Hark! The Herald 2023

HOLIDAY SEASON 2023
WRITER: Karin Schmidt

Another year has come and gone! WHEW!

This year’s big news…I finished and published my book, a seventy-five year history of Wisconsin Writers Association….……the end of an eight year project!…..its for sale on Amazon and has a permanent place on the WWA website…..for a while it felt odd when I no longer had this gargantuan undertaking hanging over my head….that didn’t last long and now it feels pretty good!

Second big news…..my move to a senior community. Moving just three miles from my previous location, that means nothing much has changed. Except that my life is now filled with activities and colorful personalities whose high and low drama gives me plenty to write about.

I still haven’t quite figured out the check-in check-out system but its so nice to know some mysterious entity is looking out for me. This is attested to by a phone call at 8:30 am and/or 8:30pm if I haven’t flicked the switch.

I now have a long coveted balcony, a robust meal plan and time to do or not do whatever the heck I want! I joke that I drive only in my zip code, but its true…..my world is both smaller and more comfortable.

The most important thing I must consider is do I go to book group or take a nap. Do I play rummicub or take a nap.  And what’s for dinner in the dining room. Life is good!

So, as we begin a new year, happy holidays to all and I hope you are finding some peace and serenity in this crazy world we live in.

A Table, a Bookcase and a Chair

Three pieces of furniture in my small apartment add style to my home, have intrigued visitors and hold important memories of my past. How and where I got them and what I’ve done with them is a story of significant segments of my life.

The first one I acquired from my mother-in-law in the 1970s. It was a library table that had been in her family for years. Why she gave it to me is a mystery but alI I know is, I saw its potential.

The day I first saw it, this sad looking table showed its age. It had been painted over so many times the finish had wavy bumps. Black paint had been used the last time and the bottom of one of the curved, Flemish Scroll legs had come loose. That was only the beginning; over time all four legs took their turn at unraveling. Each time I taped them together with masking tape thinking, someday I’ll have this table restored.

That rocky marriage and that love/hate mother-in-law are long gone but the table remains with me through many, many moves. Finally, a furniture restorer worked his magic and this lovely oak table became the center of my writing life. I appreciate the grain and purposely keep its surface bare as possible, so its beauty shines through.

The second is a bookcase. For years this musty piece sat in my parents’ living room, off in the corner, filled with old books no one looked at. It too had been painted many times. The finish had ripples from multiple coats. Also, painted black. I wondered if this was some kind of odd tradition I knew nothing about.

Because I was a reader, my mother insisted I should have it. I was concerned since another sister had expressed an interest and I didn’t want to create conflict. So, I deferred twice before finally succumbing to Mom’s pleas. Again, I took it to a restoring expert, who worked his magic once again.

The beautiful oak finish shines and I followed his suggestion to replace the shelves and add beveled glass in each of the two doors; I love the antique door handles that require pushing a small button before pulling the door open.

Finally, there is the chair. This chair was present throughout my childhood. Mother said it was the only chair she could sit in comfortably when she was pregnant. It got lots of use since she was pregnant six times. We began calling it the pregnant chair. And I still do today.

It’s a lovely mahogany chair with carved spindles, curved arms, a swirly, sculpted back and a cushioned seat. I recall Dad recovering it a couple of times and he was no craftsman. Mom gave me the chair and it moved with me often sporting several of my own makeshift covers.

An antique dealer was very interested in it and advised me never to have it refinished since that would reduce its value. This made me love it even more. Finally, I took it to an upholstery repair shop who gave it the royal treatment.

Looking back, I marvel how I valued these neglected, worn-out pieces enough to haul them from one home to another apartment so many times. Glad I did because now I have three prized possessions, fully restored to their former grandeur, that make my home warm and cozy. I use and enjoy each piece daily and love telling their story when guests inquire. I feel like the rescuer of tattered treasures. 

Drug Experiences

If you think about it, everyone has a drug history. We answer all the questions when visiting our health care providers. Prescriptions, over the counter, street. The questions cover it all.

Whether we’ve used, abused, or not, we’ve all been affected. Mix in drinking with drugs and it’s a deadly combination. Research finds that addiction touches everyone’s life in one way or another, so my story might be considered quite ordinary.

I met my future husband in the 1960s while in college. 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 downstairs living room. We wondered where everyone had gone.

