Ageless Passions by Karen Putz

Tag: Christie Lake

  • The Final Goodbye

    My brother Kenny spent his last morning with Dad a week ago and he captured this sunrise at the lake and showed it to Dad:

    I was fortunate to be able to spend the last two weeks with Dad and grab some precious time. I jokingly asked him to send me some glass calm water this summer so I could barefoot. He laughed. On the morning of his memorial, this is what we woke up to:

    Dad’s Memorial service:

    After the memorial, we went inside the VFW hall for a luncheon and I shared a few words:

    I would like to thank all of you for joining us today.  It means a lot to us to have each and every one of you here.

    You’ve probably heard the saying it takes a village to raise a child.  Well it took a village to get through this cancer journey with my dad.  I want to extend a big thank you to everyone who visited and lent a helping hand.  We could not have gotten through the last two years without you.

    Tom Pursley has been a friend since he built my parent’s home almost twenty years ago.  Tom and his crew built a roll in shower and a ramp and this enabled Dad to live his last months at home.   Without that, we wouldn’t have been able to have Dad at home.  Thank you Tom, for all you’ve done.

    Roger and Mabel thank you, for being great neighbors and  for all the projects you did around the house, especially the generator.  Mom didn’t have to worry about the oxygen machine if the power would have gone out.  Thank you for taking care of the house when we were gone.  Mabel came down every day at the end and provided great support.

    When Dad first began treatments two years ago, Mom was worried about keeping up with the yard at the house and the shed.  Dick jumped right in and said,  don’t worry about it– I will take care of it.  And he did.    Dick and Lorraine, thank you for all the help you have given us.

    We could have done it without all if you who pitched in and supported us.  Thank you.

    Thw first night that Dad was gone, my sisters and I sat with Mom and we started sharing some memories about Dad.  Soon we found ourselves laughing, because my Dad had a wry sense of humor.  So I wanted to share some of that with you today.

    Every now and then, Dad liked to play with the telemarketers that called in the evenings.  After a long day at work, the phone would ring and it would be someone trying to sell something.  On one particular call, a guy tried to sell him some siding.  Dad listened to his sales pitch and asked him questions… What color … payment plans and so on. Just as the guy thought he had a sale,  Dad said, “I’d really like to buy what you’re selling,  but I don’t own this house.  I’m just renting.”  And then he’d hang up.

    Another story involves Mike Radtkovich who owned the cottage that the Bires now own.  Mike was an insurance agent. The first time Dad called him, he didn’t recognize his voice.  He wanted to insure a hang glider, for towing behind a boat.  Mike explained that he couldn’t draw up a policy just for a hang glider. How about the boat– Mike tried to sell him a policy for the boat. “Oh, I don’t have insurance on the boat,” Dad told him.  “I just want insurance on the hang glider.”  On and on they went.   Mike wanted to hang up on this difficult customer who just wouldn’t take no for an answer.  “Mike, this is Norm,” said Dad.  “You know sure as hell that I don’t own a hang glider!”

    My cousin Marilyn received a call one day out of the blue.   It was the electric company, threatening to shut off the electric because they were behind on payments. Marilyn insisted that she paid her bill, and they went back and forth.   She had two days to pay her entire bill or they would shut off the electric.  “How could this happen?” Marilyn wanted to know– and then she heard,  “This is Norrrrrm!”   Marilyn fell for it again, in another call, where Dad attempted to sell her new windows. But she quickly turned the tables and said that she had new windows put in.  Before she could hang up, she heard it again, “This is Norrrrm!”

    Marilyn finally got new windows… A few years ago.

    For the last two years, cancer took away the one thing that my dad loved, and that’s food.  During the first visit to the doctor, he was asked what he hoped to achieve from treatment.  Dad said, “Well, my wife is a good cook. I just want to be able to enjoy her food again.” Mom nearly fell off the chair, as dad mostly took her cooking for granted all these years!

    Well, after two years of being on the feeding tube, a miracle occured for a few weeks. Dad could eat again.  And I mean, he could eat! So whatever he asked for, Mom cooked it or baked it.  Pies, cakes, cookies, fish, you name it.

