I've Got a Pocketful of Sunshine

Originally published in Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

Our youngest, Becca, can be a burst of sunshine. She’s one of those little girls who loves wearing dresses--does it twirl?--and skips instead of walking everywhere she goes. Her hair, unlike mine EVER, has beautiful waves and little tendrils that curl around her face. Her eyes are giant sapphires blinding you with their light. And when she laughs, oh, it fills your soul.

Now, don’t get me wrong. She can be a nightmare. Just this morning, Ben was playing “Let It Be” --his calming technique--you don’t mess with “Let It Be.” Unfortunately, at the exact same moment, Becca wanted to reread her new favorite Mo Willems book I Love My New Toy, which she can read ALL BY HERSELF. I tried to convince her to whisper the book, even the parts where the characters are clearly yelling (nice move, Mo Willems), but that would not fly. So, let’s see how this went. Uh, Ben was singing, Becca yelled part of her story, Ben yelled at her to be quiet because he was CALMING DOWN, Becca ran to me and puddled herself on the floor screaming and crying. Yup. 6:32 a.m. in our house. Pretty typical. So, as I was saying, she can become a slobbering mess of melodrama in a matter of seconds, but she has moments of heaven that more than make up for that.

One such moment is The Nightly Cuddle. On my Mother’s Day poster, Becca stated “My mom is really good at cuddling me.” I would beg to differ. I have cuddled all three of my kids as they dropped off to sleep, and I would say that it is BECCA who is good at cuddling ME. Becca pulls me in close and wraps her skinny arm around my neck, pulling my forehead in so we’re “touching heads.” Touching heads was her idea, her insistence, from a very young age. And there is something so intimate, so tender, so endearing about “touching heads.” Even when I’m too sick to get out of my bed and go cuddle in hers, Becca and I cuddle and touch heads, and I’m really not sure who needs it more.

Then there’s her storytelling. Becca is always narrating a story. Always. When she was a toddler, her two best friends were her hands, Nina and Shakkah. They were involved in many great dramas in the car, in her bed, in the living room, or on the swingset. One time, Nina even choked Becca. That was when we really worried about whether or not her multiple personalities were getting out of hand. We haven’t seen Nina and Shakkah lately, but Becca gets very involved in her Barbies, her babies, and all her dolls.I love watching the gentle way she mothers her babies, swaddling them, kissing their cheeks, holding them on her hip. I hope she’s mimicking me, some deep seated memories of how I cherished her infanthood.

Most of all, Becca is my sunshine because she loves ME the best. If I’m feeling bad or sad, she hugs me, kisses me, brings me a blanket, or puts her tiny hand inside mine with a grip so fierce, I think we could actually take on the world together. If I’m doing a chore, she’s willing to help hold the garbage bag or wipe the dishes dry or put the clothes in the drawers, just to be with me. “We’re having fun, right, Mommy?! Girlfriends!”

It is in these sunshiney moments I wish she could be six for an eternity. That she would never have to grow up and out and away. That we could “touch heads” every night before we go to sleep. I’ll try to treasure it now. I already know how fast it goes. Yes, Boo, we’re having fun. Girlfriends! Forever.  

I'm Naturally Blonde

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

You can’t tell it from looking at me anymore, but I am naturally blonde. Which means I shouldn’t laugh at ‘blonde jokes,’ but a lot of times they’re too accurate for me to be offended.

Sometimes, being blonde makes for a good time. I trip over air. I have never eaten ice cream without spilling some on my shirt. I walk into glass doors, catch the hem of my shirt in drawers, bump into stationary objects, and once put my phone in the fridge and my take-out box on the counter by the charger. I am known to say a lot of backwards, not-quite-the-phrase, hilarious things like “six of one, twelve dozen of another” or “kill one bird with two stones”. I once told my parents, “If that house is worth that much, you guys are sitting on a LAND MINE!” I often mess up the commas in thousands, such as, “She bought him a seventy-five hundred dollar car!” (I was going for $75,000 there). At school, my favorite is to tell kids to “lip your zips” and to put their heads in their laps. If you talk with me for any amount of time, you’re pretty much guaranteed to catch at least one of my interesting phrases.

A lot of time, though, being blonde is what irritates me the most about myself. Like, where ARE my keys, or glasses, or shoes, or the papers I was just holding in my hand? I forget important conversations moments after they’ve occurred. I am perpetually late, because I have to run back into the house to grab something, or I just plain haven’t given myself enough time to get ready. One time, I painstakingly returned $18 worth of pop and beer cans, only to lose the paper slip in the store somewhere. My cellphone alarm goes off with reminders at all times of the day, desperately trying to keep my brain focused for one moment in time. I forget birthdays, can never quite finish a sentence, and I honestly have no idea what my husband would like for our anniversary.

