Front Porch

Lion Around

2011-11-30T11:03:00.002-06:00

Late fall - Art Institute of Chicago 2011

Morning Frost

2011-11-01T14:46:00.002-05:00

In Synch - Chicago Lunchtime August 2011

2011-09-04T21:25:00.000-05:00

This picture makes me smile - it looks like the cab is keeping pace with the man during a lunchtime walk. Or maybe the man is walking with the cab. Either way, I walked the streets and "shot from the hip." It's fun seeing what appears within the confines of my lens! (For the curious: This photo was shot on State Street in Chicago - note the old Marshall Field's clock in the background. For the record, I don't care who owns it or what it's called...it will always be Marshall Field's to me!)

Photo copyright Christine Sierocki Lupella 2011

Finding the light

2011-07-17T18:24:00.000-05:00

The moment of perfect light most often goes unnoticed as the sun silently slides down the day's sky, washing all it touches in warm tones punctuated by stark shadows that will soon become night. Dock stanchions become geometric studies – their vertical lines tall, short, tall short – repeating the opposing rhythm of waves lapping lazily onto the fading shoreline.
(With appreciation for photographer Jim Brandenburg, who inspires so many of us to chase the light.)

Floral Friendship

2011-07-17T01:28:00.000-05:00

Flowers never worry. They are never lonely. They start as the smallest seeds and as they take root in the depth of the cool earth, their arms reach upward toward the sun, embracing its warmth and exploding in a frenzy of joyous color. And even when the flowers fade, their petals curling and falling one by one, the earth celebrates their return, rewarding the flower with rest until the next warm spring day. (Photo copyright Christine Sierocki Lupella July 16, 2011)

Looks like it's time to fly

2011-07-13T16:47:00.000-05:00

I am writing with two and a half days left here at Southern Lakes Newspapers, where we create local newspapers in nearly 20 communities as well as a host of other publications.
I wanted to say, “Thank you,” to those of you who have read my columns and supported us over the past six years. I especially want to thank the people I work with who were peppered with my continuous barrage of ideas then caught my vision and helped wrangle them together in a meaningful way.
Publications are a team effort, yet writers and editors tend to get all the credit when the going is good. Of course, we also get the complaints when things aren’t so good, so perhaps that balances things.
Still, many other people work behind the scenes, diligently doing their jobs and meeting a constant stream of deadlines. They often go unrecognized.
I want to recognize them now.
Thank you to our sales people. The buck starts with them, because without advertising, we’d be out of business and I would never have had the privilege of meeting and writing about the fascinating people in our communities or share my ramblings about family life in a public forum.
Thank you to our office staff. They hold down the fort, fielding phone calls, taking messages, classified ads, circulation questions, do accounting detective work, run reports, greet customers and leap tall buildings in a single bound. OK, maybe in two bounds. They do a whole lot of stuff that remains a mystery to the rest of us, that’s all I can say.
Then there is our Tech Guru, worthy of worship or at minimum a Diet Coke or dark chocolate covered espresso beans! Without computers we can’t work. He is much appreciated, especially for 6:30 a.m. text messages that give us a heads-up about the occasional cyber-surprise awaiting our arrival and giving us time for caffeinated reinforcement.
Thank you to the designers whose artistic eyes and creative spirits breathed life into my stories and photos and the newspapers and magazines I edited over the past six years. I appreciate their patience with my less-than-artistic renderings and cryptic messages that generally translated this way: “I kind of want the page to look like this, but if it looks bad, can you fix it?” They always fixed it and made me look good!
Thank you to the freelance writers who cared enough to contact me and then contribute their wonderful stories and photos. I only met a few of them in person, but felt a bond of friendship with every one of them – even if we only spoke on the phone or through email. Thank you for sharing your joie de vivre in your words and pictures.
I don’t know how to thank my fellow editors whose busy schedules I interrupted with requests for stories, for photos or opinions on various matters. They didn’t complain about writing additional stories when they already had more than they needed to do. They rose to the occasion and their energy and enthusiasm for their communities will inspire me forever! And thank you to our editorial assistants who are our right and left arms at times.
Thanks to my supervisors (they know who they are) who trusted my experience, willingly shared their own and allowed my ideas to grow wings. I learned so much from each one of them – not only about work, but about how to treat people and how to live as well.
More than anyone, though, my family deserves thanks. Mom and dad taught me to think for myself, passed on a love for reading and people and let me make my own choices and experience the consequences – some good, some not so good.
My husband is the ultimate cheerleader and has been my best friend for more than 30 years, knowing me better than I know myself at times. Like my parents, he seems to think I can do just about anything, even when I’m not so sure. I hope everyone has people like that in their lives.
Thanks to my kids, too, who have been the subject of my columns and didn’t complain, even though I never asked if it was OK. If I never did anything else, my life would be complete because I brought the three of you into the world. You made me laugh and cry and still do as we move from being parents/kids to being friends.
Thank you, readers, for spending time with me in this very personal message. I appreciate it so much when someone says, “Hey, I read your column and it made me laugh/cry/mad/etc.” I feel that in some way, we have become friends.
So, after all that – it’s time for me to fly. I have a new calling, this time in downtown Chicago. It’s scary making such a big change, but I figure life is an adventure. You never know what will happen until you try something!
Please keep in touch!

Vivian Maier: Street Photographer Discovered Part 8: Conclusion

2011-06-15T21:16:00.000-05:00

Vivian Maier spent more than forty years working city streets with camera in hand, creating images for her own pleasure we assume, since her work remained undiscovered until several years ago and was first exhibited in the United States this year. Only a tiny portion of the thousands of images she produced has been seen; it will take years to go through the negatives, prints and undeveloped rolls of film she left behind.

Although it is too early to determine how Maier’s work will be viewed in photographic history – will she be considered among great street photographers like Cartier-Bresson and others? The prints displayed at the Chicago Cultural Center reveal the excellence of her photographic eye and technical skills. Thus far, her images demonstrate that she mastered Cartier-Bresson’s concept of finding “the decisive moment” in photography, which he defined as “the simultaneous recognition, in a fraction of a second, of the significance of an event as well as of a precise organization of forms which gave that event its proper expression." (Women in Photography International, “Decisive Moments: A Tribute to Henri Cartier-Bresson” (2004). www.womeninphotography.org/decisivemoments/pr_info.html)

Magnum photographer and author Joel Meyerowitz said when he first saw her photos, “he first thought Maier’s photos had been shot by a man. ‘They’re earthy and gritty and tough…She was incredibly bold as a woman and vulnerable at the same time in a period when women weren’t necessarily thought of that way.’” (Associated Press, “Vivian Maier,” Daily Herald (March 14, 2011), www.dailyherald.com/article/20110313/news/703139924/)

Later, Meyerowitz said, “I’m not a forecaster of what will last, although I am moved enough to try to give her leverage of being taken seriously in a history book.” (Dozeema, Marie, “Vivian Maier: Amateur With a Sharp Eye,” Christian Science Monitor (April 12, 2011) www.csmonitor.com/The-Culture/Arts/2011/0412/Vivian-Maier-Amateur-with-a-Sharp-Eye)

Colin Westerbeck, with whom Meyerowitz wrote “Bystander: A History of Street Photography,” has a different opinion. "’I think that in historical perspective the photographs are not in and of themselves a revolutionary discovery…Part of the interest in it is a combination of the images and intensity with which she did this with the seemingly rather quiet and almost withdrawn life that she led.’"

I believe that Maier’s work demonstrates aesthetic excellence. Her attention to detail and careful composition must have been instinctive in order for her to make the photographs she did in urban settings. Her images show a breadth and depth of understanding, creativity and occasionally, humor. She explored social issues like homelessness and isolation, childhood and more in the thousands of photographs she left behind.

-Christine Lupella c. 2011

Vivian Maier: Street Photographer Discovered Part 7: "Untitled: Aug. 22, 1956"

2011-06-15T21:13:00.000-05:00

UNTITLED: AUG. 22, 1956
A steady noon sun, warm white sand and the rhythmic hum of waves are more than a tired man can resist. Maier finds him asleep on a beach, his hat a makeshift pillow squished under his head, his languid body slowly sinking into flowing sand. We smile at the incongruous nature of the scene – our subject is fully dressed, his pants pressed, plaid shirt buttoned at the cuffs, socks and dress shoes on his feet. He seems to have plopped onto the beach from nowhere, as there are remnants of only a few footprints leading to his resting spot.

Open space and repeated horizontal lines lend this photo a sense of tranquility. The man’s horizontal pose, the hairs on his head, the lines in his shirt, the water’s edge, the horizon line itself, wispy clouds in the sky (visible on the museum print) – even a row of pebbles forms a line extending to infinity left, infinity right. Maier’s lens again captures the tiniest details. Pant buttons, pocket tabs and creases. Wrinkles in his relaxed hand. The softest impressions in the sand.

Possibly, the man is as homeless as Maier’s throwaway man; perhaps this is the most peaceful place he can find to sleep – alone on an empty beach. We wonder if Maier came to this open space to find rest from the busy, congested streets as well. Either way, her photograph provides respite for our eyes.
(CONTINUED)

Vivian Maier: Street Photographer Discovered Part 6: "Chicago, Il."

2011-06-15T21:11:00.000-05:00

Chicago, Ill.

Thousands, even millions followed her steps years before and years into the future as well. A smartly dressed woman walks a familiar corridor framed by colossal pillars on her left and smooth columns alternating with shiny glass windows on her right. Contrasting horizontal lines of sidewalk, of venetian blinds at half-mast, of long shadows of columns, draw the woman in silent rhythm toward a lighted archway at the end.

In this photograph, Maier captures patterns and textures of daily living – the subject’s womanly curves accented by the flow of fabric, mid- to late-afternoon sun highlights the top of her hat, warming her slightly rounded shoulders and rippling along the gathers of her sashaying skirt as she walks.

Her path, like those who came before and those of us to follow leads to the gateway of light straight ahead. Silhouettes of three women turned inward toward one another can be seen at the end. Perhaps they are her goal – she is meeting them for an early supper. Or perhaps she is alone, always alone, their presence emphasizing her isolation.

Those familiar with Chicago might have a sense (as I did) of déjà vu – knowing that they have walked this woman’s path either in life or in a dream. I experienced that peculiar sensation, that nagging feeling of knowing a place as I viewed this photo at the Cultural Center. Later, walking back to the train station and turning a corner, there it was: the scene Maier captured more than a half-century before. The light nearly the same. The colossal pillars and mirror-like windows and horizontal shadows, the same. The feeling was a bit surreal, yet it was comforting to know that Maier had walked the same steps, taken a breath and made a photograph that was being appreciated so many years later.
(CONTINUED)

Vivian Maier: Street Photographer Discovered Part 5: "Florida April 7, 1960"

2011-06-15T21:09:00.000-05:00

Florida April 7, 1960

In companionship and comfort, an older couple sleeps on a Florida bus or streetcar, sheltered by the man’s white slightly tipped hat. Unaware of the people and conversations behind them, they sleep, resting in each other’s souls. They appear joined at the shoulder, she blending into him and he blending into her, decades of marriage creating their invisible bond. Repeated patterns - the roofline grid, the horizontal rows of windows, s32 S32 s31 S31 stenciled in white, people lined up two-by-two - repeat a steady rhythm of clacking tracks that lulls the couple into their public siesta.

Bright backlighting from the windows gives the background an ethereal feel; it makes the couple “pop” visually and brings the focus onto their relationship. The light softens the folds of the couple’s faces and gently washes across the top of the white hat. The photograph communicates peace in their camaraderie, celebrating a lifetime of enduring love.

Maier’s composition and use of contrast is exquisite in this photograph. She must have boarded the car or bus and immediately spotted the couple, then positioned herself to quickly make the photograph before they awoke. This moment seems a contrast to Maier’s intensely private, unmarried (as far as we know) life. Perhaps she longed to connect with someone in this intimate way, but her only way of reaching out was once again, through the mirror and glass of her camera.
(CONTINUED)

Vivian Maier: Street Photographer Discovered Part 4: "Untitled (Canada)"

2011-06-15T21:07:00.000-05:00

Untitled (Canada)

Maier’s photographs of children often reflect on the innocence of youth contrasted with the harsher realities of the streets. This theme is evident in a pair of young girls – sisters, perhaps – who stare into our souls, one with curiosity and the other girl with apprehension.

Maier’s flawless composition in “Untitled” (a majority of Maier’s works are untitled) frames the subjects naturally within the light and shadows of a shop doorway in Canada. Lighting and texture differences provide visual interest with the pattern of a white sign at the top left juxtaposed with the darker window on the right mirrored by dark wood at the bottom left contrasting with a white sign on the right. The pattern repeats in the girls as well: in the foreground, the elder girl’s milky complexion and light eyes contrast with her jumper’s dark, heavy fabric while behind her and to the left, the younger girl’s dark hair and skin contrast beautifully with her light-colored dress.

Reflections in the window bring our eyes from light to dark to light to dark, and then back to the girls’ haunting gazes.

Perhaps the girls played in the framework of their imaginations until suddenly interrupted by Maier and her Rolleiflex pointed in their direction. Maybe Maier broke traditional street photography rules, asking to take their photographs – and this was their response.

Like the Chicago girl with her string, the children are dirty and rather unkempt – quite different from the well-to-do children with whom Maier worked as a nanny throughout her adult life. As she wandered city streets during her free time, making photographs of day-to-day (and night-to-night) life, she might have identified more with her subjects than with the people in whose homes she lived.
(CONTINUED)

Vivian Maier: Street Photographer Discovered Part 3: "Chicago, Ill., June 16, 1956"

2011-06-15T21:04:00.000-05:00

Chicago, Ill., June 16, 1956

In “Chicago, Ill., June 16, 1956,” Maier presents a lonely theme once again, this time without despair. A young girl gazes slightly upward into our eyes, wondering whether we will accept, reject or simply ignore her as others do. Soft light illuminates tendrils of hair surrounding one side of her face, plays off the curve of her cheek, her belly and slightly developed breasts. She is unsure, a finger in her mouth pulling her lip into a pout. We interrupted her play – most likely cat’s cradle, given the string wrapped around her hands and extending behind her, a continuation of the horizontal lines in the stripes of her shirt. The stripes and string anchor her to a dark unknown at the right side of the photograph, giving the illusion that she may be tied in place.

Maier perfectly captures contrasting textures and the tiniest details in this photograph – rough-sawn, organic edges of the wood doorframe contrast with the smoother gray of cement steps at the bottom left and the roundness of her body. The twisted texture of the string, the silkiness of her hair, the holes in her too-small shirt beg for attention. She seems unkempt and uncared for, her uneven bangs far too short, her clothing far too small, the skin on her arms sporting far too much dirt. “Where are her parents?” Maier asks through the little girls’ eyes – and will we abandon her to the street as well?

Vivian Maier: Street Photographer Discovered Part 2: "New York, NY 1953"

2011-06-15T21:02:00.001-05:00

New York, NY 1953

Maier clearly and purposefully uses aesthetic elements in her work, capturing the souls of her subjects and at times calling attention to class differentiation and social injustice. In “New York, NY 1953,” she highlights contrasting textures of harsh substances and soft fabrics surrounding her subject, a crumpled heap of humanity. Contrasting horizontal and vertical lines create the framework in which he is centered, moving us to see tiny details that might take us from repugnance to compassion. The presence of a ring around his right middle finger suggests some sort of connection to “normal” life. His suit, his shoes may once have been fine; now they are as worn out as his scorned soul.

Maier knows that we will hurry past him as he sits in his lonely gutter. Her photograph gives us time to see him as a hurting human being mourning a lost life – and reminds us that we can easily be a step or two away from that gutter ourselves. Perhaps, too, Maier felt some sort of connection to the man’s pain and loneliness. “Don’t look at me!” he shouts with his body. Maybe her photographs were her way of interacting with the world while controlling its interaction with her: “Don’t look at me!” she shouts in silence, hiding behind her lens in the anonymity of the streets.
(CONTINUED)

REVIEW: Vivian Maier: Street Photographer Discovered (Part 1: Introduction)

2011-06-15T20:58:00.001-05:00

Vivian Maier:
Street Photographer Discovered

He curls into a pretzel-like sphere, gangly limbs entangled as he turns inside and away from us, away from the world and into that private space that remains his only safety from the streets. He remains faceless – perhaps fearful, perhaps ashamed in the threadbare filth of a torn suit, a worn cap, battered shoes and a life that has taken him to this cold, anonymous space that could be any city’s sidewalk. Varying textures – concrete, ceramic tile, cold white marble and polished steel – frame his tattered soul, all pointing to the throwaway man surrounded by cigarette butts and city dirt.

“New York, NY 1953” is among a number of striking images made by recently discovered street photographer Vivian Meier and shown at the Chicago Cultural Center from January through April this year. Maier was unknown to the regional and world art and photography community until 2008, when Chicago resident John Maloof purchased a box containing thousands of anonymous photographs and negatives at an auction for $400, hoping to find something to use in a history book he was co-authoring. (John Maloof, “Vivian Meier – Her Discovered Work,” http://vivianmeier.blogspot.com)

He scanned some of the images and posted them on Flickr.com, a web-based photo sharing site, labeling the Oct. 9, 2009, discussion, “What do I do with this stuff (other than giving it to you)?” (John Maloof, www.flickr.com/groups/onthestreet/discuss/72157622552378986/)

The images generated a long and lively online discussion, indicating the photographs were certainly of interest. At the time, Maloof wrote that he “didn’t know what ‘street photography’ was” when he purchased them.(Op. cit., “Vivian Maier – Her Discovered Work.”)

Maloof identified Maier as the photographer several months later after finding her name scribbled on a piece of paper amongst the photographs. He set out to find out more about her and discovered she died only months after he acquired her photographs. “What is known about … Maier is that she was born in New York in 1926, lived in France (her mother was French) and returned to New York in 1951. Five years later, she moved to Chicago, where she worked for about 40 years as a nanny, principally for families in the North Shore suburbs. On her days off, she wandered the streets of New York and Chicago, most often with a Rolleiflex twin-lens reflex camera. Apparently, she did not share her pictures with others. Many of them, she never even saw herself, as she left behind hundreds of undeveloped rolls.” (Dunlap, David, “New Street Photography, 60 Years Old,” New York Times Lens, Jan. 7, 2011, http://lens.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/01/07/new-street-photography-60-years-old/)

Maloof followed up a suggestion to take some of Maier’s negatives to a museum, specifically to the Chicago Cultural Center, where they were accepted for this year’s showing.

Lanny Silverman, chief curator at the Chicago Cultural Center, said in the Chicago Sun-Times, “There weren’t many women doing street photography in the ‘50s and ‘60s…so this is very interesting and noteworthy. Beyond just the story of her life, I think she’s quite a photographer.” (Houlihan, Mary, “A Developing Picture: The Story of Vivian Maier,” Chicago Sun-Times, April 19, 2011, http://www.suntimes.com/entertainment/2973223-421/maier-maloof-vivian-street-negatives.html.)

During this same time, Jeff Goldstein, another art collector (who also knows Maloof) acquired around 12,000 of Meier’s negatives and images. Images from Goldstein’s collection are currently showing at the Russell Bowman Gallery in Chicago until June 18. “Goldstein says that Maloof brought Maier’s work to the public first and that he was aware of her work when he acquired his portion of her work.” (Robinson, Kevin, “Behind the Images: Jeff Goldstein Talks About Vivian Maier,” Chicagoist, Jan. 6, 2011, http://chicagoist.com/2011/01/06/a_little_over_a_year.php#photo-1)

Additional exhibitions of Maier’s photographs are scheduled in London, New York, Los Angeles and Germany.

STREET PHOTOGRAPHY

Street photography has a relatively broad definition by its nature. In simplest terms, street photography encompasses any unstaged photograph made in a public place. People may or may not be present, although some critics and photographers believe people must be present in the photograph in order for it to be defined as “street photography.” (Nitsa, “What is Street Photography?”, No Rules. [Street] Photography., www.nonphotography.com/streetphotography.html)

Nick Turpin writes that street photography “is not reportage, it is not a series of images displaying, together, the different facets of a subject or issue…(it) is about seeing and reacting, almost bypassing thought altogether.”(Turpin, Nick, “What is Street Photography?” In-Public, www.in-public.com/information/what_is, 2000)

Street photography is most often judged by its aesthetic value. Classic street photography includes “a lot of the work of Henri Cartier-Bresson, Helen Levitt, Gary Winogrand and Lee Friedlander. Cartier-Bresson and Winogrand often photograph people who are identifiable, in locatable places. (The subjects) are not arranged by the photographer except with their viewfinders.”(Barrett, Terry, “Criticizing Photographs: an Introduction to Understanding Images,” Fourth Edition, McGraw-Hill, 2006, p. 100.)

Street photographers look beyond the scene in their lenses, observing and capturing artistic elements such as pattern, symmetry, texture, depth of field and line in their photographs. “There are patterns all around us,” writes Darren Rowse in “Five Elements of Composition in Photography.” Emphasizing and highlighting patterns – or breaks in patterns – “can lead to striking shots,” he continues, and that texture “particularly comes into play when light hits objects at interesting angles.” Lines “can be powerful elements in an image. They have the power to draw the eye to key focal points in a shot and to impact the ‘feel’ of an image greatly.” (Rowse, Darren, “Five Elements of Composition in Photography,” 2000, http://www.digital-photography-school.com/5-elements-of-composition-in-photography)

(CONTINUED...)

REVIEW: Joel-Peter Witkin - 'Art Deco Lamp New Mexico (1986)'

2011-06-15T20:45:00.000-05:00

Evaluative Essay
An Internal Evaluation Using Pictorial Criteria

Joel-Peter Witkin
Art Deco Lamp New Mexico (1986)
(Source: http://www.artnet.com/artwork/424340054/art-deco-lamp-new-mexico.html)

A first glance of the somewhat strange, yet interesting black and white photograph reveals a full moon illuminating surrounding objects with an interesting pattern of light and shadow. Yet in the next moment, our polite eyes quickly turn away as they are trained to do when we see something we perhaps should not – in this case, the naked twisted body of a deformed woman. Like children, we want to stare though we are told not to do so. And then, perhaps from curiosity, perhaps from a childish rebellion against societal rules or from a need to face our own fear or revulsion, our eyes return to the photograph.

And we stare.

Because no one will know. No one stares back at us.

So we assume.

Joel-Peter Witkin plays on our emotional and moral struggles in his photograph, “Art Deco Lamp New Mexico (1986).” The photograph reflects Witkin’s modern pictorial style: he stages and carefully lights the scene, creating a gritty image that seems to transcend time. The photograph becomes a window to a sinister carnival sideshow where, in our private darkness, we can stare as long as we wish at the unusual, the deformed, even the horrifying – things upon which we would never look so blatantly in the light of day.

Witkin’s artistic process often begins before he even photographs his subject with a sketch or an idea.. When subject and scene are arranged, he makes the photograph and continues the artistic process throughout production, scratching negatives, printing them “through tissue paper to fuzz the texture of the image, giving the prints a specific blurry ‘timeless’ quality,” writes culture critic Cintra Wilson in Salon. Witkin then bleaches and tones the prints , mounts the image on aluminum and hand-applies pigments, covers the photographs with hot beeswax, reheats, cools and polishes them.

His painterly touch is revealed in splotchy drips of white and gray on the walls near the subject as she squats on what appears to be a decrepit wooden trunk. Our eyes wonder whether the splotches are simply that or if perhaps they originate from a more sinister source. At minimum, filth. Perhaps blood. Possibly tears. A longer, blinkless evaluation of the image reveals chilling demonic images here and there within the haze, their lascivious stares fixated on the woman, their mouths open, salivating and waiting to devour her when darkness descends.