    A month ago, Dad joined us at the table for what would be one of his last full meals with us.  Lauren, my daughter, suggested that we say grace. We all began to join hands and Dad gruffly declined to join us. None of that touchy-feely stuff for this tough Marine.  In the middle of grace, I felt a hand reach for mine. In the corner of my eye, I saw him reach for mom’s hand , and Dad joined us for the rest of the grace.

    Thank you Dad. I will always cherish that memory.

    Please join me in saying grace.

    After the memorial, we went back to the house and everyone remarked at what a beautiful day it was and how rare for the lake to be so calm the entire day. All I could think was, “Gee, thanks, Dad. I meant ‘glass calm water’ when I have a boat to ski behind, not today.” Gotta laugh at Dad, the joker:

    To finish off the day, Jen and I went for a walk and came across one of the most brilliant sunsets that I can ever remember seeing in all the years of being up in Michigan:

    On my Facebook page, Claude St. Onge shared this thought, a fitting end to this post:

    Dear Karen, You are so lucky, lucky to have an Angel of light that was with you to touch on this earth plane. Now you still have his Angelic memoires to hold you over till you meet again. Release comes when the heart opens. The word heart is really HE ART. He is. You Dad still is. Remember this always. Love CSTO

    Dad’s Memorial Video:

  • Dad’s Cancer Journey

    Cancer is a crappy disease.  Just saying.

    My latest TribLocal article is a story about meeting Pat Becker this summer.  Pat is the sister of Joann O’Connor, the gal that I barefooted with in Wisconsin this summer.  Pat and Joann are tough gals.  Joann can tear up the water on her bare feet and she has me in awe every time I watch her footin’. 

    Pat was diagnosed with cancer and given a few months to live.  Her family prepared for the day that they thought they were going to lose her.  That was sixteen years ago.  Pat endured 132 chemotherapy treatments and she managed to kick the cancer on its rear end.   Pat inspires my Dad to keep going every day.  Everyone needs a “Pat” on their cancer journey.   Thanks, Pat, for reaching out to my Dad.

    Read more:  Finding Support for Cancer

  • Driving a 1952 John Deere Tractor

    I was winterizing the jet ski when Dad came out of the garage.  “What happened to your trailer?” he asked, pointing to the wheel crank. The handle was bent.

    “I jackknifed two years ago when I backed it up for the first time,” I sheepishly explained.  “I left the back door up on the truck and I couldn’t see the end of the trailer when I was backing up.”

    He threw his head back and laughed. Because you see, I have a history of “accidents” with motorized toys.   I once broke off the handle in the back of the snowmobile while whipping Joe on a sled in the middle of the lake.  A couple of years ago, I backed the ATV out of the shed and forgot about the snow plow attached in front.  The plow caught the door frame and I pulled the entire front of the shed off the foundation.  Fortunately, Dad didn’t lecture me too much as we pounded the shed frame back into place.  Another time, I was pulling the pontoon out of the barn with the ATV and forgot to put it in four-wheel drive and I snapped off the hitch.

    “Let me go get some wrenches and I’ll fix the crank for you.”

    In two minutes, he had the handle straightened out and the crank working again.  He went back in the house as I continued to winterize the jet ski.  I ran the anti-freeze through, fogged the engine and shut it off.  I went in the garage to look for a socket wrench and after a few minutes, I found the size I needed to remove the battery cables.  I went back in for an adjustable wrench to remove the battery from the housing.  If there’s one thing you should know about my Dad, he has every tool imaginable.  However, finding what you need when you need it is a challenge:

    I went through every drawer, but I couldn’t find the adjustable wrench in the size that I needed.  So off I went into the house.  “Where’s the small, adjustable wrench?”  I asked.

    Without missing a beat, he said, “Second drawer.”

    It took a bit of digging, but sure enough, I found the wrench buried deep in the second drawer.  I finished up with the jet ski and drove it up to the barn to put it away.  The neighbors had put their boats away earlier and I slid the jet ski in the empty slot in the back.  I noticed that Dad’s tractor was sitting outside.  The neighbors had dragged it out of the barn but there was no way to put it back without starting it.

    “Hey Dad, the tractor is sitting outside,” I explained when I arrived back at the house.  “I think it’s time for you to teach me how to drive it.”  Dad raised one eyebrow, but he agreed to teach me the next day.

