Posts Tagged ‘Michigan authors’
Cindy on October 8th, 2011
Nobody cares if you can’t dance well. Just get up and dance.” ~Dave Barry
My son Nate is 25 now, and past the stage of high school homecoming dances. But this week, some of my neighbors are gearing up for this sweet tradition, and I remembered this essay from my book, Writing Home. Happy news: Nate is engaged to the young woman mentioned at the end of the essay and shown in the photo at left. –CL
“The Homecoming Dance”
September 21, 2003
From baptism to bar mitzvah, rituals and rites of passage honor the milestones in our lives. Certain rituals are so closely tied to autumn, in fact, that I can’t imagine the season without them. Raking leaves, visiting cider mills, and digging woolens out of storage are just a few.
But the annual high school homecoming dance crowns them all.
At our house, as surely as the maples shed yellow leaves on the lawn, this semi-formal event kicks up a whirlwind of activity and emotion. Some of it is not pretty.
Since I’m the mother of a son, my homecoming rituals do not include shopping for the ultimate evening gown and the perfect shade of nail polish. Admittedly, I miss playing Fairy Godmother to Cinderella, so I live vicariously through other moms who have teenaged daughters. That’s how I’ve learned that things are different with boys. The angst level, for instance, is much lower in the wardrobe department. Guys don’t worry about their hair, and they don’t have to obsess over finding a purse to coordinate with a pair of shoes that will be worn only once.
Traditionally, a boy waits until forty-five minutes before the big event to consider whether or not his dress shirt needs to be unearthed from the closet floor. (This is based on the assumption that he owns a dress shirt.) At that point, all hell breaks loose, sending his beleaguered parents in search of an ironing board while the boy hunts down a pair of matching socks. He also waits until the final hour to announce that his good suit has cake frosting on the lapel – a souvenir from the last semi-formal event he attended.
Homecoming rituals will test any parent’s mettle, but I believe I’m a sturdier person because of them.
I miss playing Fairy Godmother to Cinderella, so I live vicariously through other moms who have teenaged daughters.
Last year, a week before the big dance, we drove Nate to Nordstrom’s to shop for a new shirt and tie. Anticipating conflict, I backed off and let him sort through the merchandise with his dad. I tried to keep quiet – until I spotted a handsome gold dress shirt that was perfect for his black suit.
“Look at this one, guys!” I shouted, holding up the prize. On cue, Doug spotted a great tie to go with it. Our sweet son glanced at the ensemble, rolled his eyes, and muttered his new favorite word: “Hideous.”
Seconds later, Nate’s cell phone rang. It was Andrea – a young lady with impeccable fashion sense. Andrea happened to be shopping in the area and would come to his rescue. She would help him find the right shirt.
Well, when the fashionista arrived in the men’s department, she immediately chose – you guessed it – the gold shirt. Suddenly this shirt was awesome, and the tie was fairly cool, too. (I bit my tongue and reminded myself that God really does look out for parents, and He is everywhere, including Nordstrom’s.)
As I type this, the next homecoming dance is a week away. Just as I did last year, and the year before that, I’ve reminded Nate to ask a date in advance. Once again, I’ve explained how girls need time to shop for dresses and book hair appointments. And just as he did last year, the kid kept his plans under wraps until he needed advice on ordering a corsage.
As it turns out, Nate’s date this year is Andrea, the sharp young lady with good taste in men’s shirts. Thinking ahead last week, we bought Nate a new shirt and tie to co-ordinate with her dress. Thank goodness, Andrea approves. Meanwhile, I am not taking any chances and have dropped off the black suit at the dry cleaner.
This is senior year, after all, and we’ve finally learned the steps to the homecoming dance. – Cindy La Ferle
Writing Home is available in local bookstores and on Amazon.com (see link at the top of this page). Proceeds from my book sales are donated annually to organizations serving the homeless, including the Welcome Inn and South Oakland Shelter, at holiday time.