Of course, these are not the first things we see. Witkin draws us in with a pleasant focus on curved forms, beginning with the glowing orb in the left quadrant of the photograph, the curve repeated in the woman’s arm circling the orb, in the curve of her spine, her buttocks, her breast, the way her legs curl together and blend one into another. The circular rhythm continues in the smaller circle on the back of the subject’s nearly invisible head as she looks away into the mysterious darkness. A slice of moon above resembles a half-toothed grin – perhaps mocking the subject but more likely mocking us for staring at her deformity while pretending we are not.

The photograph’s primary lighting emanates from the orb, splashes across the woman’s shoulder and illuminates her graceful fingers, a bit of forearm, her shoulder, a portion of hip. Witkin uses additional lighting from center right that reflects softly on the peculiar divots in her spine, gives her ribcage definition and casts shadows under the curve of her breast.

Whether attacked by prying eyes or omnipresent demons (perhaps they are one and the same), the subject’s defense is light. She stoically holds the orb on her shoulder as mythical Atlas carried the world on his. Yet where Atlas stood straight and strong under his burden, hers bends her body and gnarls her spine. A dark flower-shaped patch on her shoulder beneath the orb may be a birthmark, but because Witkin is deliberate with his artistic process and product, the patch may serve as a darkly ironic symbol of beauty as well.

Although cultural standards teach us to be compassionate toward people who suffer from physical deformities, we are not moved to pity by the woman in the photograph because Witkin approaches her in an eerie, almost clinical way. He turns her away from our prying eyes. He presents her as a common object, an “Art Deco” lamp, inviting us to gawk, to take in every unusual detail of her naked body to satisfy our selfish curiosity. We think no one watches us stare, but there are the demons, hovering in the mist with open mouths – less likely waiting to devour the woman as they are to torment our insensitive souls.

“Art Deco Lamp,” is an unusual treatment of human form with all of its flaws and finesse. Witkin uses his artistic process to successfully create an interesting photograph that reflects his pictorial style. He fearlessly manipulates the photograph to resemble a tableau from a hundred years earlier, softening lines, adding scratches, shadows and highlights. The old look of the photograph and placement of elements deceives the eye and taunts the viewer with voyeuristic temptation. Certainly, the demons laugh because they know we will look, even if the image offends the core of our souls.

REVIEW: Sarah Hobbs-'Untitled (Insomnia)'

2011-06-15T20:39:00.000-05:00

Sarah Hobbs
Untitled (Insomnia)
2000
Chromogenic development print: 24 x 30-inch image on 24-5/8 x 30-5/8-inch paper
Museum of Contemporary Photography, Chicago
http://www.mocp.org/collections/permanent/hobbs_sarah.php

A sleepless night succumbs to a frustrated sigh, a flinging back of covers and rising from the bed toward the new day’s light that scatters an array of unconnected thoughts until they settle in place once again – hovering. Waiting.

In her photograph, “Untitled (Insomnia),” Atlanta photographer Sara Hobbs visually explores a common malady – sleeplessness. The photograph is among several in Hobbs’ “Small Problems in Living” series that explores human behaviors, phobias and neuroses.

At first glance, one is struck and perhaps, humored by the array of Post-it notes suspended on thin threads from the darkly shadowed ceiling. The notes swarm above the bed like mosquitoes, certainly tickling the face, the head, and any exposed flesh of the exhausted human attempting to sleep below. Taken as a whole, the notes are an irritating army of bright yellow punctuating a sleepless night. Individually, they represent the seconds…the minutes…the hours of an eternal darkness: “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 …”

“Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep …”

“Three hours until I have to get up.”

Some reflect on sleep solutions: “Tylenol pm. Nyquil. Dramamine,” or a single unattainable word: “Relax.”

Conjugating verbs and creating compound words passes the time:

“Dive, dove, dived, diven, doven.”

“Foreshadow. Foresee. Foretell. Forebode. Forecast. Forever. Forehead.”

Songs lyrics don’t help: “Delta Dawn, what’s that flower you have on? Could it be a faded rose from days gone by…” as the count continues: “One hour until I have to get up.”

“Why do I bother to set my alarm?”

The soft light filtering from an unseen source – a partially draped window, perhaps, highlights the insomniac’s side of the bed, where the loud purple orange and gold flowers of the sheet argue with a bright green pillowcase, its creases serving as remnants of a sleepless battle. Behind, vertical headboard poles and their stark, respective shadows seem to extend indefinitely, creating an insomniac’s prison on the light blue wall behind.

No human being is in the still life scene Hobbs created first in her mind and then in a room of her Atlanta home, yet make no mistake – the subject is clearly human. The individual objects and the overall scene reflective of a common human experience – sleep and the lack thereof, especially in the contemporary United States. Even the Post-it notes represent humanity and our need to control a constant flow of information, who we need to call, what we need to do – bright yellow interruptions stuck around our computer screens, covering our office walls, home refrigerators and bathroom mirrors, harassing us throughout the day and now, through the night.

With this particular photograph as well as others in the series, all unnamed but with suggested titles that include (Fate Compulsion), (Obsessiveness), (Paranoia), (Ladies Man) and (Perfectionist) among them, Hobbs provides insight into our own thought processes using common objects as visual metaphors. The bright, color photographs in the series are all created in large format (4 x 5) with natural light, and are printed large enough (more than six square feet) to give viewers a sense of the original space. A sense of humor permeates her work, in this case in the almost incongruent bright flowers mixed with pink polka dots and Post-it notes suspended from an unseen space above because, according to Hobbs, “We all have little quirks and phobias and that’s what makes us all so interesting.”

Notes:
1 - Museum of Contemporary Photography, Chicago, http://www.mocp.org/collections/permanent/hobbs_sarah.php
2- Sarah Hobbs, podcast; Art Institute of Chicago; Aug. 23, 2007; http://www.artic.edu/aic/resources/resource/702?search_id=1

REVIEW: Joel Meyerowitz 'Young Dancer, 34th Street and 9th Ave., 1978'

2011-06-15T20:33:00.001-05:00

Joel Meyerowitz
“Young Dancer, 34th Street and 9th Ave., 1978”
Chromogenic print 49.7 x 39.2 cm
Source:
Art Institute of Chicago

The glow of early morning light casts a golden hue on brick facades, tickles protruding metallic edges and carries with it the promise of the new day. The scene might be from Any City, U.S.A., but when photographer Joel Meyerowitz focuses his lens on “Young Dancer, 34th Street and 9th Ave., 1978,” the presence of New York City’s Empire State Building makes its geography clear.

Despite the photograph’s title, Meyerowitz’s subject is not so much the young woman wearing a green dress standing in the foreground. Instead, the subject is the city’s iconic pinnacle standing resolutely in the background, pointing toward the heavens in the glow of the light streaming from behind and set apart from the shadows of buildings that frame either side.

Yet she is there, the young dancer in the foreground of the photograph, the lower portions of her otherwise bare legs wrapped and cushioned in thick layers of stocking stuffed into the “buffalo” platform sandals so fashionable at the time. Her dress flows around her erect frame, its green fabric a complement to the orange and gold hues of the building behind her, her proud, straight stance a vertical parallel to the Empire State Building of which she appears so unaware. Tiny pops of green repeat in the background on a woman’s coat, on a car parked down the street.

The early morning light comes from behind, from middle to upper left in the photograph, bathing the foreground, the dancer and the building behind her in warm, buttery gold and orange hues, leaving pale touches of magenta on the otherwise gray sidewalk. In contrast, the natural sunlight reflects almost harshly off the windows of a building further down the street, orange light bursting from a ball of white. The framed artwork atop the foreground building gives nod to the new day as well – a child-like illustration of sun rising behind a tree at the top of a mountain. Light gently highlights golden window frames surrounding yellow bananas, reflects from the yellow doorframes that welcome the viewer to follow the light down the sidewalk, down the street to the pinnacle at its end. The repetition of horizontal lines in the brick, in the naked rows of fluorescent tubes that form a sort of musical staff above the dancer, in the rows of windows and the cracks of the sidewalks contrast with the vertical thrust of the city that grows up from beneath, all of it visually grounded by the silent young woman.

While everything appears to be pointed toward the icon that is almost suspended in the pale blue sky – the street, the sidewalk, a man walking away from the camera and toward the light ahead - the dancer faces away to the outside left of the frame. Her expression indicates she is waiting or searching, maybe both – perhaps for an elusive taxicab, perhaps for the friend she will meet for an early morning chat over coffee.

At first glance, one might assume “Young Dancer” is an example of Meyerowitz’s classic street photography made with a 35mm camera; however, this photo was made two years after his transition to and eight by 10-inch view camera. According to Meyerowitz in “Creating a Sense of Place (Photographers at Work)” , with the 35mm, “You hold a small camera in your hand, something happens in front of you, and click, you take a picture. A hand-held camera allows you to react in a split second.” The basic difference with the 8 by 10 was one of mechanics, he said, but it produced the color replication he sought.

“By using the view camera I gave up the instantaneous gestural response to things that I produced with the 35mm. But what I tried to bring to the 8 x 10 was the same sensation of immediacy. If I was struck by something, I tried to have the 8 x 10 camera ready to make a picture quickly. I felt I was bringing a street attitude to the 8 x 10,” Meyerowitz said.

“Young Dancer, 34th Street and 9th Ave., 1978” is part of the larger whole of Meyerowitz’s Empire State series. Meyerowitz was born in New York City in 1938 and continues to live there today. He said in “The Nature of Cities” that a “particular breed of photographer loves the theater of city streets. Think of the scale of this stage where human beings are seen against a backdrop of sixty-story skyscrapers! Nowhere is the human comedy more boldly visible than on the streets of New York City.”

NOTES:
1- http://masters-of-photography.com/M/meyerowitz/meyerowitz_articles2.html
2- Ibid.
3- http://www.joelmeyerowitz.com/photography/book_8_foreword.html

Champagne, potato skins and 30 years of romance

2011-01-21T10:10:00.000-06:00

Have you heard the fairy tale that ends with the handsome prince giving up the last potato skin – and then, the hungry princess realizes he is her one true love, as her soul opens to his kind heart and strong spirit?

I’m sorry if you’re not familiar with that one. Maybe it’s because it’s only 30 years old, less ancient than the classics although my children would argue that the story is, indeed, quite ancient.

My husband and I met when we were in our late teens, still kids, I suppose. We recently celebrated the 30th anniversary of our first date. I have no idea why we remember the date so clearly, but we hold it in reverence almost more than our wedding anniversary. That’s just the way it’s always been. Ask me how many years since our first date, and I can tell you. Ask you how many years we’ve been married – now that we’re past 25 – and I have to stop and do the math. Go figure.

Our first date was lunch at TGI Friday’s in Schaumburg, Ill. I had been there once and loved the bright, fun atmosphere and the giant dictionary-design menu that made it almost impossible to choose. My prior visit with a friend provided me with my first taste of fried potato skins – yum!

So of course, when Tedd asked me where we should go for lunch, I suggested Friday’s. The first thing we ordered was fried potato skins (my choice again.) We noshed on the cheesy delights, politely spreading sour cream on each (you don’t double-dip on a first date), talking about everything I don’t remember. Didn’t matter.

Suddenly there was one skin left on the plate. I was sooo hungry – and the nice boy sitting across the table picked up the plate and offered it to me.
There was something about him...I almost hesitated, but then ate it because I was starving and it tasted good.

Maybe that’s when I fell in love.

It happened again yesterday, 30 years later, at TGI Friday’s (Gurnee, since the original Schaumburg restaurant was torn down.)

We were seated immediately after we arrived and seconds later, our server produced a pair of chilled glasses of champagne donned with beautiful red strawberries and said, “The potato skins are in the oven.”

Clearly, someone had called ahead, and it wasn’t me!

We toasted that first date three decades ago, to the potato skins and to at least another 30 first date anniversaries in the years to come.

Celebrating little moments and what might seem inconsequential to outsiders makes life fun – and when you share the fun with the people you love, you’re bonded for life.

COPYRIGHT CHRISTINE LUPELLA 2011

Caffeinated Nap

2011-01-19T19:30:00.003-06:00

A man sleeps

Mouth agape

Legs apart

Looking almost dead.

An uncomfortable sight

...As I sip my drink

Look around and wonder

What others think

Though so oblivious

To the large man's plight,

As he sleeps in Starbucks

From morning until night.

How An Empty Box Gets Filled...With Dreams

2010-09-27T00:00:00.001-05:00

The box: exciting when it’s full of last week’s eBay find or Christmas presents; dull when empty; and annoying when it’s one of hundreds to be broken down for recycling – a less-than-exciting task for most.

But that’s only if you’re boxed into a certain way of thinking. There is much more to a simple cardboard container.

Ask kids. Every kid in the room will head for the empty box in the corner.
It doesn’t matter whether the box is brand new or if it has seen better days – perhaps months ago. And it doesn’t matter whether the kids are big or little.

That box is a portal to their imaginations.

Sunshine Girl, our delightful almost-2-year-old neighbor, came to visit one day. We don’t have a lot of toys in our house anymore – sadly – because our kids our grown and our grandkids live 5,000 miles away.

I hunted for and found key items – blocks, books and a doll or two, and brought them up from their basement resting place in a cardboard box so “Sunny” would have something to play with while we visited with her parents.

She immediately dumped the toys and plunked her tiny self into the box, rocking back and forth and singing a sweet toddler song that had something to do with riding in her daddy’s boat and going fishing.

The box is also a bed for her “babies,” a house for various stuffed animals unearthed from their lower level lairs and storage for the kid stuff when Sunny goes home.

About 17 years ago, similar magic occurred in my son’s kindergarten class. I walked into the room where the teacher sat at her desk – and wondered where the kids were.

She motioned to her right. They were inside a giant box at the other end of the room. Every kid in the class!

“I get a big box from the furniture store in town every year for my class,” the teacher told me.

That day, the box morphed into a castle. Dragons, knights, princes and princesses created a medieval world under the watchful eye – and bossy voice – of a blond young lady, apparently the queen.

Months later, the box was more round than square, the result of a particularly wild pirate escapade. (Boxes seem to make excellent boats – unless, of course, the box is placed in real water.) One kid – probably my son – drew a primitive skull-and-crossbones in heavy black marker over the rainbows, flowers, windows, doors and other decorations from prior adventures.

I thought of how years before, my sister and I had the best box.

Ever.

My parents purchased a velvety chair that had an exceptionally tall back – we referred to it for the following decades as the “queen’s chair” (partly because it was my mom’s chair.) Two men delivered and unpacked the chair, then placed it in our living room according to my mother’s wishes.

Meanwhile, my sister and I eyeballed the box that moments before contained the chair. The box was amazing, a sort of box-on-a-box, with one end big enough to fit the seat and legs part of the chair (and two excited little girls.) The other end was narrow, like the back of the chair.

The men prepared to break down the box and take it away. I begged my mother to let us keep it, please! Please, mommy!

She said yes, I suspect for the same reason the kindergarten teacher made sure her class had a box to play with every year. Keeping the box would mean hours of peace for my mother while my sister and I determined how to best use it.

That didn’t matter to us – we had the best box ever and we would make it into something WONDERFUL!

First, it was a house with a secret passage. Mom cut windows in the sides and we hung scraps of fabric fastened with paperclips inside as curtains. We furnished our house with an assortment of dishes, pillows, blankets and whatnot to make it a home. We begged mom to let us sleep in our house. She probably let us.

We played with that box for weeks, maybe months. The house eventually morphed into a puppet theater, with mom’s help cutting bigger holes for the “stage.”

When the box’s useful life was served – or maybe when my parents were tired of moving it every time they cleaned our play area, we dragged it outside. We turned it sideways, climbed inside, took deep breaths for courage and began rolling across our yard and down the small hill, picking up speed, imagining a trip over Niagara Falls – until the box’s sides split and we lay on the grass screaming with laughter.

Boxed in? Not kids. Give them an empty cardboard container and they’ll fill it with dreams.

COPYRIGHT CHRISTINE LUPELLA 2010

Family Tradition Tucked into 500 Squares of Pasta

2010-09-10T00:00:00.001-05:00

There’s nothing like coming home from a long day at work to a flour-covered kitchen.
I mean really flour-covered. Flour on the counter, flour on the floor and in the sink, flour in piles and semi-wet splotches on the table. Flour on my husband and flour on his mom.

I made a snapshot of the image in my brain, the two of them working independently together to preserve their 50-plus-year-old family tradition.
Ravioli.

My husband sat at one end of the table feeding golden dough through a machine that complained in a shrill voice – much to the dog’s dismay – with each pass. This was his dad’s job for more than 15 of the 50 years. Dad died five years ago and the machine has pretty much been silent since then.

This was the week for a ravioli revival.

To my husband’s right, his mom focused on flouring the back of each dough rectangle, placing it on the form, making the pockets and filling them with cheese or meat mixtures that merge the flavors of her marriage with mine, with my husband’s and even our kids’ childhood memories.

Her fingers worked with precision:

Flour.

Stretch.

Place.

Pockets.

Fill.

Flour.

Dough.

Roll.

Peel.

Flip.

Arrange.

Repeat.

All the while, the motor’s symphonic whine continued as the dough was readied for the next batch.

Ravioli revival became ravioli marathon – 10 hours’ worth when those delicious little pasta pockets were all in the freezer and the kitchen made spotless.
I volunteered for cleanup. It was my contribution for being privy to taste-testing a half-dozen or so ravioli.

They tasted like they have for the nearly 30 years I’ve been part of this Italian family.

It made me think about tradition and how so many things weave our short lives into the intricate web that is our family, friends and community.

For the most part, we probably don’t think about them until something changes. Children grow up, get married and have their own kids. Someone moves. Someone dies.
Ravioli was always a New Year’s tradition. After seeing how much work it took to make enough ravioli to feed my husband’s immediate family – nearly 800 squares – I understand why my mother- and father-in-law only did this once a year!

Jan. 1 is four months away, but at this point, it didn’t matter. Son and mother wanted to spend time together so he could learn the process – and the “recipe” his mom has carried in her head for so many years.

We created little traditions with our kids when they were growing up, sometimes by accident. A giant Hershey Kiss on Valentine’s Day. First day of school photos. Notes from the tardy tooth fairy – with a dollar or two – when she forgot to make her rounds the previous night. Decorating school lockers on birthdays. Hiding plastic Easter eggs filled with candy throughout the house – even for the working college kid. Visiting Duluth (we lived in Minnesota for a long time)and eating at the same Vietnamese restaurant and then buying a sweet treat at the candy store next door.
Some of those things morphed from my childhood traditions – though the tooth fairy was always punctual at my house. Some started on a whim – going into school at the crack of dawn to plaster baby pictures and hang streamers all over a kid’s locker for his or her birthday.

I can’t wait to see which of those traditions our kids continue in their own lives. I look forward to a time when each of them will sit at the end of the table feeding golden dough through a flour-covered whining duck-taped machine, their dad at their right, flouring, stretching, placing and thinking about how connected they are to family.

COPYRIGHT CHRISTINE LUPELLA 2010

The Eyes Have It. Now and in the Future.

2010-02-12T00:00:00.002-06:00

There’s nothing like dinner with old friends to put life back into focus – sort of.

During a recent dinner out with a bunch of my high school friends and their assorted spouses, we found ourselves begging, borrowing and sometimes stealing those quintessential symbols of Middle Age: reading glasses.

Hanging at the bar before being seated was fine – the bartender asked what we wanted and each of us, in succession (much to the bartenders’ dismay, I’m sure) asked, “Whatcha got?” then ordered whatever sounded good at the moment.

It was a different story once we wedged our 16 bodies into the lengthy framework of tables and chairs that was reminiscent of our high school cafeteria, only way nicer. Apparently it was a better crowd, too, since there was no evidence of recent food fights or cranky cafeteria ladies scowling from behind the cash register.

The menus were the real problem. One by one, “cheater” glasses of assorted shapes and sizes were pulled from purses and pockets, stealthily placed at the ends of noses and despite the visual assistance the eyewear provided, a chorus of, “I can’t read a damn thing!” rose up to the rafters.

The entire scene confirmed the suspicion I’ve had for a while that I am, indeed, growing older. I do my best to ignore the signs –little lines on my forehead and around my eyes, waking up every day around 5:30 or 6 a.m. – even on Sunday. Can’t eat the way I used to. Can’t run around the way I used to.

Sometimes I cope by leaving my glasses off – look, no lines! I can’t see anything else, either.

Other times, I’m positive I am the only one feeling this way. (Let’s hear it for self-pity.) That nobody could possibly understand what it’s like to be – well, me.

Then I found myself amongst friends of a same certain age complaining about the same certain things – can’t see, can’t move, can’t whatever. We looked at pictures of each others' kids and couldn’t believe how old the kids were – some the same age we were when we met around 30 years ago. I’m the only one who has grandkids – but in defense, I was also the first one to get married and have kids. So there.

At some point during the evening between the good wine, good food and even better conversation, I said, “Oh, my gosh, we are seriously getting old!”

My friend, Janet – whose personality and smile are probably more sunshiny now than ever – looked at me over her tiger-striped cheaters and said, “Who cares? We’re growing old together!”

OK, Janet, it’s true. We’re growing older. And really, there’s not a whole lot we can do about it other than accept it graciously and keep a fantastic sense of humor – not that there’s much choice in this particular group of people.

I hope we’ll spend lots of time together in our coming years. Can you see us hanging out in our rocking chairs on a porch in Florida, listening to “My Sharona” or some other early 80s pop tune?

There we’ll be, rocking to the beat, until one of us stops, shuts off the music and yells, “Hey! Can I borrow those glasses?"

COPYRIGHT CHRISTINE LUPELLA - 2010

Family Bonds or Family Bondage: What Would We Do Without Our Siblings

2010-01-23T17:17:00.002-06:00

Brothers and sisters. Everyone should have at least one one. Those of us elder children – the bossy ones, perfected our leadership skills by ruling over our younger siblings.

I had a lot of leadership training through my sisterly relationships. My sister Eve is close enough to my age –born 18 months after me and was a year behind me in school – to provide constant companionship as well as competition.

We shared a room. We shared our parents until our younger sister, Becky arrived on the scene almost six years later. We shared our toys for the most part, though we nearly fought to the death over important things like Barbie dolls, Little Kiddles (so what if it was her birthday and she got the Kiddle Castle and I was jealous and pulled her hair?) and much later, the occasional attention of the male species.

Then there were our creative cooking ventures. She willingly tasted the unpalatable combinations of foods that I certainly was not going to taste. I’m pretty sure I convinced her they were delicious; I’m pretty sure now that they were not and have apologized profusely for using her as a lab rat.

We learned teamwork as our screaming, yelling, hair-pulling, fist-pounding arguments quickly turned into cooperative self-preservation after some item or another – something parents would care about – was broken. Our minds quickly melded as one to re-create the dramatic sequences of events that led to the destruction of a particular lamp.

Then there were the situations in which some other kid ripped on my sisters. Uh-uh. No go. I was the only one allowed to pound on my sister; anyone else who did so was seriously sorry.

My “baby” sister was another story. I mothered her from the day she was born and she didn’t seem to mind the attention. There were enough years between us to encourage an amicable, peaceful relationship.

However, the pecking order was established – and Eve quickly learned she had the age advantage in that situation.

Of course, both of my sisters – like most younger siblings – developed keen survival skills that often involved creative manipulation of information, mostly to get tattletale older sisters of their backs.

I missed out by not having brothers like my daughter did. They all taught each other an assortment of self-defense moves, from boxing and wrestling to Kung Fu.

Really, it’s rather amazing that any of us survive our childhood exploits, but we do. We all grew up – at least physically. The crazy things we did as kids created a bond between us because we know things about each other that no one, including our parents, did (or should!) Siblings give us something to laugh about at family gatherings – and often, we don’t have to say a word!