A year ago Christmas, my wonderful husband painstakingly put together a huge jar of 365 slips of typed papers. The pink slips are “I love that you…” The purple slips are “Remember when?” The white slips are “We’re doing this!” (Fun little adventures which would never even occur to me!) It probably took him an entire year to put the thing together and all I had to do was... remember to take a slip out of the jar each day. Seriously, that’s it. Take a slip out and read it. Would you believe I couldn’t remember to do that? I’d go a few days, then see the jar and feel guilty. Eventually, around June, I gave up and decided I’d try again in 2017. Sadly, I’ve had to set an ALARM to remind myself each day. And, to be honest, every time it goes off, I think, “What the world is that?” Insert eyeroll.

In conclusion, being blonde can be a blessing or a pain, but… Wait. What were we talking about again?

What Would BK Think of This One?

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

On the outside, Bruce Kutney looked like a typical English 10 teacher in the late 80’s-early 90’s. Every day he wore ironed shirts, tie, and large, square framed glasses. He was clean cut, except for the year he experimented with a mustache. He was calm, mellow, easy going. On the inside, though, he had the superpower to change people’s lives. I was one of those lucky people.

First of all, Mr. Kutney introduced me to Shakespeare, and that’s been a 30-year love affair. All sophomores were required to read “Romeo and Juliet”. I can’t imagine how horrid a concept that must have been to shlup through this romantic, obscurely written play with your typical jeans and T-shirt tenth grader. But, Mr. Kutney taught us to fall in love with the words, to really feel the story, once even standing upon his desk and acting out what a modern day Romeo would have said (Woooo, Juliet! You are lookin’ hot tonight!). We laughed at Shakespeare’s jokes because he helped us get them. We were irate for the murdered Mercutio and desolate for heartbroken Juliet. We didn’t just read that required play, we experienced it, in a way even the curriculum director didn’t expect.

When we studied vocabulary words as ACT prep, we didn’t do flashcards or dittos. Mr. Kutney gave us a list of the words and their meanings, then we wrote short stories using the words to demonstrate our mastery. To this day, the satire I wrote about a suicidal girl saved by a bag of oreos and the detective who was actually a goldfish are two of my favorite pieces of writing--in addition to cementing the words obsequious, banal, trite, and plethora in my mind forever.

It was this work that led me to stay after class one day and pull out a typed story I’d been working on. I’d written short stories for 3 or 4 years when I met Mr. Kutney, but never showed them to anyone. Not only did he take it seriously, but he seemed honored I’d asked him to read it, giving me the little push I needed. Over the next two years, we worked on that story, other stories and, eventually, I created a book during our independent study of creative writing. By this time, I referred to him as BK, and made a huge point out of pulling recyclable paper from his trash can to put in the recycling bins. I worshipped Mr. Kutney, hung on his every critique, and swooned when he liked what I wrote. He made me believe not that I could BE a writer someday, but that I WAS a writer, and the path would lead me wherever I wanted to go. When I applied to Western Michigan University, it was to major in creative writing.

My freshman year of college, we celebrated our favorite teachers, but Mr. Kutney couldn’t attend. So, we met at a Chinese restaurant on a Saturday instead--way better--and I told him I was entering the field of education. I can write in the summer, I told him, but still make enough money to eat. Mr. Kutney nodded in understanding, but I know now a little bit of his dream died that day, too. Yes, I’ve loved being a teacher, but my passion was writing, and Mr. Kutney gave me the permission, the fire, to follow that passion. I want him to know the fire’s always been there, embers glowing, waiting for the right time. I want him to know I’m finding a way to fill both purposes in my life. I want him to know that, as a teacher, I know how much of your heart you put into your students, your kids, and I’m not about to let him down, though it’s been quite a while since I’ve been a kid. I want him to know that, without him, all those typed stories would’ve stayed in a box, never seen, never read, and I certainly wouldn’t be telling anyone a story in a newspaper today.

When I type at my computer now, I can feel the fire beneath my fingertips and I wonder, What would BK think of this one? I hope he would be proud.

Miracles Can Happen

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

In case you don’t already know this about me, I’m a big Detroit Tigers fan. Like, huge. Borderline creepy. In fact, my wedding RECEPTION was at Comerica Park. I’m that big a fan.