Cindy on August 18th, 2011
Are we halfway through August already? Since “back to school” is the topic of the week (and I’m still on sabbatical), I’m sharing a piece I wrote for MetroParent not long after my son flew off to college….
Field notes on an empty nest
Last week I found a bird’s nest on the brick walk leading to our backyard. I’m guessing the nest fell from a nearby silver maple; or maybe a neighbor found it while jogging and left it by the garden gate for us to admire.
Not much larger than a cereal bowl, the nest now perches indoors on a shelf near my desk. Crafted from hundreds of delicate twigs, strands of grass, and patches of moss, it’s truly a work of art — and a timely reminder to prepare for my son’s return to college after the long summer break.
Children of baby boomers are heading off to college in greater numbers than children of previous generations. At the same time, the age-old ritual of “letting go” is the final frontier for those of us who’ve made child rearing a major focus of our adult lives.
I’ve been discussing this tender rite of passage with other middle-aged parents. And we all agree there has to be a better term to describe our next season of parenting – something that doesn’t sound as final or forlorn as “The Empty Nest.” Our nests, after all, are not completely empty. Not yet. My only child, for example, still has a bedroom here at home in addition to a loft in a crowded dormitory four hours away in South Bend, Indiana.
Whatever you want to call it, this to-and-from college phase is a thorny adjustment for parents and their almost-adult kids. College students are bound to ignore house rules when they return home for summer and holiday breaks. (“Curfew? What curfew?”) Even the most agreeable families discover that this can be a volatile time – a time when teen-aged tempers ignite and middle-aged feelings get scorched. All said and done, we’re all learning how to grow up and move on.
“When mothers talk about the depression of the empty nest, they’re not mourning the passing of all those wet towels on the floor, or the music that numbs your teeth…. They’re upset because they’ve gone from supervisor of a child’s life to a spectator. It’s like being the vice president of the United States.” — Erma Bombeck
A lot has changed since my son started college. I’m still adjusting to the hollow echo of his (oddly) clean and empty bedroom, looking for remnants of my old self — my mothering self — in the bits and pieces he left behind. The family calendar in our kitchen has some blank spaces, too, and is no longer buried under neon-color sticky notes announcing band concerts, Quiz Bowl meets, school conferences, and carpool schedules. At first, this was not cause for celebration. I’d become what our high school mothers’ club affectionately refers to as one of the “Alumni Moms.”
While I suddenly found myself with unlimited bolts of time to devote to my marriage and writing career, I mourned what I perceived to be the loss of my role as a hands-on parent. Despite the fact that I had a cleaner, quieter house, I missed all the athletic shoes and flip-flops piled near the back door. I missed the boisterous teenagers gathered around the kitchen counter, or in front of the television downstairs. I missed bumping into other parents at school functions, and wondered if life would ever be the same.
Life isn’t the same, but I’m OK with that now. I’ve come to realize that a mom is always a mom, even though her parenting role changes over time.
Not long ago, I stayed at my own mother’s place for a few weeks while I recovered from major surgery. When I apologized for disrupting her normal routine, she said, “My home will always be your home, too.” I found comfort in knowing that. Yet at the same time, I missed my own house. And I felt grateful that Mom had encouraged me, years ago, to craft a life — and a home — of my own.
It’s hard to believe my son is packing for another year of college this week. The hall outside his bedroom is now an obstacle course of boxes, crates, and suitcases stuffed with everything he needs for the months ahead. I’m still not very good at saying good-bye when his dad and I leave him at the dorm and steer our emptied SUV back to the expressway. I manage to compose myself until I notice the tearful parents of college freshmen going through this ritual for the first time. But it does get easier each term.
So, is the nest half-full or half empty?