    Dad received this 1952 tractor as a gift from Tom Pursley, a local builder who built my parent’s house.  The tractor was one of the first two-cycle diesel engines with a gas pulling motor. The pulling motor stopped working, so the only way to get the tractor started was to tow it until it kicked into gear.  I hooked the strap up to the hitch and hopped into the truck.  “Put it in low,” Dad reminded me. “Tow me toward the road and when it kicks in, you can take the strap off.”

    I moved the truck forward and tightened the strap and then gave it some gas.  Nothing.  I tried again, and the wheels spun.  The tractor stayed in place.  I backed up a bit, gave it some more gas.  The strap tugged the truck back.

    Turns out, Dad left the brake engaged on the tractor.  Score one for me!  At least it wasn’t me messing up this time!  I pulled ahead and the tractor rolled forward.  We hit the road and the tractor started. But I celebrated too soon.  I had moved the truck to the side and put it in park and jumped out to release the strap just as Dad let the clutch out too fast.  The wheel ran over the strap.  The strap was too tight to remove.  Dad ended up putting the tractor in reverse to release the tension and I unhooked the strap.

    I parked the truck and hopped on to the tractor for my lesson.  It turned out to be pretty simple to run a tractor.  Put it in gear, release the clutch and off you go.  Pull the clutch along with the brakes and you can stop the thing.  I had fun driving it around with Dad hanging on. I think I’m ready to chop some corn down in a field.

    Well, kind of ready.  I let Dad put it back in the barn.

  • The Kronewitters– A Blast from the Past

    I drove to Huzzy lake last week with great anticipation.  I had connected with the Kronewitter family via Facebook and for the first time in about 25 years, I was going to see them again.  The family was celebrating Andy’s birthday and I brought along a super soaker pump as his gift.  Not only was it a tribute to the fourth of July boat parades of the past when we would go around and soak the other boaters, but it was also a gift for traumatizing him as a kid.

    In my teen years, I hung out with Andy’s sisters, Tammy and Tracy.  The three of us spent entire summers together on the water, sometimes skiing up to eight times a day.   In a previous post, The Older I Get, The More Adventure I Want, I wrote about them here:

    Then there were the ATV toys that the Kronewitters brought into the picture.  They had two ATVs and a Dune Buggy.  The very first day that we unloaded the brand-new ATV off the truck, the youngest Kronewitter rode it into a tree and bent the foot rest.  That didn’t stop us. Tammy, Tracy and I would pack a lunch and hit the roads around the lake.  We explored abandoned houses and got lost a couple of times.  We built a dirt ramp in a field and borrowed Tim Brown’s dirt bike to add to the mix.  At one point, I had to go to the bathroom, so I rode the dirt bike home and headed inside.  Mom stopped me at the door.  “Whose motorcycle is that and why are you riding it?”  She was not pleased.

    Fun was the operative word of my childhood.  Tammy, Tracy and I often came up with crazy ideas to pass the time.  We did an all-girl pyramid with me at the top.  We did three of us on two pairs of skis, with me riding in the back binder of each.  We tied ropes around black truck inner tubes which folded practically in half when pulled, but we hung on.  We boat jumped (don’t even ask).  We attempted to jump over each other with kneeboards–which ended right after I knocked Tammy in the head.  We settled for pulling up on the rope and jumping over the rope instead.  And one day, we had a competition with another boat on the lake, to see which boat could pull the most skiers.  We won, with eight.

    (Tracy and Tammy on bottom, me on top)

    One day, I drove up to the lake by myself for the week.  I invited a bunch of friends over that night and we sat around playing cards.  Suddenly, they all jumped.  “What’s going on?” I asked.

    “There’s a noise coming from the bedroom,” one of them explained.  They all jumped again and some of them started to scream.

    “Ok,” I said.  “Follow me into the bedroom and we’ll see what’s going on!”

    I grabbed a monkey wrench and Tammy grabbed a broom and we all crept into the bedroom.  I flipped on the light.

    Nothing.  We all relaxed a bit and then suddenly, the screaming began again.  The girls rushed back into the kitchen with me following behind.

    “It’s coming from outside!” one of them said.

    Another one screamed.  “It’s coming from that window!”

    “Ok, we’re going outside,” I said.  “Jenny, flip on the floodlights and let’s head out.  If we all go together, whatever it is, we can handle it together.”