Well, they were upstairs doing drugs. Experimenting with pot, most likely. It was the sixties after all. I asked him what we should do. I was unsure of this new and exciting thing, but 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 that was beginning to envelop our daily life. But this was, after all, Wisconsin and drinking was still included in our social life. He and I would stay together for the duration of college, live together, marry and divorce.

Toward the end of those nearly twenty years, I experienced the most chaotic time of my life. Things had slowly devolved due to his excessive drinking (a different drug?), night-time flashbacks, an obsession with guns, paranoia, and angry explosions. I had no idea what was going on and am now embarrassed at what I slowly adjusted to.  

Then in the early 1980s, a year or so after our divorce, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was identified and accepted into the DSM-III. I’d signed up for a workshop at a nearby veteran’s hospital. This wasn’t due to a specific interest but to satisfy my needed continuing education requirements. It turned out to be a day that changed my perspective forever.

After a bombardment of emotional video interviews with veterans, lectures by professionals and question and answer sessions, I left feeling strangely exhausted and tense. Perhaps it was the quiet of the car engine and the peace of the drive home on country roads that triggered me.  

As I began thinking about what I’d seen and heard, I started shaking and feeling anxious. I even had to pull the car over to the side of the road until it passed.  For a moment, just for a moment, I wondered, if I’d known what it was, perhaps I could have helped him. I quickly realized the futility of that but from then on was relieved just being able to name what I’d experienced.

Since then, things have changed. PTSD has been expanded to include many other issues beyond veteran’s readjustment. The opioid epidemic has contributed to a wider acceptance of the dynamics of addiction. Comorbidity is alive and well and universally more understood and addressed.   

Looking back on my past sorrow and trouble, I appreciate one thing. Due to my husband’s early insistence, I’ve never tried or used any type of drug. Small consolation but gratitude, nonetheless.  

Teen Crime Syndicate Cracked

We thought we were so smart. My friend Cathy and I decided to play hooky. That’s what it was called way back in 1962. We just wanted a day off from the pressures of high school. Just a day of doing nothing.

That morning, I’d left for school as usual but instead went to Cathy’s house where her parents had already gone to work. I called the school masquerading as her mother; she did the same for me.   

We giggled once that was done and our nervousness became relief, then joy. After that, we began seriously deciding how to spend our precious time. Cathy had planned ahead, borrowing her boyfriend’s car. So our options were unlimited.

After watching “The Price is Right” and “As the World Turns” while lounging around with a Coke, we set out on a road trip. Actually, all we wanted to do was cruise the gut. I have no idea where that phrase came from; it meant driving up and down the three-mile-long main drag (another timeless term) of my small hometown of Fond du Lac. 

It included riding through the parking lots of the two local ice cream and hamburger drive-ins situated on each end of Main Street. First, we cruised the Beer Hut (the first car-hop hamburger drive-in in Wisconsin and the first to serve beer in the whole US); and then Gilles. That sounds so silly now. Who did we think we’d see since everyone was in school. Where they belonged.

After our lovely and somewhat lazy day, I was sure to get home from “school” at the usual time to avoid raising suspicions. Mom was busy getting supper ready and called out from the kitchen, asking how my day had been. I gave her my usual okay, same as always, nothing new answer. But once I walked into the kitchen, I noticed an unusual grin on her face. Then she put the hammer down.  

She seemed to be having a heck of a good time filling me in on the details of my failed foray into crime. The story was short but not so sweet. On one of our trips down Main Street, cruising the gut, I’d been spotted by a city policeman. So much for the value of living in a small town.

He called my father who was also a policeman, on the Wisconsin State Patrol. Dad called Mom who called the school. We didn’t know it, but we were busted before noon.

I don’t remember if my mom called Cathy’s parents or if the school took care of that. I also don’t recall how the school punished us; but I do know my policeman dad delivered one of his Oscar-winning lectures and then grounded me.

Nothing new. I was accustomed to having many rules and few freedoms. My dad ran a tight ship, as they say. It was just another added burden I endured going through high school with a cop car in my driveway.

That fiasco was the beginning and end of my life of crime. I’d finish high school and work a year, still living at home. Under a slightly more relaxed form of house arrest. I then went to college where I finally had my adolescence. In fact, I had so much fun, making up for lost time, I was put on academic probation after my first year.   Another brush with the law, on a different level.