Reflecting on the small bird’s nest perched near my desk, I’ve come to believe that every family is a labor of love and a work in progress. It’s a bittersweet adjustment, but I’m at peace with the idea that our household is just one stop on our son’s way to his future. He’ll be flying back and forth over the next couple of years or so. And hopefully, patience and love will be the threads that weave our family together, no matter how far he travels. – Cindy La Ferle, September 2006
– Top photo: Detail from “Nature,” a mixed-media collage by Cindy La Ferle. Bottom photo (nest) by Cindy La Ferle –
Cindy on August 10th, 2011
Life is the sum of all your choices.” ~Albert Camus
I’m a little envious of friends and neighbors who have summer cottages in northern Michigan, where I’m always considered a tourist (or “fudgie”) no matter how often I visit.
Regardless, the opportunity to collect a few beach stones for my garden in suburban Detroit remains a highlight of my regular escapes to the shores of Lake Michigan. And while summer is quickly drawing to its close, we’ve still got a few precious weeks left to comb our Michigan coasts for treasure.
What to look for
A longtime collector, I’ve learned through experience that morning is the best time to hunt for beautiful beach stones. The water is usually calm, my outlook is refreshed, and, if I’m really lucky, my fellow beachcombers are still asleep. Rising with the sun, I get first pick of the gems that washed ashore.
If you’re planning a visit to northwest Michigan’s shores, I’d advise you to keep an eye out for exceptional Petoskey stones, which seem to be getting rare these days. But don’t overlook the subtle luster of milky quartz or the chance to grab a handful of perfect skipping stones that were tumbled smooth by the waves.
Look closely, and you might find stones imprinted with fossils, some bearing an uncanny resemblance to ancient tablets carved with runes or hieroglyphics. Others are miniature works of art, which you’d swear had been painted by an Asian calligrapher. As many Michigan jewelers have already discovered, some of these beauties are worthy of stringing on a necklace.
During a recent visit to the Sleeping Bear National Lakeshore, it occurred to me that collecting beach stones is a bit like crafting a life: You have to remain grounded and focused, yet always open to new possibilities.
Choices and more choices
For starters, you need deep pockets to contain your bounty. And you must begin the quest believing you’ll be rewarded with more than you bargained for.
If you focus solely on the obvious (Petoskey stones, for instance) you’ll miss the other jewels of the lake. In my search for something rare or perfect, I’ve nearly overlooked more humble specimens of beauty and character. As every seasoned beachcomber knows, the rippling water teases like a mirage, making it hard to see things as they really are. I’ve rescued many stones that looked tempting under water, but were lackluster when they dried in the sun. Some were merely pieces of beach glass.
The “rules” for collecting beach stones apply to choosing what’s essential in life: good friends, a supportive partner, the right school, a career path, community, and a place (or two) to call home. In other words, it’s wise to make your choices slowly and carefully; to consider what feels right, lasting, and true.
As the cliché goes, it’s also possible to have too much of a good thing — and beach stones are no exception. After a week at the beach, I always end up with too many choices, and have to edit my finds to an exemplary few. Otherwise, I’d need a gravel truck to haul them back to Royal Oak.
I need to practice discernment at home, too. Given my acquisitive nature, I tend to hang on to things longer than I should: outdated clothing, grudges, hairstyles, broken tools, toxic relationships, canned goods, and political opinions — just for starters. And over the years I’ve tolerated too many things I should have protested: mindless television shows, junk food, incivility, unfair wages, sarcastic remarks, and degrading articles in women’s magazines.
Wandering the shore in the afternoon of my own life, I ask myself: How much of what I buy do I really need? Which relationships deserve more (or less) of my attention? How can I make better use of my time and the blessings I’ve been given?
What’s really essential now?
Collecting beach stones, I’m reminded that the second half of life offers the freedom to choose again — to polish, edit, refine, and reconsider. Or, as Anne Morrow Lindbergh writes in her memoir of a summer sabbatical, Gift from the Sea: “One learns first of all in beach living the art of shedding; how little one can get along with, not how much.”
It’s a worthy but challenging lesson to bring back to the suburbs.
_______________
– Parts of this essay were excerpted from Writing Home. The book is available on Amazon.com and at the Yellow Door Art Market in Berkley. –
Top photo: Lake Michigan beach at LeBear Resort, Glen Arbor. Bottom photo: Stones from my garden in Royal Oak. Both photos by Cindy La Ferle.