Of course, I realize this applies to my three children as well. They, too, have a giant list of sibling secrets that I really don’t want to know about. They made it into their 20s, despite roof-climbing, bridge-jumping, underage driving (bet you thought I didn’t know about that), day long canoe trips during near-tornadoes and who knows what else. They are who they are because of their siblings, like I am who I am because of mine.

COPYRIGHT CHRISTINE LUPELLA - 2010.

One simple note, a chain of gratitude

2009-11-28T20:54:00.001-06:00

Monday morning, I received a handmade card from a reader. She thanked me for publishing a recent story and sending her a copy of the paper.

Really, I was just doing my job – yet she took the time to stop and say, “thanks.” The card is tacked to my office bulletin board in my direct line of sight. I have looked at it countless times over the past couple of days and its simple message stamped in green ink makes me smile.

The card also reminds me to be more aware of people, their histories, their passions and their pains. It’s easy to put people and situations into tidy little categories and proceed with the tasks at hand. However, when I stop to really hear people, to consider who they are, where they came from and where they are going, I grow as a person. It may not be the most comfortable situation at times, but we can learn from each other in just that momentary pause.

So many of us struggle with relationships, with finances, with work or lack thereof, with petty things that – in the grand scheme of life, just don’t matter.

When my kids were young and locked in battle over something like whose side of the room the other was on, who was right about a particular situation or whatever it is that kids fight over, I frequently said, “Do you really think this will matter in 10 years? Twenty years?”

At the time, they weren’t convinced. I certainly would not have been convinced when I fought with my sister when we were kids a century ago. At this point, I know we fought – a lot – but rarely do I remember what it was about. And when I do, if there was something I remember saying or doing that was unkind, I tell her, “I’m sorry.” I’m thankful she accepts my apology and that we have moved on to become friends.

That would never have happened if we had kept each other in a box, stuck in the labels of our childhoods with all the assumptions that go with them.

I hope to extend that attitude toward everyone – my family, friends and coworkers, certainly – and to human beings in general. I am thankful for this single life I have been given and for being invited into our local communities. It is an honor to touch peoples’ lives through my writing and photography. I dreamed of doing this job since my earliest childhood, when I picked up a crayon and began forming letters on page after page of scrap paper.

I am thankful that people – besides my ever-patient family – read the words I weave together in hopes of conveying the emotions behind them. Some days I struggle like I did with the crayons, wondering where the words would go and who would see them.

Thanks to the reader who reminded me my work makes a difference during a busy time of year when it’s easy to get stressed out and impatient with other people and situations.

My hope is that each of us will take a moment each day to ponder the lives we touch, the simplest joys we’ve experienced and the new things we learned, no matter how minute. You might even want to say, “Thank you.” You never know how those words will affect another person’s heart.

An officer and a role model

2009-11-16T20:48:00.003-06:00

Somber emotions filled the East Troy High School gym Saturday.

It was quite the contrast to the more familiar sounds of cheering, stomping crowds reverberating over the steady bounce, bounce, bounce of a basketball, squeaks from athletic shoes interrupted by players shouting directions to each other.

Saturday, the sounds were different. This time, the crowd of nearly 600 filled the gym floor and visitors’ bleachers to say good-bye to Lt. Bret Miller, 30, an ETHS graduate, former star basketball player and successful Naval officer.

Miller died Oct. 28 while flying a training mission over the gulf coast of Texas. A search continues for Lt. Joe Houston of Houston who was also aboard the plane.

Miller’s flag-adorned casket lay in front of the home side bleachers surrounded by flowers, more flags and a basketball-shaped flower arrangement featuring Miller’s ETHS number 22.

Amid quiet chatter and occasional tears, the community came to support Miller’s family – his wife, Brianne; his son, Chase; his parents, Rick and Judy; his brother Chad and sister Tara Grocholski; his in-laws and friends.

The Rev. Maurice Lind of Good Shepherd Lutheran Church, East Troy, directed his first words to Miller’s family: “I know that I speak for everyone here today when I say that our hearts ache…There are no words that can adequately say how much we hurt with you and for you.”

He also spoke to Miller’s friends from the Navy: “You have not only suffered the tragic death of one brother, but two.”

Lind offered words of comfort. “Bret is safe. He is OK…One day, you will see him again and you will be with him forever…That is the comfort that God has for you today even in the midst of your sorrow.”

Commander William J. Cox, Miller’s commanding officer, talked about Miller’s Naval life. “Lt. Miller was an outstanding Naval officer.

“Bret Miller left a legacy of friendship…and of mentorship.”

Cox read from a letter he wrote to Miller’s son, Chase, who is only about 2 years old. “I would like to share with you what I know of your father, so you can know your father.

“He was both a great Naval officer and Naval aviator.” More than that, Cox said, Miller was a man of integrity. “He was the type of man you knew you could trust.

“He always did the right thing, regardless of the consequences,” Cox said.

Cox talked about the reasons Miller chose to become a pilot and an instructor. “Bret
Miller loved to fly…Bret Miller loved instructing…and he had great success in this.

“Your father flew and risked his life every day because he loved his country.

“Your father was a patriot,” Cox said. “Your father died defending the United States of America.”

A friend of Miller’s from the military said, “Bret always set lofty goals for himself and he achieved them.

“But his greatest love was his family…He was a devoted family man, a patient father and a loyal husband.”

Another friend described Miller as “incredibly humble, selfless and loyal.” He talked about Miller’s smile: “He was an unbiased smile giver…it was infectious and could light up a room.”

Gary Grocholski, Miller’s brother-in-law, said, “His high school years were merely an audition for the life in front of him.

“I long for the 30 or 40 years of memories that now will never be,” Grocholski said. “I was fortunate that Bret called me on Tuesday, the day before his plane went down.” He said they talked for 20 minutes or so, and that Miller was excited that he and his wife, who is expecting a baby in March 2010, were going to have another boy.

Rick Penniston, ETHS principal, coached Miller from 1995 to 1997, when the school’s varsity team had two championship seasons.

Penniston said Miller was a four-year varsity starter. “That doesn’t happen very often.”

The gym suddenly came to life as a compilation of radio broadcasts from the Trojans’ winning seasons sounded through the speakers.

Penniston then talked about Miller’s exceptional skills, not only on the court but with his teammates as well. Because of this, Penniston said, the school decided to honor Miller’s memory by retiring Miller’s number 22.

He then invited two of Miller’s former teammates – Jim Chapman, ETHS Class of 1996, and Nathan Aldinger, who graduated from ETHS with Miller in 1997, to unveil Miller’s No. 22 basketball jersey. The jersey will hang in the hallway outside the ETHS gym in Miller’s memory.

A short time later, Lt. Bret Miller left the ETHS gym for the last time, surrounded by family and friends, as he always had been.

Miller was buried in Oak Ridge Cemetery, East Troy.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BARBIE GIRL!

2009-03-11T10:37:00.002-05:00

This is a big month for a famous big-busted gal. Barbie is 50 years old! That’s ancient in little-girl terms, but from my perspective, she’s just getting started – especially because she’s only a few years ahead of me on the birthday timeline.

Of course, Barbie was a huge part of my growing-up years, as she was for many little girls. Truth be told, she was an important part of many boys’ lives, too, as evidenced by my stepbrother. As the only male sibling surrounded by four females of various ages and sizes, if he wanted to be included in our play in some way, he had to deal with Barbie. He would set up base camp with his G.I. Joes and come up with elaborate kidnapping, torture and – provided we sisters were cooperative and didn’t threaten to “tell” – rescue plans for our dolls. It involved a great deal of female screaming, dastardly laughter on his part and dropping dangling dolls from ridiculously high places. And, when we tired of that game, we could easily make him go away by telling him that G.I. Joe had to take Barbie on a date that would involve kissing.

See ya’ later, John!

My sisters and I amassed a huge collection of Barbies over the years. And that was before Mattel started coming out with a new Barbie just about every week, featuring Barbie all dressed up for her career, sport or in the latest fashion fad.

We loved our Barbies, though most adults looking at our dolls would probably not have thought that was the case. Our Barbies had frizzy, chopped-off hair, magic marker makeup, pins stuck in their heads (pins made great earrings – you just had to be careful they didn’t come out the other side of Barbie’s rather narrow head) and were in assorted stages of undress. They rarely wore shoes, because we lost them constantly. If we wanted new Barbie shoes, we had to buy them with our allowance – and given the choice between buying a cheap, sparkly off-brand Barbie dress or a package of brand-name Barbie shoes – I picked the cheap and sparkly off-brand every time!

Truthfully, our dolls were a mess – but they were a mess because we played with them constantly. They accompanied us in the car, in the bath (hence the frizzy hair), in our beds. They hung out with us while we watched “The Brady Bunch” and “The Partridge Family” on Friday nights – the original shows, not the reruns. We shared our lunches with them. We fought over them and with them. We cut their hair, we tried curling their hair using a light bulb as a curling iron (that was a very bad idea, by the way.) We built houses for them out of giant cardboard boxes, made furniture and curtains and hung scraps of wrapping paper on the walls.

I remember reading that some women thought Barbie was a bad role model. I never really thought of her as a role model – her physique was rather ridiculous. I’m not talking about her top parts, known for being overly generous. I’m talking about those FEET! Who walks around on their tiptoes all the time, for Pete’s sake?

Our Barbies were an extension of our social selves, a reflection of our creativity and – scary as it was at times, our blooming sense of fashion. (Refer to the cheap and sparkly comment in an earlier paragraph.) Barbie brought us together as sisters and friends. Barbie was about us figuring out who we were as we grew up, working out conflict – learning to live together in the world.

I always admired my friends and relatives who still have their Barbies. I’m not sure when I let mine go – I remember slowly losing interest sometime around age 10 or 11, when socializing, music and school activities became more important than playing with my sisters. I felt sad because I didn’t yet understand why I was losing interest in childhood toys, that it was OK, I was just growing up. Memories of Barbie slowly faded to the background until years later, when my daughter received her first Barbie as a birthday gift at the age of 3 or 4 – introducing another generation to the magic that is Barbie. And sometime in the near future, my granddaughter will meet Barbie as well.

Happy 50th birthday, Barbie girl!

COPYRIGHT 2009 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT OR POST WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

ALL THAT GLITTERS IS GRANDMA'S TREE

2008-12-01T11:15:00.002-06:00

Grandma had the most incredible Christmas tree – at least in the eyes of my 5-year-old self. The tree was top-to-bottom shiny silver, and decorated with gleaming gold glass balls. Still, all that glitter and glitz wasn’t the best part.

The tree held in its branches a mystery, its aluminum needles stealthily changing color from blue…to green…to red. To blue again.

It was a breathtaking sight, a nearly religious experience to sit in Grandma’s dark living room, watching the tree change color, a symphony of star-like reflections chasing each other across the walls, the ceiling and the gilt-wrapped gifts scattered under the tree.

I remember being almost disappointed when I later discovered that the tree itself was not changing color – rather, the shifting hues came from a rather simplistic light in the back. A wheel divided into thirds – one red, one green, one red, rotated lazily on its hub. Still, it was magic enough for me.

As much as I enjoyed the magic, I respected – OK, feared – the tree as well. I quickly learned that if I walked too close to the tree’s glittering needles, they would send an electrical spark to parts of my unsuspecting body. That only happened once or twice before I learned it was far better to look, but not touch.

Years later, when I was an adult, I helped Grandma clean out her basement, a treasure trove of memories. Grandma had lived through the Great Depression and it was only on rare occasions that she threw anything away – but those are stories for another day.

There, on a dusty corner shelf, was the infamous rotating light. I eagerly looked for the tree, but apparently, it had fallen apart years before. Grandma said the light still worked, so she saw no reason to throw it away. Whether she used it or not.

I looked at the light lovingly, brushing off layers of dust with my hands, instantly taken back to the Christmases of my childhood.

“I loved this light,” I said. So Grandma let me take it home.

I wish I could say I still had it, but I don’t. I don’t remember when it rotated for the last time. It may have been when my kids were young, when I pulled out the light for an impromptu dance show or dramatic presentation. Difficult as it was, I must have thrown it away.

Each year, as Christmas approaches and brightly decorated trees fill store aisles and neighbors’ windows, I think of Grandma, her tree and the magic light and realize they will live in my heart forever.

And today, I know that to be true as I gaze at the 32-inch Fiber Optic Silver Tinsel Tree gleaming from a corner of my desk, winking at me in its multitude of colors and whispering, “Do you remember?”

Of course I do. How could I forget?

COPYRIGHT 2008 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT OR POST WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

HOOVES OF JOY: Young girl and her equine companion win local championships - and become champions for others as well

2008-10-02T11:29:00.000-05:00

There’s nothing like sitting on the back of a big, beautiful animal, feeling its muscles move in rhythm as you race as one in a cloud of dust.

Kirsten Pape of Waterford knows that feeling well. She’s been riding horses since she was 4 years old and started competing three years later.

Now, at 10 years old, Kirsten and her horse, Slapshot, have won a number of racing honors. They competed together at the Walworth County Fair in Elkhorn, Wis., at the end of August in both the Tiny Tot (ages 10 years and under), Junior (ages 11-16) and Open classes of Walenton’s Rocking “B” Ranch Speed Show.

The two-day event consisted of flag and sand races, barrel races, pole bending, speed and action and other speed events during which horse and rider compete together against the clock. All events were timed and the fastest rider and horse won trophies and prize money.

Kirsten set a record, according to Barbara Walenton, owner of Walenton’s Rocking “B” Ranch. “Kirsten is the youngest participant to win the all-Around High Point trophy,” she said, noting that 10-year-old Kirsten outscored a 17-year-old competitor to earn the trophy.

In the Tiny Tot and Junior classes, Kirsten and Slapshot placed first in all events, setting a new personal record of 16.2 seconds in barrel racing and 25.558 seconds in pole bending.

“The best part was beating kids a lot older than me,” Kirsten said.

More recently, Kirsten earned the 2K Ranch Horse and Cattle Company (Helenville) 2008 Youth Reserve Champion title in the 18 and under Junior Class for this season.

Kirsten trains with professional barrel racer Colleen Barry of Winner Sircle Stables in Union Grove. Slapshot, a 6-year-old Appaloosa, has spent time training with Barry as well.

Girl and horse are quite the team – just like in any team or individual sport, they have a practice schedule, do warm up and conditioning exercises and have a coach to give them direction.

Kirsten’s commitment to her horse and riding carry though in the rest of her life as well. She enjoys studying math and science at Woodfield School in Waterford, and wants to go to college to be a veterinarian someday.

Along the way, Kirsten has become a champion for people who have special needs, sharing her time and love for horses with others.

Kirsten and Slapshot volunteer at Willow Creek Ranch, a therapeutic riding program for children and adults with dis-abilities that is owned by her mom, Jennifer Pape.

At Willow Creek, Kirsten leads therapy pony, Mr. Chubs, for participants ranging from ages 3 to 6 years old. Kirsten enjoys working with the children on cognitive skills, eye-hand coordination and riding skills during their 45-minute riding sessions.

Willow Creek is a member of the North American Riding for the Handicapped Association (NARHA).

“It’s more than just putting a child on a horse,” Jennifer Pape said.

Therapeutic riding helps children and adults with a variety of disabilities and conditions such as Attention Deficit Disorder, Autism, Traumatic Brain Injuries, Cerebral Palsy, Muscular Dystrophy and others. The games and activities riders do on a horse help them improve motor skills, self-esteem, concentration and problem-solving abilities.

The rhythmic movement of the horse stimulates the riders’ bodies, helping improve their muscle tone, strength, balance and head and trunk control.

“Sometimes we have the kids sitting on the horse backwards,” Pape said.

Willow Creek Ranch Therapeutic Riding Center is located just east of Waterford on Highway 20. Participants range from ages 3 to 85 and have a variety of special needs.

Volunteers are always needed for the program, from horse leaders and side walkers to marketing and grant writing. The ranch currently operates on property owned by Richard Beere.

COPYRIGHT 2008 CHRISTINE LUPELLA

LABOR (DAY) OF LOVE: Military families are bonds more than skin deep

2008-09-06T22:56:00.002-05:00

Military life. It involves more than soldiers dressed in camouflage and driving Humvees across the Iraqi desert, or carrying guns in the cavernous, rocky hills of Afghanistan.

Military life redefines families, as many soldiers and their loved ones will tell you. When you are a soldier, the soldiers serving with you in a deployment become your family. And their families become family as well.

There is a sense of camaraderie, of intimacy with guys serving in a battle company, according to SSgt. Kevin Rice.

Rice, an East Troy native stationed in Italy, who is on leave after a 15-month deployment to Afghanistan, was visiting his parents, Cynthia and Bill Rice at their East Troy, Wis., home over Labor Day weekend.

Joining him were his wife, Katie (Dubinsky) – a Burlington (Wis.) High School graduate – their children, Haley, 9, Ethan, 7, and Wesley, 5 – and numerous family and friends.

Those “family” members included SFC Mark Patterson and other members of the Second Platoon, Battle Com-pany, of the Second Battalion (Airborne), 503rd Infantry Regiment, 173rd Airborne Brigade Combat Team.

Saturday’s picnic was an event Kevin and Mark are hoping becomes a tradition. Last year, members of their company gathered in Connecticut; this year, Kevin’s parents offered to host the soldiers. A huge tent shaded a half dozen or more picnic tables from the hot summer sun, giving people a place to talk and laugh if they weren’t playing volleyball or splashing in the pool. Kevin’s dad looked over the scene from an upper deck, where he cooked brats and other traditional picnic fare.

It was just a good day to be together, said Karen Dubinsky, Katie’s mom.

Cynthia Rice, Kevin’s mom, said military life can be hard on families – from parents to spouses and especially kids. That’s what gives them a special bond.

Kevin’s mom has a unique understanding of military life, given her experience as a military spouse and as a military parent.

“I met Bill (Kevin’s dad) when he was in service,” she said, adding that her husband was home for all of 49 days during the first year of their marriage.

She said that as a mom, she is OK with Kevin being in the Army. “Kevin seems to have found his niche. He likes what he does. We’re better with it when he’s not in Afghanistan…it’s hard when you don’t hear from him for a couple of weeks.”

Both Kevin and Mark said they joined the Army for similar reasons.

“I just wanted to get out of my small town life,” said Mark, a New Concord, Ohio, native. He initially signed on for three years with the assumption that he would do his time, pay for college and then get out. That was 12 years ago. Mark is still in the Army and, he said, he still likes it.

Kevin has been in for nine years, and said he feels the same way, even after three deployments. He said military life is probably more challenging for his wife.

“She had to fly (to Italy) with all three kids,” he said, adding that she has the primary responsibility for taking care of the kids as well as home responsibilities.

Cynthia said Katie is doing a great job as a military spouse. “She seems to thrive on it – the independence and handling things.”

She said she was sure Katie had a lot of support from other military families. “It’s such a tight-knit community,” Cynthia said, noting that she and her husband are still in contact with friends they made in the military more than 30 years ago.

“It’s all that bonding. The women all support each other and they bond. I would think it would be hard when the guys do come home,” she said.

Katie said the first thing she discovered was that flexibility is extremely important for a military spouse.

“(Plans are) constantly changing,” she said. “It’s not set in stone until it’s time to do something.”

Family vacations are nearly impossible to plan. She said that she, Kevin and the kids take “a lot of last-minute trips” when Kevin gets a three- or four-day weekend. “You just go,” she said.

Her job is to manage home and family. “He knows the bills get paid, the kids go to school,” she said. “We don’t change our life for him, he steps into our routine.”

For Katie and the kids, that means watching movies on Tuesday nights, have friends over on Saturday nights, and once a month a babysitter comes so Katie can go out with other wives – or, if Kevin is home, a number of couples go out together. Those things never change, Katie said.

Kevin is normally deployed for 12 to 15 months, then home for 12 months. However, during that 12-month period, he is actually home for about six months, he said, explaining, “The other six months are training or schools.”

Katie said that of course, the kids miss their dad when he is gone. Katie said she will not get their hopes up when it’s around the time for Kevin to come home. “You can’t say, ‘Daddy’s coming home Friday,’ because it might be another day. The easiest thing to say is ‘Daddy will be home soon.’”

Katie has gotten to know other military families on base through their family readiness groups – FRGs. “That’s who your family is,” Katie said. “And you make your friendships that last from station to station.”

That extended military family includes other soldiers’ family members.

Pat Fuller of Ridgewood, whose son is in Kevin’s unit, was at the Rice’s home over Labor Day – again, part of the extended military family. His son could not be there because he was moving to Fort Ben-ning, Georgia.

He and his wife are familiar with military life. Though his son served four tours in Iraq and one recently in Afghanistan, “I wasn’t too worried,” he said. Fuller said he spent 16 years in the service, so he understood what his son was going through. He said he knows a number of the people in charge and that “they know what they are doing.”

“Before my son went to Iraq…they (the troops) were very well-trained. The troops…are smart (and) they’re dedicated,” Fuller said. “(And) they continue to re-enlist, so they are the best this country has.”

It’s still not easy having a child deployed in dangerous territory.

“By far this tour…was really rough on my wife,” Fuller said. She worried a lot, he said. What finally helped her worry a bit less about their son was this: “I told her, as long as nobody shows up at the door, he’s going to be fine…We’ve got to keep praying and thinking everything will be fine with him.”

Cynthia said it was hard hearing news about fighting in certain Afghani provinces when she knew her son might be there, especially after Kevin sustained abdominal and other injuries after being shot in Afghanistan last year. He recuperated at home in Italy for several months before rejoining his company.

It’s also difficult having her son and his family living so far away. “It’s hard because you want your grandkids there.” She shaded her eyes and looked toward the pool behind her, where Haley, Ethan and Wesley splashed, shouted and played.

Then it was time to eat – family and friends swarmed under the tent to load up paper plates with Bill’s brats, homemade potato salad, assorted chips and – clearly a favorite – seven-layer bars for dessert.

The main thing is this, Cynthia said: “You kind of look at them and say, if they’re happy, that’s all you really want for your kids... They’re doing what they want to do.”

A thousand thanks to Kevin and Mark and their families – and to all the men and women and the people who love and support them, who volunteer to serve our country every day – so the rest of us can go about our business.

LITTLE BIG TOWN - Walworth County Fair

2008-09-01T23:08:00.000-05:00

Little Big Town sings at the Walworth County Fair in Elkhorn, Wis. Aug. 29. Their lyrics are poetry; their harmonies a perfect blend; their musicianship incredible. Check them out at http://www.littlebigtown.com.

COUNTRY GIRLS: Local women shine with their guitars, sweet vocals and and empty stage

2008-08-28T22:49:00.000-05:00

Amy Acklyn grew up in Elkhorn, Wis., running home from school to lock herself in her room with her music.

There, she found inspiration in the heartfelt sounds of country music performed by The Judds, Patsy Cline and other more traditional artist – and dreaming of the day she would leave her hometown and head to Nashville.

“I was very into country music my whole life,” she said. She remembers tapping out the rhythms that filled her soul on every surface she could find, including the sofa. At 8 years of age, she finally asked her parents for a drum set.

That may well have been the start of this country girl’s career. She picked up a guitar when she was 16 and started writing her own songs.

She took the plunge and moved to Nashville six years ago, at age 19 – after turning down several full-ride college basketball scholarships.She liked basketball – but music would be her career, she said. And Nashville would be the place she would make it.

Acklyn said she fell in love with Nashville during a family trip when she was 9 or 10 years old. “I was very much drawn to Nashville,” she said, “(and to) the whole aura of Nashville itself.”

She moved 556 miles away from everything and everyone she knew.