    As soon as Jenny hit the lights, we saw them.  It was Andy and his friend, Billy.  We chased after them but they took off into the darkness.

    So what do six scared girls do?  They plan revenge.

    The next night, we removed a screen in Tammy’s house and crept inside the window.  We were armed with duct tape and ropes.  We tiptoed over to where Andy and Billy were sleeping and we pounced on them.  Duct tape went over their mouth and rope on their hands and feet.  We hauled them outside and tossed them into the rowboat and set them loose, minus the oars.  We sat on the bank and watched them wriggle loose as the sun came up.   As soon as they started paddling to shore, we took off.

    Later that day, we held a meeting and declared a truce.  They never messed with us gals again.

    So when I saw Andy again, I promised to reimburse him for any therapy that he needed as a result of that kidnapping.

    “I sure hope you weren’t traumatized by that,” I chuckled as we reminisced.

    “I’ve got some duct tape and rope around here to return the favor!” he said.

    Tammy and me

    Tammy and me on bottom, Tracy on top

  • Grabbing the Last Bit of Summer

    It’s that time of the year again.  The “winding down” days of summer.  Summers at the lake are measured by the number of days that the pier stays in the water and as my family gets older, it seems like we take the pier out earlier each year.

    But we’re not there just yet.  This week is family week– my cousins are up from Missouri and it’s a week of making memories.  My cousin Cheri and I have grown closer over the years.  We didn’t know each other much growing up, but we’ve fostered a friendship as we’ve gotten older.  I love her like a sister now.

    As most of you know, my Dad is working on kicking cancer in the rear end.  He kicked it in the corner for a while, but we just learned that it has spread toward the lungs.  The doctor has suggested starting chemo again in a month.  Dad is going for a second opinion on my birthday and I’m hoping the new doctor will come up with some better ways to kick it back in the corner.

    Speaking of my upcoming birthday, I won’t be crying in the boat like last year.  I’ll be celebrating on the water instead, barefooting and wakeboarding.   I took up wakeboarding for the first time a few weeks ago.  When I announced that I was going to try it, David raised his eyebrow.  “Are you sure you can handle that, Mom?”

    Ooo, the kid rankled me up inside.  “Watch me!” I said.  I strapped myself to the board and got ready for a dock start.  David gunned the jet ski and I took off.

    I faceplanted right into the water.

    Uh oh, I thought to myself.  What have I gotten myself into?

    Back on the dock, it took two more tries before I found myself balancing on top of the water.  I felt like a 12-month-old toddler who had just learned to walk.  I wobbled back and forth, trying to get used to the rocking board.  I didn’t get too far before I found myself embracing the water again, face first.

    David circled around, expecting to pick me up and take me back for another dock start.  “I’m going to get up here,” I said.  I thought I saw David’s eyebrow raise again, but he caught himself in time.  He gave me some pointers on how to get up.

    I popped right out of the water on the first try and had nice run.

    Take that, son!

    “I’m going to do a 180 tomorrow!” I announced.  David laughed.  This time, he definitely raised his eyebrow again.  “All right, Mom, I’d like to see you do a 180.”

    I did the 180 on my first try and attempted a second one, but fell.  The dang kid missed the whole thing.  “I didn’t see it!” David said as he circled around.

    “What do you mean you didn’t see it!  I did it!”

    “You gotta do it again.  I want to see it,” he insisted.

    I got up again and I made sure David was looking back when I swung the wakeboard around the water.  I did it a second time for good measure.  Then I promptly lost my balance and fell on my rear.

    “Never doubt your Mother,” I told him.

  • The Ghost at Christie Lake

    From the time I was seven, I spent my summers at Christie Lake, a small lake located in Lawrence, Michigan. On the weekends, I would go up to the lake with my friend Chris, whose family owned a cottage. Most of our days were spent lazing on the water in the inner tube or zipping around in her father’s boat.

    One summer day when I was eleven, my parents and my older brother came up for the day. We were cruising around the lake and my brother noticed a “For Sale” sign planted in front of a cute, green cottage.

    “Come on,” my brother said, “Let’s just go inside and take a look. It won’t hurt to see how much it is.”

    The next thing I knew, we were unpacking suitcases inside the cute, green cottage. My parents had placed an offer that very day and purchased the place.