Cindy on March 30th, 2011
A college campus is its own village, full of folklore and traditions and initiation rituals. Like a village, it has its haunted places, its ghost stories.” – Michigan author Laura Kasischke
It’s nowhere near Halloween, but here I am, waxing poetic about the supernatural. I just finished reading a new literary thriller, The Raising, and can’t stop thinking about “ghosts” and how we’re haunted by people and places from our past.
If Daphne du Maurier were alive today, this is the sort of novel she’d write. Part gothic suspense, part ghost story, it’s deliciously creepy and atmospheric. Set on the campus of a prestigious Michigan university, The Raising circles around a car accident that killed Nicole Werner, a straight-A sorority sister. Driving on the night of the accident, her boyfriend miraculously (or mysteriously) survived the crash. A year later, it’s rumored that Nicole has been spotted on campus. From then on, the goosebumps don’t let up.
Mira Polson, the cultural anthropology professor who teaches a seminar on the folklore of death rituals at the university, is among the novel’s most intriguing characters, giving the plot its much-needed weight and focus. Mira delivers some compelling — and well-researched — theories on our collective fear of dying and the dead. In contrast to Mira’s macabre obsession with her topic are the college students whose cavalier sexuality and cruel beauty drive the story to its end. (Most college students believe they’re immortal, don’t they?) One caveat: If you’re a female student considering Greek life, you’ll think twice before stepping inside a sorority house after reading this one.
Award-winning author Laura Kasischke, who teaches at the University of Michigan in the MFA program, deftly moves back and forth between past and present, interweaving the back stories of her characters without muddling her plot or confusing her readers. She’s also careful enough to avoid the typical Stephen King horror cliches — though I see terrific possibilities for one heck of a spooky screenplay.
I agree with some of the reviewers who were a bit disappointed in the novel’s conclusion. Without revealing too much here, I’d hoped for a bit more closure on the “whereabouts” of certain characters, not to mention retribution for others. That said, life itself doesn’t always wrap up the way we’d like it to — and the ending of this novel didn’t spoil the experience of reading it.
It’s been a long time since I’ve picked up a book and couldn’t it put down, so I’m especially grateful to the indie bookstore in St. Joseph, Michigan, where I found this one on a “staff recommends” shelf. My only wish is that it had been released a little closer to Halloween. — Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on March 23rd, 2011
Art is the only way to run away without leaving home.” ~Twyla Tharp
Two weeks ago, I wrote a column for a local publication on how to be a tourist in your hometown. Taking my own advice — and literally going the extra mile — I drove across town to Berkley, the city next door, and made a new discovery. Located on 12 Mile Road, the Yellow Door Art Market showcases the wares of more than 60 top-notch Michigan artists and crafters. From gift cards to jewelry to fiber art, there’s something to delight everyone at this colorful emporium. In fact, next time I need a gift, I’m heading straight for the Yellow Door.
During my visit, I noticed a display of books by Michigan authors. Later that week, I dropped off a review copy of Writing Home for the store manager. She phoned me two days later and invited me to hop aboard. So — yay! — I’m also proud to announce that copies of my book are now available at the Yellow Door Art Market. (Life Lesson #10: Never be afraid to ask, because sometimes you get a “yes” instead of a “no.”)
It’s always exciting to discover a new local business that supports Michigan artists as well as charities in our community. Next time you’re in the area and need cheering up, walk through the Yellow Door (or check out their official website). I promise you’ll get a lift seeing so much creativity under one roof. The store is located at 3141 W. 12 Mile Road. — CL
My son Nate is 25 now, and past the stage of high school homecoming dances. But this week, some of my neighbors are gearing up for this sweet tradition, and I remembered this essay from my book, Writing Home. Happy news: Nate is engaged to the young woman mentioned at the end of the essay and shown in the photo at left. –CL