“The main thing with moving down here that shocked people was that I didn’t know anybody,” she said, adding that after six years, “I have some amazing friends now.”

She got a job at the famous Wildhorse Saloon – a club and restaurant in the heart of downtown Nashville, where she still works today. She said it pays the bills, and she is given a flexible schedule so she can have evenings or sometimes a week or two off at a time while she is touring and performing.

The Wildhorse is one of the great places that makes Nashville a music town, she said. “You can go out any night and listen to great music,” she said.

She said pursuing her dream hasn’t been easy. “You have to really want it and you have to really put in the effort,” she said. “It has to really be a passion and not just a hobby.”

Acklyn admitted that there are bad days. About three years ago, she was having a hard time and decided to head to the local animal shelter to get a dog.

“Dogs make everything better,” she laughed. “Nothing’s better than a dog to come home to.”

That’s where she met Lady, a cocker spaniel-Labrador retriever mix. Lady was 2 months old at the time, and just a week or less away from being put down. Acklyn said the dog sat quietly looking into her eyes despite the mayhem surrounding them both.

They’ve been pals ever since.

Acklyn finds inspiration in her fans, especially those back home in Wisconsin.

“Fans to me are everything,” she said, adding that she loves what she does. She’s looking forward to reconnecting with people this weekend at Jerzees in East Troy (9 p.m.-1 a.m.) Friday and at the Walworth County Fair Saturday (3-6 p.m.)

“I want to be known for being an approachable, down-to-earth person,” she said, adding that she appreciates everyone who has “taken time out of their busy schedules to support me.”

To hear some of Acklyn’s original music, visit her MySpace site.

KAYLA HAWKINS: AT HOME ON STAGE

Two years ago, Kayla Hawkins and her friend went to an Amy Acklyn concert. “I just loved it,” Hawkins said. “Her music is so good.”

Fifteen-year-old Hawkins loves country music, and loves being on stage even more. “I’ve always liked to be up in front of people singing and acting,” she said.

Hawkins will share the stage with her idol at the Walworth County Fair in Elkhorn on Saturday. And she’s excited.

Acklyn said, “I’m more excited about it than she is…she’s come to quite a few of my shows.”

These two country girls – one a Badger High School sophomore from Pell Lake (Wis.), one an Elkhorn, Wis., native who put down roots in Nashville six years ago – have one important thing in common, despite their age gap.

They both love country music.

Hawkins said, “I like how you can really related to all of it…it’s like putting real life to music.”

Her focus has been on singing – but now she’s learning guitar. Kind of like Acklyn did when she was around the same age.

And, like Acklyn, Hawkins is learning to write her own songs. “I write a lot of lyrics and I’m working on the music part,” she said.

Hawkins said she “definitely wants to pursue a singing career.” However, she said if that doesn’t work out, she’ll go to college and study to be a large animal veterinarian – which involves her second love, horses.

She’s looking forward to performing at the fair, she said.

Hawkins rarely gets nervous about performing. “I think I’m blessed with not being nervous, she said, “I feel at home on the stage.”

COUNTRY GIRLS: Give them each a guitar and an empty stage, add their sweet vocals and you've got magic

2008-08-28T11:21:00.000-05:00

Amy Acklyn grew up in Elkhorn, Wis., running home from school to lock herself in her room with her music.

There, she found inspiration in the heartfelt sounds of country music performed by The Judds, Patsy Cline and other more traditional artist – and dreaming of the day she would leave her hometown and head to Nashville.

“I was very into country music my whole life,” she said. She remembers tapping out the rhythms that filled her soul on every surface she could find, including the sofa. At 8 years of age, she finally asked her parents for a drum set.

That may well have been the start of this country girl’s career. She picked up a guitar when she was 16 and started writing her own songs.

She took the plunge and moved to Nashville six years ago, at age 19 – after turning down several full-ride college basketball scholarships.

She liked basketball – but music would be her career, she said. And Nashville would be the place she would make it.

Acklyn said she fell in love with Nashville during a family trip when she was 9 or 10 years old. “I was very much drawn to Nashville,” she said, “(and to) the whole aura of Nashville itself.”

She moved 556 miles away from everything and everyone she knew.

“The main thing with moving down here that shocked people was that I didn’t know anybody,” she said, adding that after six years, “I have some amazing friends now.”

She got a job at the famous Wildhorse Saloon – a club and restaurant in the heart of downtown Nashville, where she still works today. She said it pays the bills, and she is given a flexible schedule so she can have evenings or sometimes a week or two off at a time while she is touring and performing.

The Wildhorse is one of the great places that makes Nashville a music town, she said. “You can go out any night and listen to great music,” she said.

She said pursuing her dream hasn’t been easy. “You have to really want it and you have to really put in the effort,” she said. “It has to really be a passion and not just a hobby.”

Acklyn admitted that there are bad days. About three years ago, she was having a hard time and decided to head to the local animal shelter to get a dog.

“Dogs make everything better,” she laughed. “Nothing’s better than a dog to come home to.”

That’s where she met Lady, a cocker spaniel-Labrador retriever mix. Lady was 2 months old at the time, and just a week or less away from being put down. Acklyn said the dog sat quietly looking into her eyes despite the mayhem surrounding them both.

They’ve been pals ever since.

Acklyn finds inspiration in her fans, especially those back home in Wisconsin.

“Fans to me are everything,” she said, adding that she loves what she does. She’s looking forward to reconnecting with people this weekend at Jerzees in East Troy (9 p.m.-1 a.m.) Friday and at the Walworth County Fair Saturday (3-6 p.m.)

“I want to be known for being an approachable, down-to-earth person,” she said, adding that she appreciates everyone who has “taken time out of their busy schedules to support me.”

To hear some of Acklyn’s original music, visit her MySpace site.

KAYLA HAWKINS: AT HOME ON STAGE
Two years ago, Kayla Hawkins and her friend went to an Amy Acklyn concert.

“I just loved it,” Hawkins said. “Her music is so good.”

Fifteen-year-old Hawkins loves country music, and loves being on stage even more.

“I’ve always liked to be up in front of people singing and acting,” she said.

Hawkins will share the stage with her idol at the Walworth County Fair in Elkhorn,Wis., on Saturday. And she’s excited.

Acklyn said, “I’m more excited about it than she is…she’s come to quite a few of my shows.”

These two country girls – one a Badger High School sophomore from Pell Lake, one an Elkhorn native who put down roots in Nashville six years ago – have one important thing in common, despite their age gap.

They both love country music.

Hawkins said, “I like how you can really related to all of it…it’s like putting real life to music.”

Her focus has been on singing – but now she’s learning guitar.

Kind of like Acklyn did when she was around the same age.

And, like Acklyn, Hawkins is learning to write her own songs. “I write a lot of lyrics and I’m working on the music part,” she said.

Hawkins said she “definitely wants to pursue a singing career.” However, she said if that doesn’t work out, she’ll go to college and study to be a large animal veterinarian – which involves her second love, horses.

She’s looking forward to performing at the fair, she said.

Hawkins rarely gets nervous about performing. “I think I’m blessed with not being nervous, she said, “I feel at home on the stage.”

COPYRIGHT 2008 - CHRISTINE LUPELLA/SOUTHERN LAKES NEWSPAPERS LLC

MAKE YOUR LIST, BUT YOU BETTER CHECK IT TWICE

2008-07-09T21:29:00.000-05:00

We have a new game at our house, begun inadvertently through a magical mixture of a whiteboard, a grocery list, and a college student who needs entertainment as he trolls the refrigerator for leftovers.

I came up with a brilliant plan to attach a whiteboard to my refrigerator to keep a running grocery list. In case you are unfamiliar, a whiteboard is a white board – really – on which you can write with erasable markers. (Note: never mistake a permanent marker for an erasable marker. The respective modifiers clearly describe the results for each.)

I’ve been doing it for a couple of years, scrawling the names of items that run out or are nearly-running out, so I can copy the list when I’m ready to go shopping, leave it on the counter and call home to ask someone – anyone – to read it to me over the telephone.

But I digress.

I ran out of foil last week. You know, the metal stuff you line the bottom of pans with when you don’t want to scrape off a burned mess. I automatically wrote it on the list: “Foil.”

A day later, there were unfamiliar etchings next to “Foil.” They read:
(x+2)(x-2) = x2 – 4 (x+2)(x+2) = x2+4x+4.

Or something like that.

Huh?

I recognized the college student’s writing, but given that he is a theater major, I wasn’t sure where the math stuff came from.

Then, visions of high school Algebra class came flooding back – not really in detail, but I vaguely remem-bered using something called the FOIL method to solve equations that no longer matter in my life. (I have an innate preference for words, not numbers. My apologies to all the mathematicians out there!)

Funny stuff.

Next item on the list: Nutella. Nutella is a fabulous hazelnut-chocolate spread that is a sort of Italian version of peanut butter. Only it’s chocolate, so it’s way better.

Next day: Nutella at a bank. What? What’s a tella at a bank?

I groaned.

Later, I ran out of Pam (the non-stick cooking spray) and Suet (for birds, not people.) Those items went on the list.

Later: “Pam per your chil-dren,” and “Suet to the old-ies.”

The first one was easy. I had to think about the second one…until a rather unpleasant vision of a sweaty Richard Simmons dancing to 60s music in silk shorts popped into my head.

I decided to play the game, too. I added “Salad dressing to kill” to the list. And “Smilk (some + milk).”

Turns out I stumped the crew with pizza, however.

I wrote it on the list. I waited.

The note: “I got nothin’.” Perhaps his creativity ran out?

Because I would have added: “Pizza meet ya’.”

Does that mean I win?

BLAZING TRAILS, LOVING PEOPLE WERE THIS LADY'S LEGACY

2008-06-24T21:41:00.001-05:00

I lost a great mentor last week, who at the age of 92, outlived doctors’ predictions of her lifespan by more than 60 years.

That fact in itself is amazing, but it wasn’t really what made this woman amazing.

Amanda Amy was truly a trail-blazing woman. She left home in her early teens to support herself and see what else there was in the world.

She eventually married, had children, divorced when it was unthinkable to do so, and kept going – ignoring society’s stigmas.

She took advantage of the open job market during World War II – when so many men were gone – venturing west to learn trades that were traditionally only open to men.

When the war was over, she moved to Minnesota, met the man that became her second husband, Clark – and set down roots in Pine River.

She and Clark bought the local newspaper that included a print shop, and Mandy, as she was known, learned the business from the ground up.

She sold subscriptions door-to-door, coaxing people to keep up with the local news. She sold advertising – fully expecting local businesses to support their local newspaper. She wrote a column that lasted for decades – even after she sold the paper to another family.

When Clark became too ill to work, Mandy stepped up as publisher and editor, managing the entire business for many years – including the print shop. She gave a number of local women the opportunity to learn a business that at the time was traditionally a man’s world.

The first time I met Mandy, I was struck by the tiny woman who wore tight jeans, bright colored blouses and high heels – she dressed far differently than my grandmas ever did! Her piercing blue eyes looked me over; she grabbed my hand and gave me – a new community newspaper editor – an encouraging smile.

Mandy became my link to all that was Pine River. I could call and ask her who was related to whom, find out the history of a local board and its alleged shenanigans, get a bit of local gossip or better yet, sit in the room at the back of her house that faced the river and hear her stories of meeting politicians at all levels, of working in a man’s world and being self-sufficient.

While we talked, I realized we were not alone. We were surrounded by photos – literally hundreds of them – in framed collages that covered her walls.

Those photos that did not fit on the walls were carefully filed in boxes, along with yellowed newspaper clippings, old greeting cards and other sentimental items that Mandy could never throw away.

Clearly, people were Mandy’s passion. I wrote about her for an area magazine, and that became the theme of the article.

She helped me realize why I am so drawn to community journalism. I love to write, but I love connecting with people more than anything.

I had not seen Mandy for the past few years, since I moved away, but I thought of her often, especially when the job got tough and I questioned my reasons for doing it.

I will always remember spending the afternoon at her home that sat at the end of the main street in town, giving Mandy a dress-circle view of the community’s comings-and-goings.

I can’t tell you how many people stopped by – one just to say “hello,” another to deliver groceries, and still another to drop off a package. We sat together and ate apple pie and ice cream, sipped our tea and looked out over the partially frozen river.

Mandy, we’ll all miss you. And I hope I can keep your spirit of adventure and determination alive, to one day inspire other journalists like us.

Copyright 2008 by Christine Lupella

MEET ANNIE: SHE'S A KID JUST LIKE YOU

2008-06-23T22:34:00.002-05:00

Annie is a little girl who is just like other kids. She has a family – a mom, a dad, a big brother, a big sister and an uncle and grandma, too. And she loves them very much.

Annie is more like kids her age than she is different. That’s the message Heather J. Scharlau-Hollis, the author of the children’s book, “Meet Annie,” was trying to get across.

The character of Annie was inspired by her 2-1/2-year-old daughter, Annika. Annika has Down syndrome.

“I wrote it as therapy for myself, but it ended up being more than that,” Heather said. “I wanted to educate people.”

Heather said she had no idea what life would be like when doctors told her that Annika had Down syndrome.
“It took me about two to three weeks to get over the initial hump of depression,” she said. “I felt like I was living someone else’s life…it was like watching a Lifetime movie – only I was the Lifetime movie.”

“Now I look at it and I think I shouldn’t have been so upset,” she said.

Heather wrote the book while waiting in Annika’s hospital room after one of Annika’s multiple surgeries – she has undergone 10 since birth for an assortment of physical problems, from hernias to a rare heart deformity. Annika is tube-fed, and takes numerous medications every day.

Heather said most of the materials she read about Annika’s condition were rather dark and depressing.

She was given a “big, thick book” on Down syndrome and learned that age range for walking could be 9 months to 6 years. That children who have Downs have an 80 percent greater chance of getting leukemia than a child who does not have Downs. Then there was the huge list of physical problems that accompanies the condition.

“I thought, ‘Can somebody just tell me something good?

“There’s not anything out there (that’s positive),” she said. “It’s all sad stuff.”

That’s when Heather came up with the idea for “Meet Annie.”

She said she thought, “It would be nice to give parents a book like this – something positive for the future.”

In simple language, and with the assistance of colorful drawings by a Tate Publishing illustrator, she describes a day in the life of a typical little girl. Annie loves, eats, gets messy, needs help, gets mad, gets scared and – yes, she even gets in trouble.

“(Annika) still gets in trouble like my other kids,” Heather said. “She knows what she’s doing, even though she communicates it in a different way.”

Heather has taken copies of her book to schools in her hometown of Beloit, Wis., to share her story and hopefully help kids understand that kids are just kids, no matter how they look, learn or understand things.

She said it was difficult to take Annika out and about – but now she does it anyway.

“People used to stare continuously,” she said, adding that parents who have children with special needs often “just don’t go anywhere.”

“We do a lot of things. We go to the mall, we go out to eat,” she said.

Her family life is a learning experience every day. “There’s no book to tell you what to do,” she said.

Heather said publishing the book was almost a fluke – she sent it to five publishers, and Tate Publishing and Enterprises agreed to publish it.

“It was surreal to me,” she said. “(And) if this one goes over well…they’ll ask me for my second book.”

“Meet Annie” is available through amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, or directly through the publisher at tatepublishing.com.

Those who purchase the book can download a free audio book from the publisher’s Web site as well. Heather’s 10-year-old daughter narrated the book.

Heather Scharlau-Hollis is available to speak at schools. Contact her through Tate Publishing at (888) 361-9473.

BREAKING THE SILENCE: GIRL FINALLY FINDS HER VOICE WRITING POETRY, STORIES

2008-05-16T22:26:00.000-05:00

Julia Martin shuffles into the kitchen, her hair a sleepy mass of curls with a mind of their own. She yawns and rubs her eyes – she doesn’t feel well, so she won’t be attend-ing her classes at Evergreen Elementary School in Waterford, Wis., today.

“Good morning, Julia!” David, her dad, says with great enthusiasm.

Vicki, Julia’s mom, echoes the greeting.

Then they introduce the unfamiliar woman sitting at the kitchen table.

“This is Christine,” Vicki says. Julia’s big brown eyes look off to the side as her mom places a pencil in her hand.

Vicki holds up a purple plastic letter board with its 26 holes, each a stencil of individual letters of the alphabet.

Vicki nods to Julia, who quickly pokes the pencil into the holes.

“H-i,” Vicki says, “Keep going.”

“C-h-r-i-s.” Vicki says. “What else?”

“T-i-n-e. Hi, Christine,” Vicki says.

Julia puts down the pencil and then turns away.

“You’re tired,” Vicki says. Julia walks back toward her bedroom.

Vicki begins chatting about Julia and their family, and the TV in the bedroom gets louder, then louder still.

Vicki smiles. Like many 12-year-old girls, Julia has found a way to tune out her mom when she doesn’t want to hear her voice.

And like many girls her age, Julia enjoys spending time with friends. She likes to read. She likes boys (although she doesn’t say which ones.) She loves to wear her Sketchers. She even likes to comment on politics at times.

But unlike many girls her age, Julia cannot speak. In fact, until a couple of years ago, Julia could not effectively communicate her wants, much less her thoughts and dreams. She was locked in a silent world – and it was a frustrating place to be.

Vicki says people often assume Julia is mentally challenged, mostly because Julia cannot readily communicate. She frequently does not make eye contact, and her body movements are often not in synch with what Julia is trying to do at a given time, even something as simple as sitting in class.

Julia’s world opened up when she learned to communicate with the Rapid Prompting Method (RPM), which involves using the letter board and may eventually involve use of a keyboard and computer.

Vicki spoke before the Wisconsin Department of Health and Family Services Autism Council on April 2, 2008, sharing Julia’s experiences:

“It blew me away when I realized how much was inside of my daughter. This was not just a wish that makes me feel good. The fact is children with severe autism do have a lot inside and need a way to express their thoughts…

“The assumption of intelligence is vital because our children KNOW when they are not respected, believe and talked down to or worse, talked about in front of them as if they don’t understand,” she said.

David says, “This has been a revealing thing for me…I try not to judge people on the surface…she has so much to offer. She has so much going on.”

Julia’s writings are the window to her soul. She enjoys writing poetry, and hopes to someday attend college and write children’s books.

Her writings include this poem, titled “Love”:

Inside my heart I hide
I have so much love
I can’t express
I try to show my love
But I don’t know how
Just believe
Julia likes to play with words as well. A couple of months ago, she wrote:
Night falls
Chris calls
Julia sleeps
Mom keeps
Angel wings
God sings

Autism, or autism spectrum disorders (ADSs) are a group of related brain-based disorders that affect a child’s behavior, social and communication skills, according to the American Academy of Pediatrics.

Autism is a lifelong condition. There is no cure. However, children who have autism can progress and learn new skills, according to the Academy.

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), about 1 in 150 have autism. The cause or causes of autism are still unknown, although many theories are being researched, according to the Academy.

Autism is currently classified as a developmental disability or disorder; however, many children who have autism also have immunological, gastrointestinal and neurological problems, according to Bryan Jepson, M.D. in his book, “Changing the Course of Autism: A Scientific Approach for Parents and Physicians.”

Julia has migraine headaches, digestive problems and frequently battles severe illnesses, Vicki says. For years, a frustrated Julia experienced pain she could not readily explain to her also-frustrated parents.

“It was a miracle the first time she could tell me what hurt,” Vicki said during her April 2 presentation.

Parents raising children who have autism face emotional, financial and physical challenges.

Because autism is classified as a developmental disorder, insurance companies often do not pay for large portions of a child’s therapies, Vicki explains.

The Martins downsized, selling a larger home and moving to a smaller home with Julia and their two sons, in order to pay for Julia’s therapy.

It was worth it –– but it has been a challenge, Vicki says.

And Julia, through her silence, wrote:

"In a small town in rural Wisconsin there lived a girl who understood many things. She was not just average. She was special and had some ex-traordinary people around her. These people motivated her to press on regardless of the cost. How can she ever repay them for their love?"

EASTER: a poem

2008-03-23T07:08:00.000-05:00

Sun rising

golden orb

brings warmth

brings light

a promise of life

to the silently sleeping

land

beneath

SENIOR MOMENT - JUST A DECADE OR TWO EARLY

2008-02-28T09:32:00.002-06:00

Apparently, I am over the hill at age 44 (OK, so I’ll be 45 in less than a month – who really counts after 40 anyway?)

I know this because last week, I stopped at the local grocery store to pick up lunch and a few dinner items to save me a trip later.

The nice blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl at the registered greeted me cheerfully as I unloaded my basket onto the counter so she could scan each one and then efficiently dump the item into a bag.

We chatted about the weather and whatever else came to mind. Maybe even about the fajitas I was making for dinner.

I rummaged through my purse, looking for my debit card to pay for my groceries as she totaled the bill.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I forgot to ask you, did you want to sign up for our senior discount?” Her blue eyes widened as she waited for the answer.

Wow, that’s crazy – she thinks I’m a senior in high school, I thought.

Wrong.

It hit me all at once. No, she did not think I was a senior in high school.

She meant she thought I was a senior citizen!

I truly did not know what to say. I thought about crying. Then I thought about screaming. I thought about leaping over the counter, pulling her blonde curls and screaming, “I’ll show you a senior discount!”

I wondered when the last time was I dyed my hair – no, the six-week gray stripe was not running across my skull, so that couldn’t have been the reason she thought I was – well, older than I am.

I was wearing practical shoes, but who doesn’t when there’s this much snow and ice in the middle of a real Wisconsin winter?

Truly, I was at a loss for words. I mumbled something unintelligible, grabbed my grocery bags and slunk out to the car to nurse my wounded ego.

Of course, I called my (younger) sister to share my story. I couldn’t understand her response. She was laughing too hard.

I told some of my coworkers as well. They were nice (Sometimes I bring them food, so I suppose they have to be) and said the girl must have been really young, that I don’t look like a senior citizen, yada yada, trying to make me feel better.

One of them said, “So did you say, ‘Sure! I’ll take the discount!’”

Hindsight is 20-20, of course, and I guess when you’re my age you’re lucky to have sight at all.

So I’m thinking next time I see my favorite grocery clerk, I’ll ask her for that discount after all!

I WANNA BE 2

2008-02-20T18:01:00.002-06:00

I want to be 2 years old.

Spending a week with my granddaughter in too-far-away Georgia last week made me realize that life is pretty much delightful when you’re 2.

For one thing, Ella introduced me to the wonderful musical world of “The Wonder Pets,” one of the rare TV shows she watches.

Every.

Single.

Morning.

The moment she opens her bright blue eyes and shuffles sleepily out of her room, she plunks into her beanbag chair, sippy-cup in hand, and issues the order: “Ming Ming!”

For the uninitiated, Ming Ming is the fluffy yellow duckling that dons a superhero cape so she can rescue an animal that’s in trouble somewhere in the world – like the French poodle that was trapped at the top of the Eiffel Tower in France.

Ming Ming and her “Wonder Pet” compatriots – a turtle and guinea pig – leave the safety of their cages to build boats or planes or whatever they need to tend to their rescuing duties.

And they do everything while they are singing.

One warning: their songs worm their way between the folds of your brain and become a permanent part of its cellular structure. That means you’ll be singing the same song.

All.

Day.

Long.

When you’re 2 years old, eating is an event. Shouting “My nums!” (Ella’s shortened version of “Yummy yum”) is all it takes to have a bowl of oatmeal or crackers and cheese plopped in front of you.

It’s a darn good life.

Then, after breakfast, there are so many things to discover – like judging the viscosity of equal portions of dirt mixed with water, or facing the physical challenge of climbing from floor to bench to tabletop in less than 10 seconds.