    While getting to know the new next-door-neighbors, we learned about the previous occupants of the home. The original owners were Mr. and Mrs. Eberhart and their two sons. Mrs. Eberhart had a reputation of being a rather tart lady and Mr. Eberhart often meekly complied with her demands.

    One day, the combination proved to be a fatal one. A storm was brewing and it had started to rain. Mrs. Eberhart turned to her husband and insisted that the boat needed to be covered.  Mr. Eberhart protested as there was lightning in the distance.

    He didn’t win.

    He and his son headed out in the storm to cover the boats. As the rain pelted down, they were suddenly both struck by lightning.

    Mr. Eberhart lost his life as he fell into the boat.

    After a few years, Mrs. Eberhart and her sons moved away and sold the cottages to another family, who in turn, sold it to us.

    Hearing the story sent chills through me, but I didn’t give it another thought. My sister and I eagerly unpacked our things in the room we shared. In the bedroom, we discovered an unusual closet with two doors. One door was at eye level and the other door was high up near the ceiling. We had to get a step stool to reach the upper door and found it difficult to open. We stuffed a sleeping bag inside that closet and went off to explore the rest of the cottage.
    We spent many wonderful summers at the lake.  At night time, I wasn’t too crazy about the room that my sister and I shared. It was dark and paneled in pine, with a single lamp illuminating the darkness. I didn’t like
    falling asleep there, especially late at night.  I always felt as if someone else was in the room with me.

    Every now and then, we would have a guest and have to get out the sleeping bag. This was no easy task, as the upper closet door was often hard to open.  A chair was required to reach the latch and it would take some tugging to get the closet door to budge.

    One night, while heading to the bathroom, I noticed that the upper closet door was ajar. I shrugged it off, thinking that someone grabbed the sleeping bag after I had gone to sleep and simply left the door open.

    The next morning, I woke up and noticed that the closet door was closed. I looked around and observed that no one had used a sleeping bag the night before.

    Hmmm, I thought to myself, I must have been dreaming.

    During a few more occasions, the same thing happened. I started to wonder if perhaps Mr. Eberhart was actually around.

    Oh come on, Karen, I mumbled to myself.  Of course, I didn’t believe in ghosts. How silly.

    Fast forward, many years later, and my parents hauled away the cute little cottage to the other side of town. They built their brand new retirement home on the same land.
    One evening, my father and I were watching TV and he casually turned to me and asked, “Karen, do you believe in ghosts?”

    Startled, I looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”

    So Dad went on to explain how at night, he would hear strange noises. He would often get up to check, and find nothing. There were many nights he felt that someone was in the house. He could hear the stairs creaking as if someone was walking up.

    But no one was there.

    So I told him about the closet door and how I would find it wide open at night.  Just at that moment, my sister walked into the room.

    “What are you guys talking about?”

    We filled her in, and to my utter surprise, she said, “Oh yea, I remember seeing the closet open at night too. It was really weird, because in the morning it was closed. I always figured you closed it.”

    And I had always figured she had closed it!

    Hmmm. We looked at each other and we all burst out laughing. We figured that Mr. Eberhart was living with us all those years.

    He must still be mad at his wife for sending him out in the storm.

    Fast forward to this summer. Two weeks ago, the radio in my boat kept turning on. We thought the kids were leaving it on but they vehemently denied even touching the radio. Joe replaced the cables on the battery that week and I had taken the boat to a mechanic for some repairs. We thought maybe the wiring was loose or the rocking of the boat had turned on the radio.

    Last Friday, I took my Mom and sister for a boat ride in the evening. When we arrived back at the dock, I made sure everything was turned off, including the radio. I climbed on to the pier and I was talking with my Mom, when suddenly, a light caught my eye.

    The radio turned on.

    I nudged my Mom. “Take a look, Mom! The radio is on! You just saw me turn everything off!”

    We took one look at each other, then at the boat, and we burst out laughing.

    I guess Mr. Eberhart has a sense of humor turning a radio on for a deaf family.

  • Barefooting, I Mean, Butt Riding

    I spent most of the July 4th weekend on my butt instead of my feet.  It was frustrating challenging.

