from picking up toys to fixing lunch to changing diapers. 

Add to that how, all through high school, I could plan activities with my friends only when I didn’t have a babysitting job.  Hard and fast rule, I could have one foot out the door, the phone would ring and my plans were done and gone.

My plan to outsmart my parents, by saying I had a job when I didn’t, only worked for a while. Once found out, the pleading negotiation resulted in a reprieve of the rules on Saturday night only. A small success but success, nonetheless.

I’m not sure what influenced me the most, this high school experience or the 1960’s lecture from a sociology professor on how the world was already over-populated. Or the years I spent as a social worker in and around the foster care system.

All you need to see is families and especially children in chaos to realize the huge responsibility and life-long commitment it is to bring a child into the world. In my work, I took on the pseudo parent role, comforting a child as they realized their parent was incapable of meeting their most minimal needs. I became a pseudo family member as details were painfully worked out in providing for the emotional needs of a child.  Through this, my child’s decision became cemented in adult reality.

But the pressures were always there. The raised eyebrows whenever the having children topic came up. The closest I ever came to motherhood was when my first husband and I discussed having a child.

It wasn’t a particularly good marriage and I always knew it would end. I’m not even sure how the topic came up, but it did, in a short conversation with no resolution. Then he brought me home a puppy.

The second closest time came when, due to a failed IUD, I was having strange symptoms. This was in a post-divorce relationship with no future. That really didn’t matter. This was my decision.

After thinking for three minutes, I knew I couldn’t do this; those were the days when choice was still available. But before I could even get confirmation, miscarriage happened. After a D & C, I chose a permanent solution. That was too close a call.

But children have graced my life in many ways. For my ten nieces and nephews, I’ve parented them with books. Through high school, for each of their birthdays I gifted them with a book-store certificate. The many lovely thank you cards are proof of my contribution to their wellbeing. Another gleeful addition was my family nick name, Auntie Karin the nice lady. It couldn’t get better than that.

One thing I often say and truly mean is I love other people’s children. I always check up on my friends and their kids. Stretching my non-motherhood even further, are several friends who are young enough to be my daughter. I’ve jokingly referred to them as the daughters I never had and that adds to the depth of our relationships.  

Now that I’m well beyond my child-bearing years, I look back with no regrets and ahead with no worries about being old, alone and abandoned due to my childless situation. Several in the building where I live are estranged or neglected by their children. This reinforces my belief there are no guarantees. I’ve made all the important final arrangements without the benefit of children. 

But the eternal question of motherhood is still churning its myths and expectations, A January 2022 article in The Week, Sterilized by Choice, recounts how young women today are experiencing the same pushback I faced decades ago. To them I say, think through your decision and then stand strong. Life without children can be rewarding and full in different ways. I haven’t missed a thing.