But lessons learned from Dad’s strictness helped me get back on track. I got my degree, completed graduate school and developed a robust work ethic. To this day, I’m perhaps overly conscious of rules and my organizational skills regulate much of my life. But that’s much better than doing time at Taycheedah.

Ode to Nicknames

When my Atlantic Magazine arrives each month, the first thing I do is turn to the back page where staff writer James Parker writes an ode. While an ode is usually a poem, this one-page, monthly column is an essay. The subjects are often intriguing. This month’s essay, an ode to nicknames, made me think.  

Parker begins by saying there are no bad or wrong nicknames because if they are wrong, they don’t stick. An example is Prince Harry, deemed “The Spare” by the royal family. But his real nickname used by his wide group of comrades and friends is “Spike.” That one has been around for years. “Spike” is who Harry really is.

Then there are idiotic, ironic, and counter nicknames. Example, the Viking-sized rugby player known to his teammates as “Tinker Bell.” This might also apply to a former political personality who bestows derisive nicknames (that generally don’t stick) upon his real and imagined enemies. 

Parker says parents pluck names for their children out of thin air for their own reasons or sentimentalities. Such as honoring an early relative, a historical figure or adhering to the most popular names list. Parents have no clue who their children really are.

But their friends, and sometimes their enemies know, and they are the ones who give them their real name.  No one comes up with their own nickname; they’re given to you. Behind your back sometimes which almost guarantees their accuracy. Parker says those nicknames are who you really are.

I especially like his final advice: …other people will be doing this to you…..capturing your true essence. Naming you. Don’t waste a lifetime wondering who you are. Listen for your nickname.

All through his life, my dad called me “Slim.” It fit because I was super tall by the fifth grade. That early growth spurt kept me quite thin even as a young adult; but to him I was still “Slim,” even as I filled out in later years. It was a nickname I now think of as a term of endearment from a man who gave out few compliments. I guess he liked me after all.

An ex-husband liked nicknames. Since my middle name is Margaret, to him I became “Maggie.” It was funny to see the double take when new friends heard him call me that for the first time. Not so funny when things were ending and I suddenly returned to being plain old Karin, not the lovable “Maggie” I’d been for seventeen years.

But, my most endearing and longest lasting nickname came from my niece, Kristin. She was probably five when she opened a package containing a book I’d mailed to her. She excitedly said to her mom: that Auntie Karin is such a nice lady.

After this story made the rounds a few times, everyone in my family, children and adults, began referring to me as “Auntie Karin the Nice Lady.” In sing-song fashion. And I admit it; I am guilty of self-promotion by signing cards, emails, all kinds of messages with that moniker. I’ve even been known to call my sister and say: hi this is Auntie Karin the Nice Lady.

Even after thirty-five years it’s still a treasure. As are my other nicknames. I hope they are all examples of how good nicknames stick because that means I’m a still thin, still lovable person who my family appreciates. 

Time For a Drink

Let’s face it. We all have a drinking history. For some it’s never drinking; for others it’s over the top. Then there are those somewhere in-between. And so, it was for me.

Being from Wisconsin where it’s all beer and where we have the highest consumption of brandy in the whole country, my drinking life began right on schedule. My policeman dad caught me buying beer for an underage friend (age for beer drinking was eighteen back then); he severely warned me: you get caught don’t expect any help from me.

Then I went to college in the 60s where drinking was as common as eating breakfast. I fondly recall my group of friends going on what we lovingly called the two-dollar tour. Pooling our money, we had one beer in each of Oshkosh’s  townie bars located along the river where college students seldom ventured. The price of beer was a quarter, sometimes a dime, so the tour could go on for hours.

My friends and I hitchhiked to bars since our two favorite beer bars were located on the outskirts of town. Last time I was there, I saw The Rail was still open but was now an upscale restaurant instead of a dance hall. The Loft (it was an old barn) had become an AA meeting place; oh, the irony. After an evening of drinking and dancing we’d bum a ride home with who knows who. I shudder to think how lucky I was to make it out of that safely. It was a different time.

After the hazy days of college, I settled down to become what might be called a light, social drinker. A cocktail with dinner. A house party with friends or a cook-out where I had one or two. But then there were those summer vacations in Door County. During those two weeks I did more shopping and drinking than I did the rest of the entire year.