    Andy, my nephew, brought his boat up Saturday so I decided to try some deep water starts behind his boat.  Andy had never pulled before so I knew I was gambling with inexperience, but I figured he would get the hang of it quickly.  During the first start, he went s.l.o.w.  I kept hanging on, thinking he would pick up the speed.  He kept it going, figuring he’d up the speed when I sat up.

    I finally let go.

    Round two was better, I sat up and moved over the wake and Andy picked up speed.  I had Judy Myer’s, Keith St. Onge’s and Joann O’Conner’s advice running through my head as I placed my feet on the water.

    Three point!

    Heels toward your butt!

    Feet on the water like you’re dropping an egg!

    This is how I spent the rest of the evening:

    On one start, it was the perfect storm.  I sat up and hit the stern roller just as Andy added more speed.  I popped up and lost the handle.  It snapped into my foot.  Can you say, “Ouch?”

    I took a break and pulled Andy water skiing back to shore and I decided that it was time to hit the kneeboard so that I could actually get some footin in:

    Being the stubborn gal I am, I decided to try the deep start a couple more times while the sun was setting.  Bad move.  As soon as I put my feet on the water and attempted to stand up, I felt my hamstring go “Pop!” and then:

    The next day, my old footin buddy, Marty and his sister Michele picked me up.  Marty purchased a new, 100-foot Barefoot International rope and I decided to take Joann’s advice to stay behind the boat and plant my feet there.  After another gazillion tries, I knew I had to embrace the kneeboard again if I was going to see any barefooting time.

    After that run, I gave Michele the kneeboard and said, “I gotta try one more time with the deep start to see if I can end this on a successful run.”

    Let’s just say that if there was a butt-riding contest– I’d win.

  • Saying Goodbye to Summer

    I hate Labor Day Weekend.  It’s the “official” end of summer at Christie Lake and it always makes me sad.  We try and grab as much as we can out of the weekend and always have to make the decision of whether or not we’ll take the boats out or stretch out a couple more weekends into the fall.

    It’s been a rather cool summer this year and the summer was one of the speediest summers I can ever remember.  It was gone in a flash.  Joe’s Mom keeps trying to tell me that the older you get, the faster time spins.  She told me this when David was a baby and I laughed.  She said the high school years were a blur.  I couldn’t fathom that, because I was holding a little kiddo in my hands and just trying to make it through the next hour with some semblance of sanity and intact thought.

    Damn.  She wasn’t kidding.  Time is indeed spiraling by and I swear, it seems like someone keeps turning the clocks on fast-forward.  You know that little baby I was talking about?  This is him:

    He’s an offensive lineman for Hinsdale South now. In two short years, we’ll be sending him off to college.  I don’t understand how he went from being a baby just yesterday to this strapping hulk of a boy/man.  I kind of envy the Duggars. If I was smart, I could have cheated Father Time by just having baby after baby.  Yeah, that would have been a good plan– you know how time crawls when you try to get through hour by hour with little ones.  And then it would take forever before the last kiddo goes off to Grown-up-hood.

    But getting back to the weekend, another reason I don’t like Labor Day weekend:  each summer that goes by is a summer that I know I can’t get back, another summer ticking by.

    So here it is, the big weekend of summer.  So rather than thinking about endings, I’m going to celebrate the weekend instead.  Join me–not in saying goodbye to summer, but just merely, “So long, see ya next year!”

  • Lessons from a Sea Doo

     

    IMG_3163

    It was one of those idyllic summer weekends– good food on the grill, time with the family and fun on the water.  David and I took turns pulling each other on the jet ski, attempting to skim along the water on our bare feet.  I hadn’t gone barefooting in years, but I tried getting up on the board and planting my feet in the water.  I couldn’t do it.  David tried a couple of times, both on the board and on the ski.  He was pretty determined to try over and over.  I liked the fire that I saw in his eyes as he attempted the new skill.

    The kids wakeboarded behind the Sea Doo and then we did some tubing the next day with another deaf family.

    Yesterday, the sky was grey and a storm had passed through.  The sun lightened up the clouds and David decided to pull Steven on the wakeboard behind the Sea Doo. Steven did a dock start on the wakeboard and went halfway around the lake before he fell and the two of them headed back for another round.  As David tossed out the rope, the Sea Doo was still circling.

    Whoooosh.

    The rope went right up the intake.  With the intake piston revolving over 1,000 RPMs, it wasn’t long before the rope got stuck.