The words “Tigers Game” have been written on our calendar for July 16 for a few months now. It was when the Boy Scouts would go to Comerica Park and be honored on the field. The closer it got, the more convinced I was that I’d be too sick to go. I wouldn’t see my son on the field. I wouldn’t sit next to him and cheer on our team. I’d be lying in bed, shivering, crying, and missing the whole thing.

But, miracles do happen. I know because July 11, FIVE DAYS before the game, I had my gallbladder removed. It wasn’t even a firm decision by any doctor--it was kind of a “well, it could help, and it probably won’t hurt,” sort of thing. It was literally a game changer.

On Sunday morning, I was up at 5:00. I put on my grandmother’s Inge #15 jersey, ate a low-fat, gluten-free breakfast, and packed up the van. Eric, Ben, and I picked up my father-in-law and my nephew, and we drove to Detroit.

On the trip down, we stopped for gas in a downpour. Eric kept checking the weather report. “If it gets rained out, we have to come back on a different day. What if school’s already started?” Eric worried the whole rest of the trip about the weather and a rain delay, if not a RAINOUT.

But miracles do happen. I know because, as we pulled onto Madison Avenue, the sun came out. It was kind of humid, warm, but not raining. But, what if it got ungodly hot? What if our seats burned our behinds? What if we got horrific sunburn?

Miracles do happen. I know because our seats were high enough up that we were covered the entire time. So, not only did we stay dry, we weren’t sunburned or scorched or sweating to death. And we could see EVERYTHING. We were in the balcony, the 300s, and they were probably the best seats for viewing the game in which I’ve ever sat.

Ben’s favorite players are Miguel Cabrera, James McCann, and Mikie Mahtook. Recently, McCann hasn’t been batting well, so Alex Avila’s been our catcher. We knew going in that Ben probably wouldn’t get to see McCann or Matook--a newbie, utility player who’s competing with a few other guys for our center field spot. It was okay.

But, miracles do happen. I know because James McCann caught that game. The Blue Jays scored a few on Alexis Sanchez, but then we came back and tied it up. Ben and I cheered and high-fived and clapped until our hands grew sore. We sang “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” and tried to get caught on the kiss cam. We danced and hugged and sat on the edge of our seats...and I’ve never felt better.

At the bottom of the ninth, we were tied up, and Miguel Cabrera came to the plate. Would it be another miracle? Would Ben’s favorite player hit a walk-off home run? No. He struck out. But, miracles do happen. I know because that meant extra innings, so Pinch Runner Mikie Mahtook came into the game! Ben fell to his knees and screeched like a limb had been severed. “Sorry,” I told the concerned fans around us, “That’s his favorite player. We didn’t think we’d get to see him today.”

At the bottom of the 11th, Ben prayed we’d win, and I told him God had too many gallbladders to be watching, He didn’t have time to worry about an old baseball game. But, miracles do happen. I know because Avila walked, Castellanos reached on an error, Upton walked, and Miguel Cabrera came back to the plate. Two outs. I held the back of Ben’s t-shirt squeezed in my right hand. With each pitch, I swung him around a little and we screamed, “C’mon, Miggy!!” FULL COUNT. If Miggy didn’t hear us, God did. It was a walk-off WALK. Ben cried tears of joy, I held my stitches in and jumped in the air. Miracles do happen. You just have to trust and be patient, like Miguel Cabrera in the 11th inning.

Lucy and Ethel Drive in Ann Arbor

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

When you’re an only child, you tend to be very close to your parents. At least, that is the case with me. In adulthood especially, my mom is one of my best friends, and we always have hilarious escapades when we’re together. Since we’re both intelligent women who completely lack common sense, we often title our outings things like, “Lucy and Ethel Take Two Toddlers to Visit GG,” in honor of the fabulous Lucille Ball. So, when I asked Mom to drive me to U of M Hospital for a colonoscopy, I knew I’d come out of it with some sort of great story. I was not disappointed.

I should tell you Mom’s town, like mine, has only two stoplights. Thus, she was a little unnerved by the amount of traffic, by the number of lanes and stoplights, and by the honking. Our adventure actually occurred across the street from the hospital. We honestly could’ve parked our car right there and walked over. Maybe we should have.

It started like this: I was the navigator and said,  “Okay, now we just need to go straight through this light and turn left.”

Mom: “We’re turning left here?”

