The Late Arrival

At around 10:00 Sunday morning, I'm sitting on the porch half-broiling in Milwaukee's special brand of humidity while relaxing away the time before we have to pack up and head back to church for volunteering at the church picnic. *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * In between wiping beads of sweat from my upper lip, my thoughts drift back to seven days before when we were tackling that last pain-staking two hours from St. Louis to Joplin and then later, Pierce City. I can still feel the silent fatigue hanging over my husband, my daughter and me as we drove those 200 hundred miles. We finally arrived, settled in, had dinner and then worried whether that we'd have to take cover from an impending tornado as National Weather Service suggested. But life in Joplin went on, as it was going on in Pierce City. In fact, the sun was shining. So we went. Back in 2012, I serendipitously found Editor of the Monnet Times, Murray Bishoff on the internet. He had re...

The endless countryside is dotted with hay bales in random, yet organized rows. Then more hay bales, then meadows grasping on to the last greens of summers, then signs for rest stops, lodging and gas. Maybe a few cows and horses. Then more random hay bales. We're probably at mile 175 of a 600 mile road trip to Pierce City, Missouri. As rest/gas signs become fewer and fewer, my mind does what it always does: What would happen if we needed gas before the next exit? I imagine my daughter and I waiting roadside as my husband grows tinier in the distance, a lone figure walking into the sunrise with a telltale red gas container toward the next truck stop exit.  In this imagined reality, I will myself into not complaining or being passive-aggressive (my specialty) even in the face of being stranded gas-less on some abandoned stretch of beat-up road in Wisconsin...even though my husband could've just stopped for gas when we were at a half tank, and he does have  I am Capt...

The most I know about my grandmother on my mother's side is that she was born in Missouri, had a short temper and that she didn't suffer fools gladly. Mom said that on Saturdays, my grandmother would take mom and her siblings on the streetcar to Milwaukee's Central Library. On one of those trips my mom, who was short, was struggling to keep up with my tall grandmother's long strides. Evidently the sidewalk was bustling with people and mom was holding my grandmother's hand for dear life. Mom ultimately tripped up a curb and ran smack dab into the stomach of a tall man going in the opposite direction. All she heard upon impact was OOF . My grandmother impatiently stopped, looked down at my mom and and said Geneva, you oughta sue the city for building the sidewalk so close to your a$$. Yeah, she's smiling here but I still wouldn't mess with her  and I'm her granddaughter. Mom said the extended family gathered every summer someplace in Missour...

It's my favorite cuisine: German. Give me sauer braten, knackwurst and strawberry schaum torte. It's a Dr. Watts hymn sung by earnest deacons at Sunday devotionals before service starts. It's a Mighty Fortress sung at the right tempo at Reformation and Gott Ist De Liebe on Christmas. It's sweet potato pie spiced to perfection on Thanksgiving. All of that is home to me. I asked my daughter what home was to her. Insightful enough to realize that home can be a place or a state of mind, she asked, exactly how I defined home. I told her that her definition was up to her. She called upon memories of when she was young. She said she saw them as sunny faded Polaroids flecked with orange shimmers. She giggled and remembered the time when she believed she led her preschool class in a Happy Feet dance on the playground. Then her face grew dark when she recalled awkward situations at summer camp in the years that followed. Home is different for everyone --...

What brings you joy? Like, actual joy? Somehow, the question came up in conversation with friends. I didn't want to put myself out there, so I sat back and listened: My relationship with friends. When I accomplish [insert accomplishment here] When people really get what I do all day. When I... When I... When I ... From my judgey perch, something uncharacteristically pushy inside me added Okay. But what brings us joy outside of ourselves? I'm pretty sure that's probably the last time I'll be invited anywhere. But anyway. There was a long pause and people (including me) began shifting uncomfortably. I mean, what in my definition of joy is not exclusively and inextricably linked to some benefit to me? How self-centered and self-serving am I anyway? We kept shifting and soon changed the topic. But I kept thinking: what brings me joy that isn't about me at its core? I came up with a few. And by a few, I mean few : Watching the lightbulb moment. Thes...