    I was in the house when I heard the news.  Let’s just say that I wouldn’t win any Mommy-of-the-Year awards with my response.  I’m sure the neighbor’s eyes popped watching my animated signing.  “What-were-you-thinking-this-was-totally-avoidable-how-could-you-not-watch-the-freaking-rope…”

    I’ll spare you the rest.

    David and Joe went under the lift to assess the damage.  “It’s wound up so tight, totally impossible to get this off,” Joe said.  “I think we need to bring it to the marine place and have them take it apart.”

    “Try to get it off,” I growled at them.

    After a half an hour of hacking at it and cutting loose some of the rope, the guys weren’t getting very far. I finally jumped in the water to take a look.

    It wasn’t pretty.

    The rope was wound so tight and it had been shoved deep into the shaft.  My first instinct was to agree with Joe– this was a job for someone else to do.  I took another look.

    Hmmm, if I could just loosen one end, we might be able to get it out.

    “Can you get me a long screwdriver and a needle-nose pliers?”

    Little by little, we each took turns under the lift and loosening the rope bit by bit.  David had a big grin on his face when he pulled out the last of the rope from the shaft.  He had relieved grin on his face when I started up the Sea Doo and took off with it.  It worked fine.

    So what did we learn from this?  For starters, David learned how powerful the intake was on a jet ski– I’m betting that he’ll never make this mistake again.  I also was reminded of the time that I ran over a ski rope myself around the same age–my Dad had to take the prop off the boat to get all of the rope out.  I do remember him hollering at me to be more careful after that.

    But the biggest lesson of all was this: Something that at first looks impossible can be accomplished by working at it little by little and not giving up.

    More lessons from a Sea Doo–What I Learned About Stress.

  • Uncovering Written Memories

    I was going through a pile of papers and the hand-written essay caught my eye.  It was an essay written during my freshmen year at a local community college.   I sat down to read it and was instantly transported back in time.  I received an “A” on this essay, probably not so much for how it was written (because I see many mistakes and ways it could be written differently) but more for the story it shared:

    Even now, seven years later, I can still remember the first time I met Mike.  I was eleven years old when we drove up to our newly bought cottage.  As we settled down, a slightly balding man walked over and introduced himself as Mike.  That was the beginning of a special friendship that was rather slow in forming [at first].

    I cannot remember much of the first four years.  I was a very shy girl then, but Mike’s friendliness won me me over.  I was like a turtle, coming out of my shell when Mike was around.

    The shell really broke when I began to show a serious interest in [water]skiing.  Mike’s son used to waterski competitevely and Mike used his knowledge to encourage me.  He gave me the encouragement that I wanted so much from my own parents.

    He taught me a card game called “Casino” and we spent many a time together winning and losing to each other.  He was dubbed “The Champ,” and whenever I would win a game, I would  [strut around and] call myself, “The Champ.”  But never for long, because he would win back the title in the next game.

    Mike had a great sense of humor.  I always remember summers full of laughter around him.  He would put on airs of a big-time gambler, strutting around wearing his favorite hat from Las Vegas.  The expressions he used, his movements, never failed to bring out a laugh.

    There was a serious side to him.   Family bickerings always clouded his face.  He never let anyone know what he was thinking or how he really felt during those days.

    This summer, Mike got sick.  I hardly saw him during the summer.  No one knew it was serious until his son-in-law told us that Mike had cancer.  I was stunned.

    A few weeks after I found out, I went to see Mike in his office.  I was shocked, for he had grown thin and pale.  It was the first time that I realized he was not going to get better.  It was the last time I saw him.

    Mike died last week and I lost a very special friend.  As I sat in the church at his funeral, I thought of the good times and the bad times.   I replayed his smile, his laugh, and all the scenes of summer that came to my mind.  One particular scene stands out:

    I remember him standing under the maple tree and telling me that I was going to be the first girl to barefoot (waterski on my bare feet) on Christie Lake.  I laughed at him then.  Early this summer, I did it–but Mike was not around to share the glory [that first time].  When he finally came to the lake for a short visit, he sat in the boat and saw me barefoot.  I’ll never forget the proud look on his face.  That was the best memory Mike could have given me.

    Karen and Mike
    Karen barefooting