I want to be 2 years old because I want to spend the day coloring pictures, playing in the park, cuddling my doll, learning to use the potty (no more diapers!), singing the ABCs, mimicking every silly sound my “Pop Pop” (grandpa) makes, tasting everything and not worrying about being rude if I think it’s yucky, throwing rocks, chas-ing the dog and being loved by my mommy and daddy and Grammy and pretty much everyone I meet.

Sure, there is the occasional drama that requires a timeout and then a hug and kiss, but for the most part, life is exciting and wonderful and new every minute of the day when you’re 2.

I’ve always thought we should age backwards. I didn’t really appreciate being 2 when I was 2. But more than four decades later, I see that 2-year-olds have a wonderful outlook on life.

I suppose whenever I need a 2-year-old fix, I’ll just have to jet on down to Georgia to see Ella. Besides, we have more crayon pictures to draw, more flowers to smell, more cookies and ice cream to eat, and more cuddling to do.

It kind of makes me hope she’ll never grow up. That way I won’t have to grow up, either.

Marching ahead: Will the dream ever become a reality?

2008-01-16T21:50:00.000-06:00

I wonder if racism and bigotry would end if we all had see-through skin, void of color.

Or would we each find another way to label our fellow human beings on sight, picking apart the ways other people are different from us and subliminally ranking them in our personal hierarchies to find the reasons we are better or worse than they are.

Young children naturally classify things by looking at how they are the same, and look to adults to explain why something might be different.

I remember meeting Santa Claus – OK, it was one of his helpers – when I was around 4 or 5 years old. I knew he was Santa because he had the red suit, the big belly, the delightful laugh.

The difference that time was that Santa had darker skin than I – a fair-faced little girl from the suburbs of Chicago – had seen on Santa before.

I must have asked my mom or dad about it. They smiled and explained that Santa’s helpers come in all colors, just like all people. No big deal. He was still Santa in my mind.

I am thankful they gave me the chance to see past the surface. My parents taught me never to use derogatory names for other people – and I was horrified when I heard some of those names coming out of my grandparents’ mouths.

That was the first time I dealt with full-on bigotry, and it confused my young brain. Suddenly, some of the adults I most cared about were doing something bad. It made my stomach hurt and it made me sad.

“You’re not supposed to use those words,” I said. They looked at me and laughed. What did I know? I was just a little kid.

Later, my mom said they were old and set in their ways, and that yes, they were wrong, that I still should never use those names for people. People are people, she said. It doesn’t matter what color they are.

Armed with that attitude, I have marched through life. I taught my three children the same thing, and so far see the lessons stuck. I’m hoping my granddaughter learns it as well.

Yet it isn’t enough. My kids learned about Martin Luther King Jr. and the Civil Rights movement in their northern Minnesota school, while kids around them made racist comments.

The worst part? Of 1,100 students, from kindergarten through grade 12, there were only a handful of students of color. Three were from Nige-ria. The others were American Indian. The majority of students made comments on people they had never seen, from places they had never been, and it was clear that kids don’t come up with that stuff by themselves.

Someone must have heard it at home.

I love Dr. King’s “I have a dream” speech, especially when he said, “I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.’”

We are all God’s children, His creation. Hatred comes from ignorance, from fear, from a protective pack-mentality that seeks to keep others in their place.

The world is filled with racism and bigotry. But if we look at it that way and throw up our hands and do nothing, it will never change.

We will never be closer to the dream.

Personally, I’d rather make a difference. I’d rather take a stand and make it clear that I will not tolerate intolerance. It won’t change everything all at once, but my dream is that it will someday change a generation, and that generation will change the world.

LET IT SNOW...AND SNOW...AND SNOW!

2007-12-28T18:18:00.000-06:00

Eddie, Kevin and Briana take advantage of the piles of wet, fluffy snow that fell upon Burlington, Wis., Dec. 28, creating a snowman that ended up being nearly 10 feet high.

AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR TO YOU, TOO

2007-12-28T12:18:00.000-06:00

It just seems wrong that January starts the New Year. January is such a dark, cold, lackluster lump of 31 days after December’s frenetic holiday hoopla, and it seems the New Year should be set in a more pleasant season, like spring perhaps. If you think about it, spring is really a renewal of life, bringing sunshine, flowers, longer days and certainly more excitement than winter’s hibernation weather.

Years ago, I couldn’t wait to be old enough to stay up until midnight on New Year’s Eve, to enter that mysterious world of blowing horns, rattling pots and pans and shouting “Happy New Year!” with a world-wide chorus.

I must have been 10 or 11 when I finally crossed that bridge. That night I stayed up and watched Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. The big ball dropped on New York City and I jumped up and down, at one with all those people in Times Square – then realized it was only 11 p.m. in my time zone.

By midnight, my eyelids were heavy and my body slowly drooped into dreamland in the radiant glow of the TV, but I was determined. Finally, the local countdown began – and moments later it was midnight. I smiled, finally succumbing to sleep and thinking I should be feeling more excited but that I’d worry about that the next day.

High school was a bit more fun. My sister and I hosted several New Year’s Eve parties with our friends, under the strict eye of our mom who happily purchased sparkling grape juice and gallons of Mountain Dew for the event while informing us that there would be no alcohol whatsoever, and if kids didn’t like it they didn’t have to come.

Really, that was fine with us. We were all about getting together and hanging out and occasionally playing some rather ridiculous games of spin-the-bottle or other rather immature, junior-high types of activities. So, we were basically geeks. Didn’t matter. We had fun. And what better way to welcome the New Year than kissing some of your closest friends?

Enter adulthood. The first New Year’s my husband and I were together, we watched TV, ate Chinese takeout and split a bottle of Asti. Actually, we split it 70-20. Or maybe it was 80-30. I really don’t remember, since I was the genius who chugged rather than sipped, making me the consumer of the larger percentage of sparkling beverage, whatever that percentage may have been. I was snoring away long before the stroke of midnight.

We went out once, too, making reservations at one of our favorite nice restaurants early in the evening. We had no idea until we opened the menus that the prices were double the usual amounts – it might as well have been $1,000 for a relatively poor pair of very young newlyweds. We looked at each other, telepathically counting the dollar bills and spare change we had between us, ordered the least expensive things on the menu, drank water and went home. So much for the big celebration!

We haven’t gone to a restaurant on New Year’s Eve since.

Now we celebrate – if you call it that – by making a simple dinner at home or at my sister’s house, watching movies and getting to bed at a reasonable hour. It’s not glamorous, it’s not exciting, but I like it that way.

As far as resolutions go – I don’t do that, either. I’d rather breathe a sigh of relief as this year ends and hold my breath in anticipation of what the New Year will bring. I’m sure it will be a mixture of the good, the bad and everything in between.

I certainly don’t begrudge anyone a fabulous celebration on New Year’s Eve. My main hope is that those celebrating will be safe, that they will stay in one place as the champagne flows and the hours tick by. For others, my hope is that you will appreciate the experiences you gained during 2007 in preparation for all you’ll face in 2008.

Best wishes to you all – and happy New Year.

MAKING STRIDES: STUDENTS LEARN HOW EQUINE THERAPY HELPS THEIR CLASSMATES

2007-12-28T12:08:00.000-06:00

It’s not every day you see a horse in the school gym, but that’s exactly what greeted Fox River Middle School students last week.

The kids carefully walked past Del Rio, the large chestnut-colored Quarter horse, as they took their seats in the bleachers.

Del Rio eyeballed the students, bellowing an occasional complaint about the warm temperature. He was used to being outside, demonstrated by his almost fluffy-looking coat, and the heat made him a bit uncomfortable, explained Denise Murphy, director of operations for Willow Creek Ranch, Inc. Therapeutic Riding Center, a non-profit organization located in the Waterford/Burlington area.

Murphy and Willow Creek Ranch owner Jennifer Pape talked to students about how equine therapy helps children and adults with disabilities, including some of their classmates.

Pape introduced “Del” to the students while Murphy walked him around, keeping him busy during the presentation.

Willow Creek Ranch began its operations in June, she said. Pape works as a therapist at Lakeview Specialty Hospital in Waterford. “I have seen the progress people make during their therapies,” she said, adding that she wants to help people continue strengthening and stimulating their bodies even when the regular therapy is completed.

Willow Creek allows her to combine her therapy skills with her love for horses, she said.

Willow Creek is a member of the North American Riding for the Handicapped Association (NARHA), and Pape spent eight months training to become a certified instructor.

“It’s more than just putting a child on a horse,” she said.

Therapeutic riding helps children and adults with a variety of disabilities and conditions such as Attention Deficit Disorder, Autism, Traumatic Brain Injuries, Cerebral Palsy, Muscular Dystrophy and others. The games and activities riders do on a horse help them improve motor skills, self-esteem, concentration and problem-solving abilities.

The rhythmic movement of the horse stimulates the riders’ bodies, helping improve their muscle tone, strength, balance and head and trunk control.

“Sometimes we have the kids sitting on the horse backwards,” Pape said.

Two children who were non-verbal and autistic said their first words within three weeks of starting the program, giving their horses short verbal commands, Pape said.

That’s the miracle of therapeutic riding, and the foundation of Willow Creek’s motto, “Where life reins…miracles happen,” she said.

Therapeutic riding also has cognitive benefits, helping a rider develop his or her atten-tion, memory, spatial orientation and awareness of self and others.

“For some of the kids, it may be difficult to sequence things, to follow directions,” Pape said.

Behavioral benefits include decreased anxiety, depression, mood swings and impulsivity.

The program runs with numerous volunteers – often four to five for each rider, she said.

The riders aren’t the only ones to benefit from the program either, she said.

The volunteers are rewarded as well, being around the horses, being part of a team and developing relationships with each other and with the riders.

Pape introduced Fox River Middle School student Crystal Schmittinger, 13. Crystal has Cerebral Palsy and is wheelchair bound most of the time. She rides at the ranch every Saturday – Del is her assigned horse – and she clearly responds to him with a big smile and a “thumbs up.”

Crystal demonstrated therapeutic riding for her classmates with the help of Pape, Murphy, Chris Biondich – her mom, Andrea Kebbekus – her teacher, and fellow FRMS student and volunteer Katlyn Syrett.

Crystal was moved from her wheelchair to Del’s back, laying flat and facing his rear. With encouragement from those around her, she and Del set off around the gym. Pape explained that after awhile, Crystal’s tight muscles would start to relax.

She asked Crystal how it was going. Crystal responded with her subtle “thumbs up” once again.

Classes at Willow Creek are only held on Saturdays at this time, but Pape and Murphy hope to do more with the program on a full-time basis, once an indoor arena is built. They are currently using a donated facility for indoor classes.

There is a waiting list of 10 students for the program. Pape said they need more volunteers to help serve those students as well.

Volunteers are also needed for a variety of tasks from light stable duties to horse handling, fundraising, recruiting, website management, photography, event planning and more.

Willow Creek Ranch, Inc., located at 2623 Maple Road, Burlington, is a 501(c) 3 non-profit organization that relies on donations and scholarship funding and support from the community to keep the cost of lessons at a minimal fee. For more information on how to volunteer or donate, call (262) 534-7212, or visit www.willowcreekranch.org.

The ultimate gift: Injured veteran Jeremy Stengel returns home

2007-12-21T14:31:00.001-06:00

Interview and photo by Tedd Lupella

Written by: Christine Lupella

Jeremy’s arrival was a long time coming, but the timing was just right. After spending nearly a year in out-of-state hospitals and rehabilitation centers, Lance Corporal (LCPL) Jeremy Stengel, 22, came home to Waterford, Wis. on Dec. 8 – an early Christmas gift for the family and friends who visited him, stayed with him, and prayed for him.

Stengel, a Marine from the 2/3 Weapons Co. Map 1 Unit 44065, was on a mine sweep mission on Jan. 31 with several other soldiers in the Al Anbar Province in Iraq near Haditha, when their Humvee hit a roadside bomb. Two other soldiers who were in the Humvee died in the attack and Stengel was critically injured. The driver was also injured.

Stengel was flown to a hospital in Iraq, then to a hospital in Germany on Feb. 2. His family received word that he was on a ventilator and sedated. His injuries ranged from internal lacerations to a fractured lumbar – lower spine, extensive fractures to both legs, ankles and feet, and multiple wounds on his legs and heel.

Two days later, he was flown to Bethesda Naval Hospital in Washington D.C., where he would remain for a number of months undergoing multiple surgeries, experiencing fevers and infections, and slowly rehabilitating his body.

His parents, Greg and Gayle, took turns staying with him in the hospital, encouraging him on the bad days and celebrating the good. Other family members filled in at home in Waterford, caring for Jeremy’s younger siblings, Ethan and Jackie, or updating the Web site that kept friends, family and community members informed about Jeremy’s progress.

Ethan, 10, is especially delighted that Jeremy is home. The best part, he said, is “hanging out” with his older brother.

Their dad takes Jeremy to an area health club to work out.

“Things are coming along slowly,” Greg said of Jeremy’s progress.

Jeremy is still technically an active duty Marine, and still feels a special bond with his military family.

His platoon is back in the states for now, but will be de-ploying to Iraq again in January for another seven to nine months.

“I miss going out in the field with the guys, but it’s a nice break,” Jeremy said about being home in Waterford.

Both his family and his military family are Jeremy’s inspirations. Jeremy first became interested in serving when he saw the HBO Television series, “Band of Brothers.”

“Band of Brothers” is the story of Easy Company of the US Army 101st Airborne Di-vision and their mission in World War II.

Jeremy chose the Marines because “I had uncles and other family members that were in the Air Force and the Army, and I thought, why not the Marines? Then all the branches will be covered.”

Jeremy is not yet sure of his future plans. He knows he will be returning to Washington D.C. in early January for more therapy. He walks with a cane right now and hopes to continue building his strength.

“I’ll see how therapy goes,” he said. “The main thing is, I want to be able to do what I used to do.”

That includes golf and pickup games of basketball – and eventually, college.

Jeremy said people can help other soldiers by sending cards and letters and letting the soldiers know they are not forgotten. He received mail almost every day from his family, and he appreciated that, he said.

Stengel honored with Meritorious Service Medal

American Legion Post 20 of Waterford, Wis. presented Lance Corporal Jeremy Stengel of Waterford with a special award Dec. 17.

A welcome home and award ceremony was held in Stengel’s honor at St. Thomas Aquinas Catholic Church and school. A standing-room only crowd filled the school gymnasium to honor Stengel, who was injured while serving Iraq in January this year.

Legion Commander Jon McCourt presented Stengel with a Meritorious Service Medal and certificate. McCourt said this is the only American Legion award for active service members.

Stengel accepted the award and quietly said, “Everyone who prayed for me and my family, thank you for your support.”

Many hands make lights work: Volunteers string holiday spirit into area resident's light display

2007-11-30T20:11:00.000-06:00

The holiday season can be hard on those who have lost a loved one. Pam Wolff is no exception. Her husband and best friend, Bob, died suddenly from a stroke in September, and nothing has been the same.

As the holidays approached, Pam worried that the annual lighting extravaganza that was Bob’s passion had died with him as well.

“I wasn’t going to do it, but it’s just not Christmas without it,” Pam said.

Bob and Pam dedicated thousands of hours – and dollars as well – to illuminate their several-acre property on Apple Road in Waterford with tens of thousands of tiny, glittering lights.

This would have been their 14th year sponsoring the light show.

The couple used the opportunity to support something else near and dear to their collective heart – the animals at Lakeland Animal Shelter.

They placed barrels at the end of their driveway so people who stopped could contribute food and supplies to the Elkhorn, Wis.-based shelter, and encourage them to contribute to their local shelters like Countryside Humane Society in Racine, Wis., Pam said.

Bob and Pam adopted their three dogs and various cats from Lakeland years ago, and also served as foster parents for animals that needed a temporary abode.

The animals were Bob’s first love, Pam said – and that’s why he did what he did.

Bob started working on the lights each July, spending eight hours a day wrapping trees and getting things ready for the Christmas season.

“He worked for what he loved,” Pam said.

Alexandrea Dahlstrom, fundraising director and volunteer coordinator for Lakeland Animal Shelter, agreed.

“They’ve collected thousands and thousands of pounds of food for us,” Dahlstrom said. “It was just unbelievable.”

“They were the nicest, most selfless people ever,” she said. “I don’t think there’s an animal they wouldn’t open their home to.”

Dahlstrom said Bob was greatly missed, and in his honor, neighbors, friends, family and community mem-bers wanted to do something in honor of his memory.

Helping Pam with the lights was the best way to do that, she said.

So, on Nov. 25, dozens of people showed up at Pam’s house, ready to work.

“You would not have believed it. We even had a boom truck,” Pam said. “I couldn’t begin to name them.”

She said more than 30 people – maybe even more – carried boxes, climbed ladders, strung lights and set up inflatable characters.

They worked all day, she said. “Nobody stopped. They gave a tremendous gift of time and energy.”

“It looks amazing,” Pam said. “We used every single light I had left.”

“Talk about a Christmas miracle. This was absolutely it.”

She said she was amazed how well everyone learned how to do the lights – “after 14 years we (she and Bob) actually got pretty good at it,” Pam said.

The main thing: “Don’t forget to put the plug at the bottom,” she said, adding that the plugs were all in order when everyone was done.

Now, Pam is ready to flip the switch for at least this one last season. She plans to turn on the lights at dusk on Sunday, Dec. 2, and then each evening through the first week of January.

The barrels will be at the end of the driveway as they have been every year, waiting to be filled by the generous visitors who donate food, old blankets and towels, bleach and other supplies for the animal shelter.

Pam has her own gift for visitors who come on Saturday, Dec. 8 – Santa Claus will make a special visit to the site from 6 to 9 p.m.

Pam’s voice was filled with emotion as she said, “When I looked around yesterday and saw all those wonderful people – it’s a huge gift.

“Bobby has got to be looking down, and he’ll just grin. I know he will.”

IF YOU GO:
What: Christmas lights display
Where: Home of Pam Wolff, 23230 Apple Road (Highway K) about 4 miles east of Highway 36, Waterford, Wis.
When: Dusk to 9 p.m. weeknights; dusk to 10 p.m. weekends through the first week of January
Donations: Donations will be accepted for Lakeland Animal Shelter, Elkhorn. Look for barrels near the driveway.

Donations to be accepted for area animal shelter

Pam and the late Bob Wolff dedicate their Christmas light exhibit to the Lakeland Animal Shelter in Elkhorn, Wis., each year, providing barrels for donated pet supplies from the people who stop by to view their home.

“We try not to buy any supplies. We basically run off donations,” she explained. “It’s (the Wolff’s light show) a huge help as far as the stuff that we need.”

“They’ve collected thousands and thousands of pounds of food for us.”

Dahlstrom said the shelter takes in about 2,500 animals every year. That means 20 to 30 loads of laundry between the shelter and foster homes, as well as at least 250 meals served at the shelter – and that’s on a daily basis.

Currently, the shelter cares for 300 or more cats and 35 to 50 dogs at any given time, she said.

The number of animals brought to the shelter increases during the winter, Dahlstrom said. Many of them lived outside during the summer, but when the weather gets cold, people bring them in.

The shelter is located on Highway 67 three miles south of Elkhorn.
Suggested donation items include:
• canned cat or dog food (cans are easier to store and are rodent-proof)
• paper towels
• bleach
• clay cat litter
• kitten food
• dry cat food
• cat toys (washable toys last longer)
• dog toys
• old blankets and towels
• cleaning supplies including liquid laundry soap, dish soap, antibacterial hand soap and scotch brite scrub sponges
• six-inch putty knives
• inkjet photo paper
• Martingale-style collars
• anti-pull harnesses
• cat carriers of all sizes
• Supplies for ill, injured or orphaned cats, kittens or puppies, such as electric heating pads, hot water bottles, all-meat baby food (chicken, beef, or turkey, pureed), Authority or Wellness canned cat or kitten food, KMR or Mother’s Helper kitten formula, animal nursing kits, Esbilac puppy formula

For more information:
http://www.lakelandanimalshelter.org

Feeding Body and soul: Cafe owner Linda Orvis' cooking brings her customers home

2007-11-25T19:57:00.000-06:00

It’s the calm before the storm, a bubble of quiet in Linda Orvis’ busy Friday morning.

Most of the chairs around the U-shaped counter are empty, waiting for the next regular to come through the door.

Moments later, the door squeaks open and a man enters, grabbing up a section of the newspaper and finding his designated spot at what has become the community table.

“Hey, Lisle, how you doin’ buddy?” Linda calls from across the room. Vi, one of the servers, in a swift, practiced motion, deftly reaches beneath the counter for Lisle’s favorite cup and pours it full of steaming, aromatic coffee.

Everyone seems to know everyone else, Linda says. “It’s the ‘Cheers’ of cafes.”

Some of the customers have certain chairs, she says – like 93-year-old Edna Federmeyer – a sweet lady, one of her best customers, “but God help you if you sit in her chair!” Linda laughs.

Linda does most of the cooking at the little café that sits near the crossroads of Fox River Road (Highway W) and Highway C in Wilmot.

That’s the way she likes it. Linda bought the café a little more than three years ago – but she’s been in the restaurant business since she was 12 years old.

The café schedule took some getting used to. “For 30-some years I was going to bed when I’m getting up now. That was a real challenge for me,” she says.

“I cook every day but Friday morning, and I have Thursday off,” Linda says.

She makes all the soups and the specials, as well as the baked goods displayed under glass domes in “Linda’s Little Bakery.”

A peek at the assortment reveals cookies, brownies, cupcakes, muffins, and slices of the pie of the day – today, it is pumpkin chiffon.

A faded hand-lettered sign lists the prices, and taped to each shelf below the goods is a card that identifies whether the cookies are oatmeal or chocolate chip or some other delectable combination of ingredients.

The sign and labels aren’t necessary, since it seems everyone coming in knows exactly what he or she wants.

With all that cooking and baking to be done, Linda starts her day early – arriving at 3:30 a.m. so the doors can open at 5 a.m.

That’s when the first group of regulars shuffles in, sipping coffee and commenting on the latest news before heading to work.

Some of them look for their favorite cups or dishes. Linda says she opened the café on a shoestring budget. “It’s all done in early Salvation Army,” she laughs.

The café seats 72 people, but there were only 30-some cups when she bought the place, she says.

She picked up assorted cups and plates at the Salvation Army or other resale shops. Then her customers got in on it.

“They bring me all their old cups and old plates,” she says, noting that many of her customers will scan the room, looking for a table set with their old dishes.

“They love it,” she says.

Some of the local Wilmot businesses help her decorate as well, hanging pictures on the walls and scattering an assortment of decorative items throughout the café. Just about everything is for sale. It’s a way the local businesses support each other, Linda says.

Near the counter, a bulletin board displays newspaper clippings featuring stories about customers, the café, or Wilmot in general.

A framed poem also hangs on the wall – one that dairy farmer and customer Ray Stoxen penned in the café’s honor. It reads, in part:

“In the heart of Wilmot,
On Gravel Truck Alley,
You’ll find Linda’s Café,
With her running the galley…”

A window between the kitchen and the café counter allows Linda to see everyone while she cooks in the kitchen, quickly turning eggs, flipping pancakes, making toast while she makes sure the soup is on for the lunchtime crowd.

“I’ve always liked to cook,” Linda says. She collects cookbooks and clips recipes from magazines – many that she never uses, she laughs.

She doesn’t experiment too much with her menu, because her customers have certain favorites.

“They like the old fashioned meat loaf and pot roast,” she says. The specials, however, often change based on the season – especially because so many of her customers are farmers and gardeners.

“In the fall I get a lot of stuff from them,” she says. An abundance of any particular vegetable usually finds its way into the special of the day, especially when it comes to soups.