I especially recall one night we went to Taco Night at the C&C in Fish Creek. Fifty cent tacos were the main draw. When someone suggested shots, we were all in. Tequila with salt and a wedge of lime.

My friend Betty says she was worried I’d get alcohol poisoning when I just kept accepting one after another. After the third shot we made a game of keeping score. That’s why I know I had either eight or ten shots of tequila that night.

The house we rented was two short blocks up the street and I know I walked home without assistance. Biggest surprise, the next day I didn’t even have a hangover. It was like it never happened.  

Then came my trip to New York City. It was a largely unscheduled tour advertised by a senior center. I booked it alone and the travel agent was the only person I knew. Her friend Phyllis was on the trip and since she’d been to New York City many times she was a perfect companion.  

Phyllis and I spent lots of time together. We went to the Guggenheim, Radio City Music Hall, a Broadway play and numerous other places. It became our little joke. We’d be finishing a tour and a look would pass between us. One or the other would say, we should stop for a drink. And we did.

The same thing happened when we went on a mystery tour together. We stopped for lunch at a lovely Italian restaurant in Evanston, Illinois. Phyllis says it was my idea; I’m not so sure but I’ll take the credit. I repeated our New York City refrain: we should have a drink. All it took was that suggestion and the whole table ordered. Our rationale: we were on a bus so why not take advantage of our designated driver.

Today I’m still a casual drinker and my best time is occasionally enjoying just one while watching TV in the evening. I know drinking is looked down on but to me it’s enjoyable, adds to celebrations and if done in moderation is one of life’s little pleasures.

Perhaps my drinking behavior was tempered by an experience in the early days of my social work career. I worked as a counselor for two years in an inpatient thirty-day treatment program; it followed the Alcoholics Anonymous Twelve Step model. I saw the physical, mental and emotional destruction alcohol and other drugs caused in the lives of our patients. Philip Chard, psychotherapist/columnist insists: alcohol is not your friend. I agree with him, having witnessed that first-hand.  

I was the only staff who was non-recovering and recall going out to dinner with a fellow counselor. As I always did when with a recovering person, I asked if it was okay if I ordered a drink and she said yes. I noticed how she kept a close eye on my glass all through dinner. As we got up to leave, she marveled that I was able to leave a few sips behind. If she started, she’d be unable to stop, she lamented. 

I feel fortunate to have survived the drinking adventures of my past. But what I’m most thankful for is not being one of those long-ago treatment patients whose failures and sufferings are forever etched in my memory. How fortunate I am that I can enjoy it but I don’t need it. How great that I can stop. Now, I’ll have that Brandy Manhattan with an olive please.

Answering the Colbert Questionert

A recurring feature on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert involves inviting his celebrity guests to take the Colbert Questionert. Actually, it’s fifteen questions. Some are simple. What is the best sandwich? Is it apples or oranges? What’s your favorite smell? What’s one thing you own that you should throw away?

It goes pretty fast as his famous guests zip through the questions quicky. Then comes the deeper ones about the meaning of life. The last one stops things dead. Because it takes some thought. He asks: describe the rest of your life in five words.

Robert DeNiro had to stare into space for a full minute before he came up with his answer: who really gives a f***? Tom Hanks said: a magnificent cavalcade of color. Meryl Streep said: very, very, very very long. George Clooney said: cleaning up after my kids.

After I finished laughing, I began to ponder. Life can be so complex, it’s difficult to whittle an answer down to just five words. It’s much easier to sluff it off as DeNiro did and make a glib remark. But I wanted to go deeper.  

It took me a while to think of an answer and also made me look over the life I’ve already lived to weigh my successes and failures. As I reminisced, I wondered how I’d survived some of my challenges. But I did.

In my career I’ve made contributions. In my private life I’ve been generally happy. I’m content with what I have right now so it was not easy to look ahead and figure out how to describe the rest of my life in five words. Or should I say how I hoped the rest of my life would be. But I came up with a few:

Keep my life the same
or
Onward to more good times
or
Just let me go fast
or
Don’t worry just be happy (I plagiarized that one)

Anyway, it was a thoughtful exercise and I think I did better than some of the celebrities.  Maybe that means I’m as content and satisfied with my simple life as they are with all their fame and fortune. Or maybe it means nothing at all.

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!   

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.  

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.