Me: “No. We have to get in the lane to go straight. Then we turn left at the top of the hill. You have to get over, Mom. Get over.” (She was in the Right Turn Only lane.)

There were two cars about ten yards back approaching us in the lane she needed.

Mom: “I CAN’T get over! I can’t!”

Me: “You have to. Mom, GET OVER!”

After much yelling back and forth, we stopped at the light, in the Right Turn Only lane. Still, not a huge deal.

Me: “Okay, when the light turns green, you just go straight. Okay, Mom? Just go straight. You can do it. You’re not the first person to be in this lane and need to go straight.”

Mom: “But there are cars there! I can’t just GO.” Then the idiot behind us honked. This turned my mother into Lucy. She didn’t cry, but any rational thought left her, because now she was inconveniencing the person behind us, and the driver was mad at her.

Me: “Dang it. I should’ve just driven this morning. That was dumb. I’m not knocked out or loopy right now. I need you to drive after.” I looked at the incredibly long stoplight. “Okay, we’re going to switch. Ready, Mom? We’re going to switch and I’m going to drive.”

Mom: “What? Is there time? What if there’s not time? You get out and we’ll see if there’s time.”

Me: “What are YOU gonna do? Leave me? We’re switching.”

This was when things got very crazy. Apparently, I should have specified how we were switching. But Ethel never specifies, she just tells Lucy what they’re doing, and hopes for the best. So, I got out and walked around the back. As I came up to the OPEN driver’s door, I said, “Okay, c’mon, Mom. We’re switching!” I thought she’d get OUT. Nope, Mom started skooching across the console, over to the passenger side. Unfortunately, she hadn’t put the car in park, and it began to not-so-slowly drive forward.

Me: “Mom, the car’s moving. The car’s MOVING! Mom, you have to press the brake.”

Again, the jerk behind us honked, like we didn’t know the car was moving and I was outside. Thanks, buddy.

I grabbed the inside handle of the door, hopped on one foot next to the car, grabbed the back of the driver’s seat, and flung myself inside. My foot hit the brake as the tip of Mom’s car went into cross traffic. Miraculously, no honks from crossing cars.

Mom: “Don’t you DARE write about this in the paper!”

Me: Sly grin. Did she really think I’d pass on a story that good? Stay tuned for more adventures from Lucy and Ethel.

I'm in the Pantry!

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

Being an aunt is even better than being a mom. You get all the loving, with none of the snark, and you get to send them home! Growing up, I didn’t know this. I didn’t even know if I’d get to be an aunt. I was an only child, so I knew I’d have to count on a husband, and, for a while there, it looked like I wasn’t gonna have one of those, either. So, when I met my husband and he had a picture of two little blonde, blue-eyed cuties on his fridge, my “aunt-radar” went up.

Okay, so my niece was actually bald at the time. She was pretty much bald until two. But, man, they were cute. Around Christmas, Eric’s brother and sister-in-law, Chad and Virginia, sent a photo of their kids sitting side-by-side in little Christmas outfits, big eyes, pudgy cheeks, and little dimpled hands. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on them!

Since they lived in Colorado and then California, I didn’t get to meet them until the following May, when Emma was beginning to walk and Gary was big into “workin’” with power tools. Gary was too busy (and shy) to be bothered by me. So I followed Emma around, chatting with her, reading her books, and cracking up when she put her hands on the floor to “climb” over the door jamb.

The next Christmas found Chad’s family living in Saginaw! I got to watch Emma and Gary open presents, and thoroughly enjoyed the new title of “Aunt Aura.” This time, Gary decided he could give up a little work time to play hide-n-seek with me. So, he hid in the same spot (the pantry), and I went around looking in ridiculous places (the silverware drawer, the toilet) and said, “Where’s Gary? Hhhmmm, I can’t seem to find him. Has anyone seen Gary?”

Every time, his little voice called out, “I’m in the pantry, Aunt Aura! I’m in the pantry!” Eventually I made a big production of looking in the pantry and--what??--there was Gary! My favorite Gary memory of all time.

That March, I got the thrill of a lifetime: my niece Gracie was born! I was able to see Virginia many times during her pregnancy and feel Gracie moving around in her belly. On the day her c-section was scheduled, I told my students, “Good Morning! My niece Gracie is being born today!” in a slightly psychotic, high pitched squeal. During my students’ grammar lesson, when I got the call announcing Gracie’s successful arrival. I jumped up and down and screamed, “She’s here! She’s here! Woohoo! I’m an aunt again!” That weekend, Eric, our Emma, and I drove down to Saginaw. When I walked in the door, I proclaimed, “Hand her over, people. I’m here to see my baby!” I held Gracie, fed her, changed her diaper, and pretty much never put her down. To this day, at 11-years-old, she’s still ‘my baby.’