However, there are no specials on weekends, she says. The café is extremely busy on Saturday especially, with families lining up outside for their turns to come inside and fill their bodies and souls with Linda’s cooking.

Sunday is a breakfast-only day – no lunch items are served, she says.

Then there is Monday.

Monday is apple fritter day. That can’t change, Linda says, because “people just love them.”

Fritter day actually happened by accident. “I forgot to order bread one Sunday.” She needed some sort of toast substitute – and after a frantic search through every ingredient she had, batter-coated and deep fried apples dipped in cinnamon and sugar, did the trick.

“Then we just made Monday apple fritter day,” she says.

One of Linda’s specialties is a German apple pancake that takes about 40 minutes to cook – but is well worth the wait.

The pancake isn’t really a pancake at all, but a sort of apple pie-crisp-cake-pancake rolled into one.

It fills a large dinner plate, and can easily feed two or three people. Linda makes homemade “top secret” apple syrup to drizzle over the top. The syrup is a bright red concoction that adds amazing flavor to the cinnamon-enhanced pancake.

Between the customers and the cooking, Linda loves what she does.

“We have a lot of fun. It’s a lot of work, but we have a lot of fun,” she says.

“It’s very self-satisfying at the end of the day…I really enjoy my customers.

“It’s like having company every day,” she says.

“I always wanted to do it (have a café) all my life. I did it, so now I can die happy.”

This article originally appeared in the Winter 2007/08 edition of Panache Magazine, published by Southern Lakes Newspapers.

Why is it hard to be thankful when we have so much?

2007-11-22T11:47:00.000-06:00

It’s hard to be thankful. Here it is, Thanksgiving again – probably the most ignored holiday in America because of its proximity between Halloween and Christmas.

Sure, we all run to the store to buy turkey and the fixings several days before, looking for the best deals, wondering if we will have enough food to fill everyone’s bellies if we’re hosting, wondering if we’re bringing enough pie or cookies or green bean casserole or buttered rolls if we’re the guests.

We’ll sit at the table and stuff ourselves, then plan for a shopping binge that will start early the next morning and won’t stop until we’ve wrapped the last gift – most likely on Christmas Eve.

Whew. It makes me exhausted to think about it – and I haven’t cooked Thanksgiving dinner yet.

We seem to have fallen into the trap of getting, of having, of striving for more, for the biggest, the best, the latest, the coolest, leaving a wake of dis-carded wealth behind.

I’m sure we’ve all heard the “be thankful” lecture. We nod our heads in agreement – yes, we should be thankful, we should be thankful every day. Now, can you please pass the salt?

I’d like to blame our culture for the lack of grateful attitude, but our culture is simply a reflection of who we are as a combined group of people. So really, the only thing I can change is – myself.

Why is it so hard to be thankful?

We’re under a constant barrage of commercialism, whether we’re surfing the Internet, watching TV, reading magazines or even hanging out at the local park where sponsors’ signs hang from the fence around the baseball field.

I often think I’m filtering out those messages. Then I find myself compelled to change this, to buy that, to redo something else (OK, so I watch too much HGTV, much to my husband’s dismay.)

I look at my very full closet and think I have nothing to wear. I mean, what is the high limit on how many shoes a person should own?

Oh, and my kids need those cool gadgets, combinations of phones, music players, organizational tools and who knows what else. (I’d be sold 100 percent if the gadget would guarantee a clean room as well.)

Are 500 CDs really enough? I might be missing something in the music department – even if I could play all of my music for a month straight without hearing the same song twice.

Is my hair shiny enough? Colored enough? Do my glasses look cool or boring or worse – outdated?

And if only we had enough money for that Tuscan vacation we’ve talked about for years. Sure, camping in the Dells is fun, but there’s so much more to life – isn’t there?

By becoming collectors of stuff, of experiences, we end up focused on what we think will make us happy in the future – if we just had that one more thing, finished the basement, had better clothes, or whatever.

We need to stop, take a deep breath and smell the coffee, roses, chocolate, or whatever it takes to settle us down.

Then, instead of thinking about what we have to do in order to get the next thing, we will be still long enough to start appreciating what we have, who we are, and most important – the people around us.

Spend a few moments enjoying a child’s giggle, a spouse’s touch, a co-worker’s kind words.

Enjoy memories of parents, grandparents and others who may have died, but who live on in the hearts and minds of the people who loved them.

This life is so short compared to eternity. I want to spend the time I have being thankful for family, for friends, for the world God created.

Because when I’m gone, I don’t want people to remember me for the stuff I had, for the clothes I wore or for anything that doesn’t last.

I want to be remembered for making the world a better place by having a thankful heart, for passing a gracious attitude down to my children, to their children, to their children’s children and so on.

Thank you for reading, thank you for caring enough about your communities to keep up with what’s going on, for taking time to write letters, for volunteering and doing all the things you do to make the world a better place as well.

I hope all of your Thanksgiving celebrations were joyful occasions, that your favorite teams won, and that we’ll all focus on having grateful hearts as we head into the holiday season.

So, what can you do in three minutes?

2007-11-09T11:43:00.000-06:00

Three minutes. It’s a small amount of time compared to the 1,440 minutes in a day, the 2,400 minutes in an average five-day workweek, or the 525,600 minutes in an entire year (leap year excluded), or the 39,420,000 minutes in a 75-year-old’s lifetime.

Really, what can you do in three minutes? A slightly-more-than-three-minute search on the Internet revealed some of these three-minute activities:
• Watch all the commercials during a TV commercial break

• Brush your teeth (a minute for taking the brush out and putting it away, plus two minutes of brushing)

• Reheat leftovers for lunch or dinner

• Read headlines in the newspaper

• Get a drink at Starbucks (once you get to the front of the line)

• Learn the harmonica – although this only works if you do this for three minutes a day

• Watch an online video

• Audition for “American Idol” (although it seems some of the really bad auditions fall short of the three-minute rule)

• Collect and take out the garbage

• Clean the cat box

None of these are life-changing events or activities. Three minutes is obviously a rather benign amount of time.

With that in mind, why do we drive our cars at speeds that ultimately save us enough time to brush our teeth?

The average open-road speed limit is 55 m.p.h., yet I would guess most people drive closer to 65 m.p.h.

And guess what – during a 20-mile trip, that extra 10 m.p.h. gets you there a whopping three minutes faster.

In my experience, setting the cruise control at the speed limit creates a sense of calm and control I don’t have if I’m trying to keep up with the rest of the racers on the road.

Do they pass me? Yep. But I often meet the passers at the next stoplight. They may get to their destination three minutes sooner than I will, but they’ll be more stressed out, they will have offended more people and potentially injured themselves and others.

All for the sake of three minutes. So, maybe they cleaned the cat box one more time than I did. Maybe their teeth are cleaner. Maybe they got to watch 12 commercials, or be insulted by Simon Cowell. Or get a jump-start on learning the harmonica.

That’s OK. I’d rather drive the speed limit, not have to worry about the cop parked on the side of the road, take time to enjoy the ride and do my best to make sure that it’s not my last.

Veterans supporting veterans: VFW calendar raises money for veteran, community projects

2007-11-02T12:52:00.000-05:00

Veterans helping veterans is what it’s all about.

Ask Tony Fischer.

Fischer is the commander of VFW Post 8343 of Waterford, Wis. A Vietnam veteran himself, Fischer’s passion is to show his fellow vets respect and give them the support they need and deserve, he says.

Fischer helped start the VFW’s annual calendar project six years ago. In the past, the calendars featured pictorial histories of the armed forces.

Money raised through sale of the calendars – and the coinciding raffle – goes toward veteran-related projects and activities.

The 2008 calendar is a little different, a little special, Fischer says.

This one is “dedicated to all the men and women who served in the 440th,” he says.

The 440th Airlift Wing was based out of Milwaukee from 1953 until late last year.

“We served all over the world in every front, every conflict,” Fischer explains.

“They moved massive machinery,” he continues. “Whenever they were called to duty, they went.”

The 2008 calendar features photos of the 440th from beginning until its move to Pope Air Force Base in North Carolina last year.

Fischer says the Post chose the 440th “because it was such an integral part of this community.”

Many local residents and veterans serve or served in the 440th, he says.

One thousand calendars are printed each year, Fischer says. Calendars cost $15 – or are free with a $100 donation that enters the owner in a daily drawing for $100, and three drawings for $1,000 each. Drawings are held throughout the year.

It’s all about the veterans, he says. The money raised through the calendar and raffle is used for the VFW’s Take a Veteran Fishing Day in Wind Lake, for Christmas parties at Zablocki Center in Milwaukee and Southern Wisconsin Center in Union Grove, for chartering the local Boy Scout troop, for flag disposal ceremonies, local Easter egg hunts, veterans’ family picnics and more.

“We do a lot of things here, small and large,” he says.

Recently, the VFW changed its name to honor the late Captain Rhett Schiller, a Waterford native who died in a firefight in Iraq last year.

Post 8343 is now Schiller-Kulchar-Fohr Post.

“I’m really honored that I can be part of this,” Fischer says.

Fischer, who was a boiler technician on a Navy destroyer during Vietnam, says he did not always understand how much one person relies on another in the military.

“It took me a lot of years to realize how important we were,” he says. While he was working deep below the deck, the ship was picking up downed fliers and was one of the first to fuel helicopters in flight.

He wants all veterans to realize how important they are to their units, and to the country as well.

The VFW – as well as other local military service organizations – meets at The Bunker, a military-themed bar at 29224 Evergreen Drive, Waterford.

There, veterans are surrounded by familiar camoflage and an assortment of military artifacts – including a tank, jet, helicopter, watchtower and other equipment.

The Bunker has museum status for some of the equipment, Fischer says. It’s nationally-known, and is often a stopping-off place for veterans who visit southeastern Wisconsin.

Those interested in purchasing a calendar or participating in the raffle can do so by stopping in at The Bunker, or by calling Fischer at (414) 507-2537

AUTUMN GRASSES

2007-09-22T09:09:00.000-05:00

Autumn grasses glow in a September sunset, in the St. Benedict Church garden, Fontana, Wis.

ART ON WHEELS: Father-son team adds aesthetic touches to motorcycles, more

2007-09-14T08:51:00.000-05:00

The bike revs, its sparkling paint reflecting blinding bursts of sunlight back at the viewer – highlighted by a passionate portrayal of an eagle soaring, weightless, above the earth.

The design is a testament to the owner’s personality, a melding of art and mechanics. And it’s just one of hundreds created by Jeff Smikowski, owner of T.S. Customs, a Wa-terford-based painting business geared toward motorcycles, hot rods, signs and more.

Jeff’s love for art took root when he was 7 or 8 years old, when he developed a passion for drawing and cartooning.

By the time he was a teen-ager attending Boys Tech in Milwaukee – now known as the Lynde and Harry Bradley Technology and Trade School – he transferred his art skills to wheeled objects.

At 16, he applied pinstripes and lettering to his own car, then started working on his buddy’s cars, lockers, motorcycles – anything made of metal that could be painted, striped, and cooled-out.

Jeff eventually opened his own shop in Milwaukee – TS Customs, painting motorcycles, signs, hot rods and more.

He moved to Waterford, Wis., with his family in 1979, and then closed the Milwaukee shop two years later in favor of working in the garage he converted to a new shop, right next to his home.

His son, Adam – a Waterford Union High School graduate – works with him as well. It’s something Adam has been doing on and off since he was about 10 years old. Adam does metal fabrication, the basic painting and clear coats, and the bodywork.

“I try to get everything ready for him (to customize), then he gives it back to me to finish out in the shop,” Adam said.

The father-and-son team attends an average of two rallies each month during the summer, visiting with motorcycle and car enthusiasts and displaying and demonstrating their work.

That’s been one of their best sources of business, Jeff said. T.S. Customs also gets referrals from Milwaukee-area Harley Davidson dealers.

“It’s a lot of fun being at the events,” Jeff said. “It’s amazing how many people are into the motorcycle scene.”

Adam said, “A lot of people like that we’re there and they can talk to us face to face.”

Last year, T.S. Customs was hired to paint a Buell STT motorcycle with a Spiderman theme. The bike was part of a national giveaway promotion sponsored by Burger King in conjunction with the release of the movie, “Spiderman III.”

More recently, Jeff and Adam provided custom graphics on the Special Edition 2008 “Rock Girl” Harley Nightster for local FM radio station 102.9, the HOG. The bike will be awarded to one winner in a random drawing later this year.

One of the team’s most challenging projects was a “Heroes” themed Road King, done in 2003.

The bike featured detailed murals depicting Iwo Jima, firemen during 9/11, and the Korean War and Vietnam War Veterans memorials.

The twin towers of the World Trade Center were painted on the helmet.

The owner has shown the bike all over the country, Jeff said, and “won a gazillion awards with it.”

One of Jeff’s favorite projects is Adam’s motorcycle, which features diamond plate painting and detailed skull graphics around the tail and signal lights.

Painting projects can take two or three weeks, or as much as four months.

“It depends on the complexity of the job,” Jeff said.

Whether the job is simple or complex, both Jeff and Adam enjoy the work – and they enjoy working together.

“We’re friends. Not a lot of people can say that about their kids,” Jeff said.

They both like the people part of the job as well.

“We spend a lot of time with our customers, because it’s their baby, it’s their toy (we’re working on),” Jeff said.

Customers often have their helmets and leather jackets painted to match their bikes.

“The joy in this whole thing is the customer’s response,” he said.

T.S. Customs also makes custom signs – Jeff said he offers a discount to local non-profit organizations – along with customizing bikes, hot rods, jet skis, and more, with everything from pinstripes to flames, to complex murals, to gold and silver leaf.

“Anything that will stand still long enough, we’ll paint it,” he said.

The best part: “It’s rare in this day and age that you can say, ‘Man, I love doing my job,’” Jeff said.

For more information
T.S. Customs
(262) 534-5927
www.tscustoms.com

FRIENDSHIP FOREVER - August 10, 2007

2007-08-12T13:28:00.000-05:00

Friendship seems to be a recurring theme in my life this week. It started when I scanned the back section of a recent magazine and spotted an article on friendships and why they are important as we age.

Not that I think of myself as aged – this story was about a woman in her 60s who had an assortment of younger friends (translation: my age or a bit younger) and how she never expected them to have as much in common as they do.

I thought about the friends I’ve had throughout my life, especially those in childhood. When I was in fourth grade, my very best friend, Colette, was two years older – practically in junior high – but we still hung out together from morning until night, all summer long.

We loved the same books, the same music, were in the same Girl Scout troop, loved to write, and best of all, lived right across the street from each other.

I think I first really understood friendship one blazing hot afternoon when we sat in her room, reading Seventeen and ‘Teen magazines without saying a word to each other.

The window air conditioner hummed, and the sun cast in-teresting shadows as it glittered through the leaves outside onto Colette’s lavendar walls.

“This is what best friends means,” she said.

“What?” I unstuck myself from the vinyl beanbag chair to settle into a cooler spot.

“We don’t actually have to talk to each other. We can just read and be together and that’s being friends,” she said, turning back to her magazine.

I pondered her words, and then went back to dreaming of the back-to-school wardrobe that would never be mine. I went to a parochial school; the only excitement in my clothing would be stripes in my socks – as long as the socks and stripes were the required blue, black or white.

I lost track of Colette – I moved, we both got older and once she was in high school, our ages made a difference.

A few years later, I met my core group of high school friends in Miss Mary Mulligan’s Accelerated Freshman English class.

I realize it seems like a good idea to group students by ability – we had all mastered the basics of English and reading and were ready to for a challenge.

Unfortunately, we spent most of our time bonding together and challenging Miss Mulligan. It was great fun, coming up with creative pranks that we pulled off with straight faces, never indicating who the instigator was since it was a true group effort.

My friend, Deanna, and I met in that class and became inseparable. She was incredibly outgoing and I was slightly more reserved – until we got to know each other, which didn’t take long. We spent our days in class laugh-ing and talking and laughing more – mostly about whichever cute guy passed us in the hallway. Then we’d call each other as soon as we got home and tie up the phone lines until our frustrated parents kicked us off.

We went shopping together, lamented heartbreaks together, and planned to be friends forever.

Once again, I moved to another town. Thanks to our drivers licenses and really nice parents who let us use their cars, we remained friends through high school.

College, marriages, and a few thousand miles separated us over the years. She’s always been great about sending Christmas cards, so I keep up with her life out East. And once we found each others’ e-mail addresses, we were good to go with a quick note.

My first “married friend” was Sandy. I met her about a month after my husband and I were married. We had so much in common – with the exception of little kids at the time. My husband and I spent hours talking with Sandy and her husband late, late into the night – even when we had to get up for work the next day.

They moved away, then we moved away – and the lapse between our conversations went from months to a couple of years. Still, whenever we get together, it’s like time stood still for us. The only telltale sign is our graying or lack of hair, a few extra pounds, and the fact that our kids are all adults.

I’ve had so many friends throughout my life – my sisters, and of course, my husband, the best friend of all. He and I like to quote a favorite movie to describe our relationship – like Colette and I did so many years ago, we can “talk or not talk” for hours, just resting in each others’ presence.

No matter how old we are, no matter who we are or what we do, we need that connection to another human being – the bond that makes us feel accepted, that drives us forward, that makes life livable.

Everyone needs friends.

BABY, OH BABY

2007-06-05T07:08:00.000-05:00

My favorite 15-month-old waits for "Pop" to peek into the window.

ANGEL SPLASH

2007-06-04T22:44:00.000-05:00

A Riviera Fountain cherub is washed in the sunset's glow in Lake Geneva June 2.

LIVING TO SEE ANOTHER DAY: It's not as hard with mom at your side

2007-05-10T19:29:00.000-05:00

On the scale of motherhood, I find myself sandwiched in the center of the continuum – a bit like the strawberries and cream in the middle of a giant layer cake.

We all have certain images that come to mind when we think of motherhood. Mine seem to be a crazy, mixed-up blend of my childhood and my kids’ childhoods, with a sprinkling of my young granddaughter’s childhood on top.

Sometimes I’m not sure where one ends and the other begins.

My own mom is ageless, at least in my heart. (I suspect she would argue this point, but only a little.) Her eyes, her smile sparkle when I walk through her door, just as they did when I was a kid coming home from school.

“How was your day?” she’d ask as I dropped my books on the floor and plopped onto a chair.

Maybe it was a great day. Maybe it was horrible. It didn’t matter. I was home and knew it was the place where someone cared about me.

I remember how many times I burst through the door, howling with pain because I’d skinned my knee yet again after falling off my bike.

I’d receive a formal escort to the bathroom, where I’d sit on the edge of the tub or toilet, continuing my wails while Mom picked out the gravel, sand and dirt, scrubbed my knee, sprayed on Bactine and applied a bandage.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped crying. She dried my tears and told me I’d live to see another day. Then we’d go into the kitchen and she’d make me a cup of tea or pour me a glass of milk.

And I lived to see another day.

Several years later, I came into the house, howling because my boyfriend broke up with me a week or so before prom and I smashed her car – all in the same evening.

I thought I’d die, mostly because of the car. The boyfriend – oh, well. Deep down I knew he was a jerk, anyway.

Her first question to me was whether I was OK. She didn’t yell about the car. She didn’t agree with me that the boyfriend was a jerk – just in case we ever got back together (we didn’t).

She patched up my heart and told me I’d live to see another day.

And I lived to see another day.

Fast forward almost two decades, and I learned how she must have felt when I told her about my car when my own daughter smashed up my car during a torrential down-pour – all of three days after she got her license.

My first question was, “Are you OK?” She was convinced she’d die because she totaled my car.

She was OK – just some bumps and bruises and a tremendous amount of guilt, because her brothers were in the car, too.

Her dad and I patched up her heart, and told her she’d live to see another day.

And she did.

Now my daughter is in her second year of motherhood. She loves her own daughter to pieces – and when Ella falls down, her mommy is there to patch her up, give her a hug and let her know she’ll live to see another day.

It seems most of us do with the help of our moms, from one generation to another, to another.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Toys of Joy: What Do Our Perennial Favorites Say About Who We Are?

2007-04-27T15:43:00.000-05:00

I wonder how often the toys we most remember from our childhoods set the groundwork for who we would become as adults.

Of course, it could be that we were fortunate to have parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles or other people in our lives, who recognized our raw talents and set out to encourage them through our play.

I had my share of Barbies – my sisters and I amassed a large assortment of the blond, Stepford-looking dolls with their fabulous wardrobes and inevitably missing shoes.

While Barbie, Skipper, the token Ken (who had his choice of an entire harem of female companions) and one random friend named Kristie, provided hours of fun – they did not fuel my soul the way some other toys did.

My favorite – or, at least, most desired – toys definitely leaned toward the artistic.

I was fascinated by the Spirograph – a series of oval and round plastic shapes, hollow in the middle, that you pinned to paper on top of cardboard. Then you used another wheel, poked the magical colored pen through one of a billion different holes, and let the wheel run around or inside the oval, creating endless patterns.

It was pretty darn cool. I’m pretty sure it was a coveted birthday or Christmas gift – although it may have belonged to my sister. I don’t remember.

The Etch A Sketch never failed to delight me, no matter how old I was. I played with it as a kid, I played with it as a teenager, and I played with the one I bought my kids – and ignored my husband’s comment, “Who did you buy that for?”

The day I figured out how to turn the right and left knobs simultaneously to make curved lines opened new etching – or would it be sketching? – opened new doors. Now I could write my name. I could make people with round, rather than square, heads.

I could even color in my circles, and then turn the thing upside down to erase everything and start over again.

Again – it was pretty darn cool.

Crayons were also a source of joy and delight. When I was a little older (nine or 10), I would sit at a table, a burning candle next to me. After carefully peeling the paper off a particular color, I would place the end in the candle just long enough to soften it, and then smear a blob of melted crayon onto my paper. It was my first foray into mosaic, or pointillism, or some such thing.

And it was very, very cool.

Books were my friends, too. I remember, in particular, receiving a copy of “Charlotte’s Web” when I was in second grade. I don’t remember the occasion – it was a hardbound edition, and most of the books I owned were paperbacks. I still have the book. It sits on my shelf at home, and, on occasion, I hear Wilbur and Charlotte and Templeton and Fern calling out my name, wanting just one more visit. Of course, I oblige, turning the pages with reverence as I did 35 or more years ago.

I also have a battered copy of “James and the Giant Peach.” James was my savior the summer I was 10. I had chickenpox and was stuck inside for two or three weeks, dotted with Calamine lotion and sneaking scratches when my mom or grandma weren’t looking.

Probably my favorite toy, if that’s what you’d call it – was the box of art and writing materials my parents gave me for my birthday one year. I think I was seven or eight, and it may have been a short time after I announced I would be an artist when I grew up. Or, I would write books. Or, I would do both.

The box was made of card-board, and had a handle. I remember unwrapping it, then prying it open to reveal an assortment of wrapped items.

Further paper-peeling revealed artists’ brushes, watercolors, a sketch pad, charcoal and colored pencils, a gum eraser, composition paper – the kind kids use when they first learn to write, with the solid blue lines at the top and broken blue line in the center, and, I’m sure, a few other items I don’t remember.

It was the best thing ever. I loved it because all those things held the promise of hours and hours of being lost in my own world, of writing and illustrating my own stories, of losing myself in my own little creative world.

Looking back, I think I loved it because it was my parents’ acknowledgment of who I was, of where I was going – a celebration of me.

There really is no greater gift than that.

What are some of your favorite toys or gifts from childhood – and why do you think they are your favorites? I’d like to include them in a future column. Write to me at 700 N. Pine St., Burlington, Wis., 53105; or email clupella@southernlakesnewspapers.com

COPYRIGHT 2007 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

Stroke of genius: Color, contrast, faith and family merge in Frank Korb’s paintings

2007-04-16T22:12:00.000-05:00

Faith.

Family.

Friends.

Add strokes of contrasting colors and blend the soul of the artist with the soul of his subject until the two merge on an oversized canvas.

Then you have the portrait art of artist Frank Korb. Korb is a Burlington, Wis., resident and Waterford Union High School art teacher.

Korb opened a show April 12 at the River Arts Center, 105 Ninth St., Prairie du Sac. A number of portraits, and a selection of preliminary sketches and color studies, will be on display through April 28.

Korb’s foray into his signature portrait art – one of his biggest challenges – started about seven years ago.

“I always remember portraiture as being very difficult,” Korb said.

“Faces are hard. But that’s what I paint.”

He took on the challenge, anyway, sketching the concept for a large-scale portrait.

Unsure of which direction to go, he let the project sit for an entire summer.

Then, inspired by the works of Chuck Close and Alex Katz, Korb started playing with colors and techniques, using the large canvas, bright colors and broken-up shapes reminiscent of the 1960s pop-art movement.

Korb’s style, at the time, was looser than his more recent works – “the shapes were not real well-defined,” he said.

Now, he said, his portraits tend to be “very fussy,” using specific shapes to create the whole image.

“I think the final picture is very full of depth and form, but it’s broken up by these very definite shapes,” Korb said.

“It’s fun to see things evolve like this.”

Korb spends a lot of time on preparation before paint ever touches the canvas.

A piece starts with a photo of a particular subject. To date, almost all of Korb’s subjects have been family members or friends.

“I think the fact that I know the people makes the paintings better,” he said.

He likes to make his own photos, because doing so gives him more control of the finished piece.

He prefers catching his subjects in candid moments that reveal their personalities and expressions.

He makes 20 to 30 photos, then sorts through them until he finds a favorite.

Next, he creates a detailed sketch of the image; then he traces that image on thin paper, creating the shapes that will form the final painted work.

Korb sometimes uses colored pencils to fill in the shapes and get a sense of how the finished painting will look.

He puts the tracing in a machine that projects a giant-sized image onto a prepared canvas, and then sketches the shapes that will be filled with paints.

Oils are Korb’s medium of choice, although he has used acrylics. “I like the smoothness, the creaminess (of oils),” he said.

Most people look at the portraits and assume they are acrylics, because the colors are so flat, he said. He mixes his paint colors on a palette before they touch the canvas, whereas many artists mix oils right on the canvas.

The River Arts show features a video of Korb’s start-to-finish progress on a paint-ing, to better demonstrate the work behind the work.

Korb said that is the teacher part of him coming through – he takes every opportunity he can to educate people about art.

FAITH IS THE CORE OF ABSTRACT WORKS

Korb also makes abstract art, using familiar shapes and forms to help people understand complex concepts like faith, life and death.

“A lot of the abstract work that I started with…was a reflection of my faith,” he said.

“I started with the Bible as a source to build things on,” he said.

He used Bible pages as the base for a number of paintings, as well as for “Trinity,” a mixed-media series.

The viewer can’t necessarily read the pages, since he generally paints over them.

“But I’ve continued to use the Bible as a ground,” he said.

The abstract works are a way of “trying to share my beliefs, (though) I certainly don’t want to shove anything down anyone’s throat,” he said.

He uses circles, squares and house-shapes throughout the works as well.

“These are things that we see (in art) through history. All cultures have circles, have a house,” he said. “They’re recognizable shapes.”

He specifically uses the familiar to illustrate the abstract, hoping to give the viewer a key to understanding a piece.

Korb’s daughter, Abby, 8, provided a bit of input on his abstract art.

One particular piece hangs in the Korb family kitchen.

“I drew the circles when I was little. I can draw circles better than that now,” Abby said, pointing to the fluid oval shapes she drew at age 5. Her contribution creates an interesting contrast to the angular grid in the painting.

Abby has her own space in Korb’s basement art studio as well, where her cheerful, smaller-scale drawings and paintings commingle with her dad’s on softly sunlit walls.

The painting pair recently worked together at the Art Bar in Milwaukee, where an artist or artists work for six to eight hours on any given Sunday, painting a giant canvas. The Art Bar displays the painting until the next artist paints over it the following week.

Korb said he uses the same concept for his WUHS art students. A canvas hangs outside his classroom door. A student has a week to paint the canvas in his or her free time. The painting is displayed for a week – then the next student artist takes over.

It gives other students the opportunity to see what goes into making a painting, Korb said.

“I think involvement in or at least appreciation of the arts makes for a more well-rounded person,” Korb said.

Korb said he teaches his students that hard work and perseverance are the keys to success – and it helps that he is a working painter.

“I think for myself it’s equally important – or maybe more important – that I am a painter who teaches.”

He upped the ante a bit last June, challenging himself to make one painting a day for an entire year.

The fruit of his nearly year-long effort will be displayed at the Daily Brew in Burlington in May.

“I paint every day,” he said. “It’s a commitment and practice and (I) just have to do it.”

“There are days I don’t want to paint,” he said.

“So often people want the muse to come to them, to come inspire them. You have to just do it.

“That’s the frustrating thing for my students,” he said.

Korb wouldn’t have it any other way. “I love what I do,” he said. “I’ve got a family that loves and supports me. I grew up with parents who supported everything we did.”

“I am blessed.”

TEXT AND PHOTOS COPYRIGHT 2007 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION. ARTWORK COPYRIGHT BY FRANK KORB.

To see more of Frank Korb's artwork, visit
http://www.frankkorb.com

40 Years later: Classmates still remember friend who died in Vietnam War

2007-03-09T11:09:00.000-06:00

After 40 years, his face, his voice, his presence are still with Waterford Union High School classmates Joni Pemper Beck and Lisa Sabatino Terrazzino.

“Doug and I grew up together. We lived five houses away,” Terrazzino said.

Beck said he was like a big brother to her – teasing one minute, treating her with utmost respect the next.

“He would make you laugh,” Beck said. “He was always there for you.”

Their classmate, Douglas Lee Kramer, was killed in action on March 6, 1967, near Da Nang, Vietnam, exactly one year after he was drafted into the U.S. Marine Corps.

He was buried in Waterford, Wis., and recently, the WUHS Class of 1964 purchased a memorial brick for him, which was placed in the Veterans Memorial on Hwy. 83/20.

Beck remembers one time in study hall, when Doug asked her if she had watched The Beatles the night before.

“I said, ‘I don’t do bugs!’” Beck laughed. She later learned he was talking about a musical group – not bugs.

“All through our school years together I always had a crush on Doug,” Terrazzino said, “something I don’t think he ever knew.”

“As we grew older, things settled down. We didn’t date,” Terazzino said. “After graduation, we went our separate ways. I got a job on Milwaukee’s south side and moved to an apartment downtown. We lost touch but I never forgot the boy with the red hair.”

“In September of 1966, Doug was turning 20 and I wanted to wish him a happy birthday. I called his parents’ home and was told he had joined the Marines and was stationed at Camp Le Jeune, North Carolina,” Terrazzino said.

She got his address and wrote to wish him a happy birthday. The following month, he was home on leave and came to a party she and her roommate were having.

“I couldn’t get over Doug’s transformation,” Terrazzino said. “Growing up we had always been the same height, but here he was, all six feet of him in his Marine dress uniform, looking absolutely honored to be a part of ‘the few, the proud.’”

“Doug told me that being in the Marines was a life-changing thing for him. He learned that all people are the same – no matter what color or nationality.

“He was being shipped to Vietnam in a few months and was afraid. But his duty, as he saw it, was more important.

“When he got ready to leave, he kissed me good-bye and headed down the apartment steps. Something in my gut told me I’d never see him again – alive, anyway,” Terrazzino said.

Months later, Terrazzino said she went to work as usual.

“On my morning break, I felt the need to write a poem about men dying in the war,” she said.

She wrote this poem:

Some men risk their lives each day, defending the country that they’re made of
While others, safe at home, expound, man should not make war, but love
Commitments made must be upheld, but still the cause of war goes deeper
Helping those who need our help, for are we not our brother’s keeper?
We’ve been told, “Thou shalt not kill,” to forgive the number 70 times seven
But God’s endowed this coun-try so, to fail in this love would be unforgiven.

She wrote the poem on March 6, 1967.

Two days later, she was told that Doug had been killed in Vietnam – the same day she had written the poem.

It took some time for Doug’s body to be shipped back to the United States for burial. His wake and funeral took place on March 18, 1967.

“I attended the wake at Mealy’s in Waterford and went to the cemetery for the burial,” Terrazzino said.

“I stood numb watching the ceremony but still not comprehending. Death is so final,” she said.

Later the same day, she wrote another poem. One of the lines – “War is never close to you until it takes someone you knew,” is engraved on the memorial brick placed by Doug’s classmates in the Waterford Veterans Memorial.

We buried my lifelong friend today, he died alone, so far away
His soul has gone to be with God, his earthly self beneath the sod
War is never close to you until it takes someone you knew
How many more will have to fight until we turn this wrong to right?
He should have been allowed to see his sons grow up and fa-mous be
He should have lived, but naught for fate
When will men learn to love, not hate?

Beck said when she heard Doug was killed, she “sent a letter to his mother to let her know how good of a boy she had.”

“I wrote, ‘I hope that he has found a greater peace’…and that if I have a little boy I hope that he grows up to be as kind as your son was.’”

She signed the letter, “Joni” – no last name, no return address.

Twenty-five years later, Beck was working in a store in downtown Waterford. She said a lady with a walker came into the shop and asked for cemetery flowers.

The woman said the flowers were for her son’s grave, for Memorial Day.

“’He was killed in a war,’ she told me,” Beck said.

Beck asked if he was killed during the Korean War.

“She said, ‘No. Vietnam.’”

Beck said she realized who the woman was.

“There was only one boy who was killed in Vietnam and buried in St. Peter’s Cemetery,” Beck said.

“She said, ‘Are you Joni?’”

She asked why Beck didn’t give an address or phone number with her letter.

“I said, ‘Because you lost so much,’” Beck said.

“She asked if I had had my baby, and if he was a good boy,” she said. “He is.”

“She said, ‘Now I’ll be able to put a face to the letter that’s been hanging on the wall next to Doug’s flag,’” Beck said.

Now, years later, Beck regularly visits Doug’s grave. He is buried next to his mom – who had the same birthday as Beck’s own mother.

Terrazzino said the Class of 1964 remembers Doug at every reunion.

“The Class of 1964 turned 60 this past year. I wonder what kind of life (Doug) would have lived. All I know is, I was so proud of the person he had become,” Terrazzino said.

COPYRIGHT 2007 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

Let ‘em call, let ‘em call, let ‘em call

2007-03-09T11:04:00.000-06:00

Telemarketers can be fun – at least the ones who call our house, never mind that we’re registered on state, national, international and universal Do Not Call lists.

Certainly, it would be easier to say, “Hey, I’m on the Do Not Call list!” and hang up the phone.

Instead, talking with them has become an artistic exercise in silliness, initiated by my husband many years ago.

“Energy-efficient windows?” I heard his voice echo from the next room, where he had just answered the phone. “Why, we have the very best windows on the market. Their metal frames and single panes of glass do wonders to keep out winter’s chill!”

At first, I thought I’d lost my mind – or at the very least, my hearing.

At the time, we lived in a 960-square-foot house whose windows did, indeed, have metal frames and single panes of glass.

However, as far as keeping out winter’s chill – I don’t think so. Those windows did more for bringing in the natural environment than opening the front door. During January and February, the frames were covered inside and out with a thick layer of frost – which promptly melted as the sun came around, creating a river down the adjacent wall.

He continued the conversation for several minutes more, and then hung up the phone with a smile on his face.

“What do you mean we have energy-efficient windows?” I said.

“I was just messing with the guy. It took him a while to realize it – but he even laughed!

“Wasn’t that better than hanging up on him?” he said.

I wasn’t sure. However, as the years have passed he has become adept at keeping telemarketers on the line far longer than they would be if they actually sold him anything.

“You’re selling insurance? I’m an insurance agent!” he would say.

“I just refinanced my house yesterday. You should have called me a week ago. I’m sure your rates are much better.”

“Wow. We just donated $1,000 to your organization. Were you calling to say thanks?”

“Actually, we had a demonstration of your vacuum cleaner/dog pile re-mover/whatever-product-the-person-was-selling last week and we bought five.”

And so it went.

Our kids picked up where he left off.

“Actually, my mom works at your newspaper,” my son told someone from a competing entity. OK, he did that by accident – it was when we first moved to the area and he assumed there was only one area newspaper.

One of my coworkers’ kids has been creative in response to telemarketers as well.

One day, while my co-worker was outside working in the yard, her daughter answered the phone.

“Um. No. My mom is outside burying the dog,” her daughter said.

The telemarketer expressed his sadness about the dead dog and promptly hung up.

Of course, when I really think about it, I feel kind of bad. I prefer truth to lies – although I am still humored by the bald-faced, ridiculous lies that spew from my otherwise extremely honest husband’s mouth when the phone rings and an unsuspecting telemarketer is at the other end of the line.

I’m not sure which they prefer – the silly stories he tells, or a violent “bang” as people hung up the phone.

I think if I were a telemarketer, I would definitely prefer the humor. Either way, I’m being rejected – but at least with the humor, I would go down with dignity and laughter.

And it would give me great stories to tell at the water cooler the next day.

COPYRIGHT 2007 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT PERMISSION.

HE MET HER ONLINE: After a little drooling, some panting and heavy petting, our family has grown again

2007-02-22T15:30:00.000-06:00

Something big, black and hairy happened to us last week that completely changed our canine-free household into a playpen of rubber balls, (shredded) stuffed animals and slobbery pieces of rawhide.

Her name is Gracie, and she is a one-year-old black lab. At least, we think she’s a year old, since she still exhibits playful puppy tendencies that include thievery, playing keep-away and hurtling herself at our cats – who, surprisingly, have taken their new house pet in stride, albeit from the top of the refrigerator at times.

We took the Sacred Vow of NMD (No More Dogs) when our last dog died nearly two years ago. It was the emptying-nest thing, I guess. The dog dies, the kids leave – or even if they still live here, we never see them – and we can finally do Whatever We Want!

I came home late one night, and my husband greeted me with a guilty look on his face.

“I have a confession to make,” he said, head hanging.

That’s always a conversation-starter between spouses.

“And?”

“I met her online,” he said, pointing toward the computer monitor.

Splashed across the screen was a perky-eared black dog with a bone in her mouth.

She looked a lot like our old dog in her younger days.

He said he’d been surfing on PetFinder.com “just to see what kinds of dogs were out there.”

“That’s when I saw her,” he said. “I’m going to meet her tomorrow.”

Bear in mind, we’ve talked on and off about getting another dog for a while, especially after spending time with our various family members’ canine companions.

So he went to see her. Of course, she was great. In need of manners training, yes – but she had a gentle, playful personality.

So, last Monday, he brought her home. The cats fluffed themselves up to four times their normal sizes, while at the same time sneaking around corners to get a closer look.

Our son said he didn’t want another dog – because no dog would be like our old dog.

Gracie stole his heart, too, once she stopped barking at him like he was robbing the place.

Day One went well, without too many problems.

Day Two was an adventure, however.

First, my husband – Gracie’s security in life – left for work. She whined and fussed and carried on, pacing from one door to the next, most likely convinced he was gone forever.

I got up and fed her, took her out, then came back inside.

It wasn’t quite 6 a.m.

My husband called (he usually does at this time of the morning), and as we talked, I saw her prancing around the room and shaking her head.

She’d snatched a stuffed dog off the bed and was in the process of shredding it.

I took it away and put it on the desk.

Two minutes later, it was in her mouth again.

This time I put it where she would need a ladder to get it.

Once off the phone, I thought she’d be fine if I just hopped into the shower. I shut the bedroom door so she’d be confined to the general bedroom/bathroom area.

As soon as I emerged from the shower, I heard a crunching.

Hmm. She must be chewing her rawhide, I thought. Something told me to check, anyway.

Nope. It wasn’t a rawhide.

It was the DVD remote – and despite the decorative tooth prints, it still worked.

I put it up high as well.

Less than five minutes later, Gracie had a plastic cup in her mouth. She smiled at me as I tried to grab it, prancing away in glee.

I realized that she was definitely still a puppy, despite her 80-pound body.

Then it was time to go to work, and time for Gracie to go into her crate.

I threw in treats.

She stared at me.

I told her to go in.

She backed away.

I tried to grab her collar and she RAN around the kitchen table, heading in the opposite direction every time I changed direction.

I could see the look in her brown eyes: This is a fun game? What will we do next?

I refused to be outsmarted or outplayed. I grabbed one of the cats and put him in the crate with the dog treats.

A little competition never hurt anyone.

The cat sat down in the middle of the crate and stared down the dog, who sat outside, whining.

“Well, go in and get your treats,” I said. As if she could understand.

Then – she went for it! She dove to the back of the crate, and in one quick motion I let the cat out and slammed the door.

The whole process only took 20 minutes.

I told my husband we needed to work on the crate thing, and he obliged. When I got home later, he had managed to get the dog to go in and out of her crate a bazillion times in a row.

It was amazing. We call him our Dog Whisperer.

Although a week has gone by, I’m still surprised when I open the door, and a hairy black beast flings herself at me with delight.

My son figured it out pretty much right away.

“I know why you and dad wanted a dog,” he said.

“Really?” I replied. I wasn’t quite sure why we wanted a dog, so I was interested to know the source of our desire.

“Well, we’re all pretty much out of the house. You’re used to taking care of people all the time. Now you can take care of the dog.”

Umm. Yeah.

I guess he’s right.

COPYRIGHT 2007 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION (OR A DOGPRINT FROM GRACIE.)

Waterford Post named Wisconsin's best small weekly newspaper

2007-02-16T15:45:00.000-06:00

NOTE: This is not my original work - it was written by Ed Nadolski, my editor-in-chief. I just had to share!

The Waterford Post has been judged best among the state’s small-circulation weekly newspapers in the Wisconsin Newspaper Association’s annual Better Newspaper Contest.

The Post received the coveted general excellence award Feb. 9 during a ceremony at the WNA annual convention near Wisconsin Dells.

Waterford Post Editor Christine Lupella accepted the award from officials of the WNA.

It was one of eight awards captured by the Post in separate contests for editorial and advertising content. That total included three first-place awards and five second-place honors.

In naming the Post the top all-around newspaper in its circulation category, a panel of professional judges wrote: “This was the most complete newspaper of the bunch. The quality writing was evident throughout the publication. (It has) a nice balance of general reporting, human interest and sports.”

Ed Nadolski, editor in chief for Southern Lakes Newspapers, the parent company of the Waterford Post, said: “An award like this is a tribute to our entire staff, from those in the newsroom to those in our office, composition, printing and circulation departments. But this is a special honor for Chris (Lupella) and (Sports Editor) Jennifer Eisenbart. The content they provide is the heart of the newspaper.”

In addition to the general excellence award, Lupella and Eisenbart also claimed individual first-place awards for their writing and reporting.

Lupella took first place in the spot news category for her coverage of the Mute swan controversy in the Waterford area. “You took a boring meeting story and made readers want to get involved,” judges from the Minnesota Press Association wrote. (See Aug. 31, 2006 post: "Unanswered questions, hard feelings.")

Lupella was also honored with second-place awards for a feature story on a pirate-themed wedding and headline writing in an open category with competition among weekly newspapers of all three circulation groups. (See July 14, 2006 post: "Shiver me timbers!")

Eisenbart brought home a first-place award in the sports news story category for her coverage of the Waterford Union High School girls basketball team’s ascent to the state championship game in 2006.

She also brought home a second-place award in the sports feature category for a story head-lined “Sister Act” that chronicled the exploits of a pair of sibling athletes.

The Post sports section, edited by Eisenbart and composed by graphic designer Sara Spencer, also earned a second-place award.

In a separate contest sponsored by the Wisconsin Newspaper Advertising Executive’s Association, the Post earned second place for best niche publication out of pa-per for the Waterford quality of life book published on behalf of the Waterford Area Chamber of Commerce. Lupella teamed with Creative Department Manager Sue Lange to produce the book.

The 2006 Better Newspaper and Advertising Contest drew 2,678 editorial entries from 150 weekly and daily newspapers and 622 advertising entries from 62 newspapers.

Sights, sounds and smells of the people in our past

2007-02-02T15:24:00.000-06:00

It’s peculiar.

You can be driving along, listening to tunes on the radio – maybe even singing at the top of your lungs.

Then all at once, the memories bubble to the surface.

I’m not sure what I was thinking about to remind me of my father-in-law while I was navigating icy roads the other day.

But there it was. Maybe I was thinking how nice spring will be – how maybe the snow will be gone in April.

Then I thought I should bake pineapple upside-down cake in April, in honor of Dad’s birthday. I avoided anything to do with pineapple last April, because he’d died of cancer less than six months before – and it was still too fresh, too painful to think about.

This year will be different, I thought. I will embrace the pineapple upside-down cake – maybe I’ll even put 86 candles on it, because that’s how old he would have been.

I thought about the other people I miss – and the little things that automatically trigger those memories. A smell, a taste, the sight of something familiar that is eternally tied to them.

I’m sure my fascination with tattoos (I don’t have one – yet) is because my Dzia Dzia (that’s Polish for “Grandpa,” and it’s pronounced something like “jah-jah”) had several on his monstrous forearms.

Dzia Dzia died when I was 17. I remember him mostly as sitting quietly in his chair in a corner of his and Grandma’s tiny kitchen, smoking a cigarette and smiling.

When I was little, he seemed like a giant to me. I think he was around 6-feet, 6-inches tall. He’d hold me on his lap and I’d trace my fingers on the tattoos. The one I remember most was an anchor – I’m guessing he got it when he was in the Navy during World War II. It was a blue-green color and seemed to come to life whenever he moved his arm.

My Grandma – Dzia’s Dzia’s Grandma, we called her (even though she was his wife) had a delightful little voice and a giant heart. She was a round lady. We called her our “cuddly Grandma” because she’d let us climb onto her lap and we’d disappear into the warm folds of her arms. Grandma was all about love and food. She gave us cookies and candy and made wonderful pierogies and all the tasty things Polish grandmas make.

Whenever I see African violets or hear my kettle whistle, letting me know the water inside is boiling, I think of my other grandma – my Irish Grandma. She had a unique lilt to her speech, even though she lived in the states for innumerable decades. She used to say “ye” instead of “you,” some-thing I thought was odd when I was a kid. As an adult, I ate it up. It was one of the things that made her, her.

Grandma’s house was always warm and steamy, thanks to ancient radiators that provided heat during cold Chicago winters. Her plants loved it, especially the African violets. I suppose Grandma provided them with a mini-jungle climate – a bit warm for most people, but perfect for the flowers that generously bloomed under her care.

Grandma is the reason I drink tea – plain. No milk. No sugar. It’s the Irish way, and she started me on the stuff at a tender age. I don’t remember a time when I didn't like tea. She had an ancient teakettle that shrieked and spouted when the water was ready. I bought one almost exactly like it about 10 years ago – because tea doesn’t taste right coming from a silent kettle.

Her husband – Grandpa – died when I was 10. More than three decades later, I can still hear the sound of his voice, as well as his whistle. When my sister and I visited my grandparents for a weekend, or sometimes a whole week in the summer – we would sit in our beds in the morning, waiting. Waiting.

Then we’d hear it – Grandpa’s whistle – and we’d RUN out of the room, down the hallway and into his room, then jump on him and shower him with hugs and kisses.

Grandma would laugh and call us all into the kitchen, where there would be hot, buttery cinnamon-raisin toast sitting on plates, as well as all the sugary breakfast cereal we could eat.