My nephew and nieces have lived in California, Colorado, Saginaw, Gaylord, and then--much to my dismay--New Bern, North Carolina. Wherever they live, they are an immense blessing to me. I get to have deep talks with them, joke with them, love on them, “middle name them” (Grace Frances said to me “Aunt Laura, you scare me a little sometimes.” Exactly, Gracie.), and watch them grow. But we don’t have the strain of day-to-day life, the struggle for independence from me that my children and I have to go through. All the love, very little of the drama.

I never imagined being an aunt. It’s a love I didn’t know I was missing, until these three came along and stole my heart. Now I can’t fathom life without them. Captain Sweatpants, Lil E, and G-Money, Aunt Laura loves you!

I Have a Fan!

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

Sunday was a bad day, sick-wise. Most days, I’ll wake up and feel okay, until I eat something. But Sunday was one of those days where I started out feeling just blah, and I knew it would only get worse. I let the dogs out, ate some sort of non-descript “food,” pulled my hood over my head and went back to bed.

As they are prone to do, my children continued to function in and around the house. They came in to ask if they could have snacks and watch tv, they fought about ridiculous minutia, Becca needed her hair done, Ben played a loud game of inside basketball, and, eventually, it was time to try and eat something else. Everyone was seated around the kitchen table, when we heard the garage storm door creak open.

“Who the heck is that?” we all wondered aloud. We looked around the table--WE were all there. Who would be wandering into our house?

“It’s Mrs. Bur!” the Littles yelled before I could even see her. Thank God it was just my best friend, because I looked a fright.

“I just have to pee!” she yelled, and disappeared into the guest bathroom in our laundry room. We all laughed, and it pleased me to know my friend knows she’s welcome to come on in, run to our bathroom, and make herself at home. If you don’t have a lot of family around you, you have to make “framily”--friends who feel as close as family. For the past eight years we’ve been lucky to count the Burs as part of our framily.

“I was in Gaylord with my mom, and, you know me,” Doniel explained when she exited the bathroom, “I can’t make it all the way to Cheboygan without a bathroom stop!” I came into the laundry room to give her a hug and a ‘sick report,’ and she said, “Well, come on out here. You need to talk to my mom. She’s your biggest fan.”

My WHAT? My biggest fan? When I write these columns, it’s like I’m sitting across from Doniel at my kitchen table, just chit-chatting about whatever is going on in my mind. When I offered to be a “guest columnist,” all I was really thinking was that I needed to get my name in publication so that, if I ever do try to publish my novel, I’ve got something that shows I’ve been writing. I never really thought about people reading my columns, let alone being my fans!

Despite the fact that I looked like a bad impersonation of the Russian fighter from Rocky IV (spiked up hair, gray hooded sweatshirt), I did “come on out” to Doniel’s van to see her mom. Mrs. Crocker gushed about how my columns were her favorite, and how she tells all the other girls at work, “I get to read Laura’s column first!” After they’ve all read it, she cuts it out and mails it to someone else to enjoy! “Laura,” Mrs. Crocker said, “I can just picture all these things and it’s like I’m right there with you!”

Of course Ben came out, shirtless, bouncing a basketball and spouting facts like a trivia game. Becca was carrying two of her babies and hid behind me, feigning shyness toward her own Godmother, who she hugs every day at school. Mrs. Crocker said it was like stepping into one of my columns. “Welcome to my world!” I said.

When I was a little girl, I’d spend a week here and there in the summer at my grandparents’ farm, and one of my favorite things to do was to make a newspaper using my grandpa’s typewriter. I called it “Hendricks News” and I’d report on hay bales or calves or canning or visits from my Great Aunt Sylvie. I made crosswords and drew pictures with captions. It felt very real and important at the time, and I thought, “This would be the coolest job.” As I got older, though, fiction became my true love, and the dream of newspapers slid out of the way for plans for novels and book tours and character talks. Writing memoir is scary; if people don’t like it, does it mean they don’t like you? I suppose last Sunday made me feel the converse is true: if people like my articles, they must like me. I know I’m enjoying writing them, though it’s a whole different thought process than what I’ve done before. And I’m glad to know Mrs. Crocker is out there, anxiously awaiting, reading, and sharing. I’ve never had a fan before.