I still love cinnamon-raisin toast – the scent of it wafting through the kitchen is enough to send me right back to Grandpa so many years ago.

I suppose that’s the way it is. The people we love may die, and for a while, the grief is nearly unbearable. But as time goes by, the memories become clearer and their presence is felt deep inside our hearts.

COPYRIGHT 2007 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

BETTER LATE THAN NEVER: WWII veteran receives Bronze Star Award more than 60 years after he was discharged

2007-01-18T07:00:00.000-06:00

It was supposed to be a little family get-together in honor of family birthdays.

84-year-old Leonard Susalla never expected to see a congressman walk into his daughter’s Wind Lake, Wis., dining room.

He also never expected to receive the military medals he earned more than 60 years ago, when he served in the U.S. Army Infantry during World War II.

He knew he had earned most of the medals, but life got busy and, until recently, he did not think about them a lot.

He did not know he had earned the Bronze Star, which is awarded to any person who, while serving in any capacity in or with the military of the United States after Dec. 6, 1941, distinguished himself or herself by heroic or meritorious achievement or service, not involving participation in aerial flight, while engaged in an action against an enemy of the United States.

U.S. Rep. Paul Ryan presented Susalla with the medals.

A houseful of family and friends looked on as Susalla’s bright blue eyes filled with tears.

“We simply want to say thank you for your service to our country,” Ryan said.

“I didn’t know anything was going to happen like this,” Susalla said. “I never expected anything.”

Susalla was 20 years old when he entered the Army on Dec. 9, 1942. He was a private first class (PFC) when he was discharged nearly three years later.

“I turned down a sergeant (position) because I wasn’t a kind of guy to give out orders,” he said.

Susalla participated in the Rhineland and Central Europe campaigns, and earned the Combat Infantryman Badge.

His other awards and honors include the Good Conduct Medal, American Campaign Medal, European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal with two bronze service stars, World War II Victory Medal, Sharpshooter Badge with Carbine bar, and the Honorable Service Lapel Button – WWII.

Susalla grew up on the south side of Milwaukee. He now lives in the Kenosha area.

His daughters, Beverly Weber and Janet Wernette, live in Wind Lake and Waterford, respectively.

Weber started the search for her dad’s medals a couple of years ago. She said he never said much about his time in the service, but that she and her sister knew it was an important part of his life.

“He’s patriotic and it rubbed off on us,” Weber said.

She discovered that Susalla’s military records were among those destroyed in a huge warehouse fire in St. Louis in 1973.

Then she enlisted the help of the Congressman.

“The ball got rolling because your daughter called us. You have a family that loves you very, very much,” Ryan said.

Susalla said not a day has gone by that he does not think about his experiences in World War II.

“I see people being shot out from under me, across the road from me,” he said.

His grandson, Dustin, a 15-year-old Union Grove Union High School student, recently interviewed Susalla for a class project.

Weber said she learned more about her dad from Dustin’s paper than she had in a lifetime.

Susalla said he remembered his final trip home from the European front on Nov. 15, 1945.

The ship entered New York Harbor – and all the soldiers hurried to one side of the ship, to catch their first glimpse of the Statue of Liberty.

The ship began listing to one side because of the unequal weight distribution. Susalla said the men in charge told the men to spread out – people would wonder about the military if the ship came into the harbor leaning so far to one side.

Susalla was quiet for a while, taking in the moment and the memories.

“My tears say it all,” he said. “Every time I look at (the medals) I’m going to cry…I’ll never stop doing that,” he said.

“I’m proud to be an American. I’m proud that I served,” he said.

COPYRIGHT 2007 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

HANGING ON TO THE LAST STREAMER

2007-01-16T14:40:00.000-06:00

My boys turned 19 today. I spent a good hour or so draping blue and gold streamers from their bedroom doors, down the hallway and into the kitchen, and then posted hand-lettered signs proclaiming “Happy birthday, Alex and Ed!” on the patio door facing the road.

It was a change from the routine of previous years, when I celebrated the anniversary of their arrival (three minutes apart – and yes, three minutes can be a long time, indeed) by decorating their school lockers in a similar fashion – although I generally included an assortment of their individual baby pictures as well.

I am happy they’re home today – if ever so briefly. They are on the last days of their college breaks and spend most of their time working and hanging out with friends. Their dad and I don’t see them much, except maybe around noon on weekends.

I’m still amazed that 19 years has passed since they were born.

Some days, I feel like I’m in some kind of mom-driven time warp when I look at my sons towering over me, yet in the same moment I can see them as babies, at 2, at 5, at 10. As they head out the door for some undetermined location, I want to say, “Hey! Wait a minute! You’re leaving me behind!”

That’s what happens when a parent’s nest empties, I guess. One day, the little birds are hanging out in the nest, mouths open, demanding a constant flow of food, warmth and care.

The next day, they leap out of the nest – and, I suppose, the mama bird hovers a bit, trying to protect them from harm while letting them fend for themselves.

Then, the babies fly away and are gone.

I suppose I’m hanging on to the last little bit of momhood. I realize I’ll never stop being a mom – my own mom has told me that for as along as I remember. It’s just that this year, especially, I realize that my little birds have already launched into adulthood.

I can’t hover. I can’t protect them from the dangers that lurk in the adult world.

Mostly now, I just love them and pray that they’ll have wisdom and joy in all they do.

And every year I’ll celebrate their birthdays by hanging streamers in my heart.

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

REEL COUNTDOWN: Classic and not-so-classic movies get us in the mood to celebrate the season

2006-12-22T14:41:00.000-06:00

My husband and I are obsessed. We love movies – enough to watch them over and over and over again, whether they’re on TV or DVD. It doesn’t matter.

So, as of Dec. 1, we started watching at least one of our growing collection of Christmas movies each night. We checked Christmas movies out of the library, and rented a few others. Some are traditional, feel-good, family films. Others – well, they’re probably more appropriate for Mom and Dad to watch after the kids go to bed.

So here it is, our not-so-comprehensive list of our favorite Christmas movies, their basic plots, best lines, and the reason we watch them again and again. (And again…)

It’s a Wonderful Life (1946)

This is, hands-down my favorite Christmas movie. Actually, it’s my favorite movie of all time.

For the uninitiated, “It’s a Wonderful Life” is the story of George Bailey (played by James Stewart), a regular guy who – like many of us – feels his life is con-trolling him, rather than the other way around.

Clarence, an angel who needs to earn his wings, is assigned to George’s “case.” One snowy night, Clarence give George a glimpse of what the world would be like if George had never been born.

I think I’ve seen the movie at least 25 times – probably more. And I never fair to shed a tear or two at the end.

Best lines:

• “I'm shakin' the dust of this crummy little town off my feet and I'm gonna see the world. Italy, Greece, the Parthenon, the Colosseum. Then, I'm comin' back here to go to college and see what they know.”

• “Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings.” (Zuzu Bailey)

Miracle on 34th Street (1947)

“Miracle on 34th Street” makes me realize that the more things change, the more they remain the same.

The main theme of this movie – commercialism vs. the spirit of Christmas – reflect the same concerns many of us have today, almost 60 years later.

But perhaps I delve too deep. Really, it’s a great story about a little girl – and her cynical mother – who learn to have faith in their imaginations and in people, when they meet Kris Kringle – the real Santa Claus.

Best lines:

• “Your Honor, every one of these letters is addressed to Santa Claus. The Post Office has delivered them. Therefore the Post Office Department, a branch of the Federal Governent, recognizes this man Kris Kringle to be the one and only Santa Claus.”

• “Faith is believing when common sense tells you not to. Don't you see? It's not just Kris that's on trial, it's everything he stands for. It's kindness and joy and love and all the other intangibles.”

Elf (2003)

I was a tough sell on “Elf.” I like Will Ferrell in smaller doses, and I figured this movie would include the usual gratuitous jokes about body functions.

When I finally saw the movie, I was surprised – and bought my own copy right away with the idea that “Elf” was one of those instant Christmas classics.

Elf is the story of Buddy, a now grown-up orphan baby who stowed away in Santa’s pack and was raised by elves. As an adult, Buddy heads to New York to meet his birth father – who is on Santa’s naughty list.

Best lines:

• “You smell like beef and cheese, you don't smell like Santa.”

• “It's just like Santa's workshop! Except it smells like mushrooms... and everyone looks like they wanna hurt me...”

White Christmas (1954)

What Christmas would be complete without Bing Crosby singing the title song from this classic movie?

The plot revolves around the adventures of a pair of Army buddies (played by Crosby and Danny Kaye) who team up for a song-and-dance act. They meet up with a similar sister act, and romance ensues.

The four head to a Vermont lodge to do a Christmas show and find that the men’s former Army commander is the owner.

This movie has some fun comic bantering. Rather than listing best lines, I think it’s more appropriate to list the best songs, which are:

• White Christmas (of course!)

• Sisters

The Bishop’s Wife (1947)

I saw the most recent version of this Christmas classic, “The Preacher’s Wife,” first – and loved the story – but the original is really the best.

In this movie, Cary Grant plays an angel who attaches himself to a bishop and his family. The bishop has lost his focus and maybe a bit of faith, while his wife tries hard to keep their romance alive.

The snappy dialogue is what makes the original superior to the remake.

Best line:

• “Sometimes angels rush in where fools fear to tread.”

A Christmas Carol (1951 Alistair Sims version)

There are dozens of versions of Charles Dickens’ story of transformation and redemption – this 1951 version is the classic.

Best lines:

• “A merry Christmas, Ebenezer! You old HUMBUG! Oh, and a happy new year! As if you deserved it!”

• “God bless us, every one!”

The Santa Clause (1994)

Santa falls off a man’s roof – and the homeowner, a divorced dad, becomes Santa’s replacement.

Best line:

• “We’re your worst nightmare. Elves with attitude.”

Home Alone (1990)

A little boy gets his wish – to have no family – when he is accidentally left behind when his entire family goes to France for Christmas.

Best line:

• “I took a shower washing every body part with actual soap; including all my major crevices; including in between my toes and in my belly button which I never did before but sort of enjoyed. I washed my hair with adult formula shampoo and used cream rinse for that just-washed shine. I can't seem to find my toothbrush, so I'll pick one up when I go out today. Other than that, I'm in good shape.”

The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993 - animated)

Jack Skellington, the pumpkin king of Halloween Town, is bored, so he ventures into Christmas Town – and wants the ghouls and goblins of Halloween Town to put on Christmas.

I love the music in this, and it is one of my son’s favorites. He’d like to see it produced as a Broadway show – someday, someday.

Best line:

• “And on a dark cold night, under full moonlight, he flies into the fog like a vulture in the sky! And they call him Sandy Claws!”

Family Man (2000)

This is one of my husband’s favorites. It’s a sort of updated version of “It’s a Wonderful Life” – in reverse, as the main character, Jack – a single, wealthy man who lives in a New York high-rise apartment – wakes up Christmas morning to find himself married to his former girlfriend, living in a house in the ‘burbs with a couple of kids and a dog.

Maybe my sweetie identifies with Jack when he says, “We have a house in Jersey. We have two kids, Annie and Josh. Annie's not much of a violin player, but she tries real hard. She's a little precocious, but that's only because she says what's on her mind. And when she smiles... And Josh, he has your eyes. He doesn't say much, but we know he's smart. He's always got his eyes open, he's always watching us. Sometimes you can look at him and you just know he's learning something new. It's like witnessing a miracle. The house is a mess but it's ours. After 122 more payments, it's going to be ours…And we're in love. After 13 years of marriage we're still unbelievably in love.”

At least I’d like to think so.

Of course, I identify with Kate, Jack’s wife, when she says, “Jack. Strong. Coffee.”

Best lines:

You just read ‘em.

Somewhat irreverent – but loads of fun:

The Ref (1994)

Denis Leary plays a cat burgler who kidnaps a constantly-bickering married couple.

The dialogue is fast and furious and filled with black humor. It’s certainly not your traditional Christmas movie – but it’s great for some serious laughs.

Best lines (there are really too many to count):

• “Santa doesn't drink champagne. Santa only drinks milk.”

• “I hijacked my (BLEEPING) parents.”

Die Hard (1988)

The Bruce Willis action movie that started it all – a cop goes to his estranged wife’s company Christmas party, and takes on international criminals.

Best line:

• “Hey babe, I negotiate million dollar deals for breakfast. I think I can handle this Euro-trash.”

Die Hard II: With a Vengeance (1990)

More Bruce Willis action. Just another Christmas Eve saving the world from terrorists.

Best line:

• “As I was going to St. Ives?/I met a man with seven wives./Every wife had seven sacks,/Every sack had seven cats,/Every cat had seven kit-tens./Kittens, cats, sacks, wives, /How many were going to St. Ives?”

A Christmas Story (1983)

I remember the first time I saw this movie at the show. I immediately thought of my dad as a little boy, growing up in Chicago. One of the national cable stations shows this one for 24 hours straight on Christmas Eve – and I still can’t get enough of it. It’s tied with “Christmas Vacation” for my second favorite Christmas movie of all time.

Best lines:

• “No! No! I want an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle!” Santa Claus: You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.”

• “Fra-gee-lay. That must be Italian.”

• “Deck the halls with boughs of horry, ra ra ra ra ra, ra ra ra ra.”

National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation (1989)

Clark W. Griswold just wants to have an old-fashioned family Christmas. What’s wrong with that? Apparently, if you’re Clark W. Griswold – everything.

This is probably the most quotable Christmas movie ever – with giggles and belly laughs following every line – especially those involving Clark’s Cousin Eddie. This line pretty much sums up the movie – and many of our feelings after a spending a little too much time with the family:

Best line:

• “Where do you think you're going? Nobody's leaving. Nobody's walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We're all in this together. This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here."

Scrooged (1988)

Dicken’s Christmas Carol, turned a bit on its ear. Buster Poindexter and Carol Kane are my favorite ghosts of Christmas present and past ever.

Best line:

• “It’s Christmas Eve. It’s..it’s the one night of the year when we all act a little nicer, we-we-we smile a little easier, we-w-w-we-we-we cheer a little more. For a couple of hours out of the whole year we are the people that we always hoped we would be.”

Trading Places (1983)

A snobby, rich investor and poor con artist switch places as the result of a bet between two rich brothers, to see whether the good guy goes bad and the bad guy becomes good.

The bet takes its course, until the main characters get together to plot their revenge.

Best line:

• “You know, it occurs to me that the best way you hurt rich people is by turning them into poor people.”

Animated

Those of us of a certain age (ranging between 30 and 50, I would guess without giving myself completely away) grew up just waiting for these animated Christmas specials to come on TV each year.

That’s back when TV specials were a family event. Dad made popcorn, my sisters and I would put on our PJ’s and we’d sit, wide-eyed, in front of the televi-sion.
We could even quote every line and sing every song, even without the benefit of watching the shows over and over on video or DVD.

A Charlie Brown Christmas

You’d have to be a Grinch to not love Charlie Brown and his pathetic little Christmas tree.

Best lines:

• “I never thought it was such a bad little tree. It’s not bad at all, really. Maybe it just needs a little love.”

• “Maybe Lucy’s right. Of all the Charlie Browns in the world, you are the Charlie Browniest.”

Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer

I think we’ve all felt like Rudolph, Hermey and the misfit toys at one time or another.

Best lines:

• “Well, some day I’d like to be a dentist.”

• “Hey, what do you say we both be independent together, huh?”

How the Grinch Stole Christmas

I confess that I’m so opinionated about Dr. Seuss that I’ve never seen the more recent live-action version of The Grinch. Sorry – you just don’t mess with the Seuss! And you don’t mess with Boris Karloff, either.

Best line:

• “All the Whos down in Whoville liked Christmas a lot, but the Grinch, who lived just north of Whoville, did not. The Grinch hated Christmas – the whole Christmas season. Oh, please don’t ask why, no one quite knows the reason. It could be, perhaps, that his shoes were too tight. Or maybe his head wasn’t screwed on just right. But I think that the best reason of all may have been that his heart was two sizes too small.”

Santa Claus is Coming to Town

There was something scary, yet ridiculous about the Burger Meister Meister Burger that made me laugh as a kid.

Best line:

• “Toys are hereby declared illegal, immoral, unlawful AND anyone found with a toy in his possession will be placed under arrest and thrown in the dungeon. No kidding!”

Frosty the Snowman

Frosty was a jolly, happy soul. Until somebody melted him. But then Santa saves the day!

Best line:

• “Happy birthday! Hey, I said my first words. But…but snowmen can’t talk. Ha ha ha, come on now, what’s the joke? Could I really be alive?”

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA.

THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE CONNECTION: Little traditions bring back big memories

2006-12-22T14:36:00.000-06:00

Sometimes you find yourself in the middle of a Christmas celebration before the holiday ever hits.

I spent my Saturday afternoon hunched over the wood table in my mom’s kitchen, paintbrush in hand, dipping the tip into red, green, yellow, blue, and white.

The subjects? A variety of sugar cookie shapes, most of them Christmas-themed, from teddy bears to rocking horses, Santas to Christmas trees.

We painted them with colored icing, a truly artistic venture, creating a few special cookies for family members and the rest just for fun.

My sister did the hard part (thanks, Les!) – making the dough, rolling it out, cutting the shapes and baking them to a crisp golden brown.

It was the first time she had made sugar cookies herself – it was something her grandmother did, leaving some of the crisp confections for her granddaughter to decorate.

My sister found herself deeply connected to Nana as she mixed the dough, then rolled it out with the same glass rolling pin Nana used so many years ago – the kind you can fill with ice to keep the dough cold, although Les said Nana never actually used it that way.

I remembered decorating sugar cookie cutouts as a kid. We’d slather on a thick layer of icing, which served as the glue for sparkling decorations, from green and red crystals of sugar to those hard little silver balls that looked amazing – but truthfully, were not all that pleasant to eat.

My mom had amazing stamina when it came to baking, especially during the Christmas season. She turned out more than a dozen different kinds of cookies starting in early December and continuing throughout the month, packing them away so little hands (and mouths!) wouldn’t find them. Then she made up baskets and bowls filled with cookies for neighbors and friends, while we kids waited impatiently to devour any leftovers.

I found myself baking and decorating cookies – in vastly smaller numbers, since I lacked the culinary ambition of my own mom – with my own kids years later. I encouraged them to be as creative as they liked, which sometimes meant Santa was covered in blue frosting, or a cookie snowman would find itself in the pink rather than the traditional white.

The entire cookie-decorating experience made me realize how important traditions are – even little ones. They keep us grounded, remind us where we came from and sometimes help us figure out where we’re going as well.

Take Christmas, again. When I was a kid, the presents always magically appeared under our tree sometime after we went to bed on Christmas Eve – a special delivery from Santa Claus. No matter what time my sisters and I climbed out of bed Christmas morning (usually before the crack of dawn), Christmas music would be playing softly on the Hi-Fi.

Then, after we opened our presents, we’d have hot chocolate and cinnamon rolls. Yum!

Over the years, I repeated those traditions with my own kids, often without thinking about the reasons I did those things. It will be interesting to see if they carry on those traditions with their own children in the future.

As you gather with family and friends this holiday, think about the traditions that make it special for you. I’d love to hear about them, whether you bake cookies, gather over the roast beast, sing Christmas carols at Midnight Mass, or sleep under the sparkling Christmas tree.

Whatever you do, have a merry Christmas and a wonderful New Year!

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

ELVIS, KIDS AND MAKING A DIFFERENCE: WATERFORD SCHOOL ADMINISTRATOR REFLECTS ON 37-YEAR CAREER

2006-12-08T14:28:00.000-06:00

Gwen O’Cull loves Elvis and making a difference in kids’ lives.

She’s been making a difference for 37 years. As for Elvis – well, she’s been a fan for more years than she can count, as evidenced by the eclectic collection of Elvis memorabilia displayed in a prominent location in her office.

At the end of this school year, the Waterford Graded School administrator will retire after 10 years of service.

She and her husband plan to hit the road – literally.

“We have an RV. My plans are to visit all 50 states,” O’Cull said.

Hawaii is in the plan, too – but they’ll leave the RV on the mainland for that part of the trip.

O’Cull started her education career as a teacher in a Chicago inner city school in 1969 – during the height of civil unrest and violence.

“I started when the city of Chicago was rioting,” she said.

Things were different for teachers then, she said.

“When I started in education teachers weren’t allowed to wear slacks.”

As O’Cull honed her teaching skills, she wanted to do more.

“I wanted to make a difference,” she said. “As a classroom teacher I could impact the lives of my 30 kids. As principal, I could affect 500 or so kids.”

As an administrator, she said she could help create a district’s educational philosophy.

Some of the styles and rules might have changed since O’Cull started teaching – but core educational values did not.

“Getting children a solid education has never changed. That’s the heart of the whole matter,” she said.

“How we achieve that, the methods, have changed many, many times.”

Most of those changes have been for the better. New teaching techniques have improved student achievement, and with that achievement, accountability in the education system, she said.

Today’s teachers have assistance from specialists who help students whose learning styles and abilities differ from the average.

Schools offer more programming opportunities for remedial as well as gifted and talented students.

O’Cull said it’s important for teachers to have the resources to challenge students, “to encourage them and let them be all they can be.”

She believes that mission is being accomplished in the Water-ford Graded School District.

For classroom teachers, “the children are a reflection of you,” she said.

For principals, “the outcomes of your building are a reflection of you.”

She said the entire district “is a quality educational facility – and that’s a nice reflection on us” – adding that the “us” includes the dedicated, collaborative efforts of the administration, school board and classroom teachers.

“The teachers in this school district do an outstanding job,” she said.

She said she appreciates the school board’s dedication to student achievement and excellence as well – “all for the benefit of children.”

O’Cull said her goal is to complete several of the projects that are already under way before the end of the school year.

Those projects include a teaching plan that is already in place; work by the district Growth Committee to address overcrowding; and making sure the district’s brand-new special education program continues to run smoothly.

The difficult part is holding back, she said.

“It’s hard not to add any (initiatives), because you’ll hear one more (idea) and you think, ‘Oh, that would be great for this school district,’” she said.

O’Cull will hit the road sometime after her last day – scheduled for June 30 next year.

There will be no timetable for travel, she said. However, once she and her husband have met their goal, she said she will probably dive back into some kind of educational-related work.

Last summer she taught a course at Marian College in Fond du Lac. She said she enjoyed sharing “my pearls of wisdom with those aspiring principals and administrators.”

“We need quality people,” she said. “If I can share some of my knowledge, that is something I would be interested in doing.”

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

SHE'S GONE TO THE DOGS: WOMAN TEACHES OTHERS TO LIVE IN HARMONY WITH THEIR CANINE COMPANIONS

2006-12-01T16:27:00.000-06:00

Many people would find having a 100-plus pound Doberman staring them in the face to be a bit – well, intimidating.

Not Jean Beauchesne. In fact, she lives with two Dobermans, a golden retriever/yellow lab and a whippet.

And don’t forget Fluffy, the token feline, as well.

The “Dobies” may be loud, they may be big – but they’re big babies in Beauchesne’s eyes.

Take Aries, her red Doberman, for example. He barks at incoming visitors, runs around the corner and returns with a ragged piece of blue cloth in his mouth, looking up with big brown eyes.

“That’s his blankie,” Beauchesne said.

Beauchesne, who lives in the Waterford-Burlington, Wis., area, is an animal assisted specialist, dog obedience instructor, certified evaluator and director of the Reading to Rufus program at local libraries.

Beauchesne owns Proper Paws University West, a branch of the Racine-based dog training franchise. She primarily works with people in the west end of Racine County, teaching dog training classes privately and at Winkler School in Burlington.

Beauchesne uses behavior modification to train the dogs – ignoring the unwanted behaviors and immediately offering alternatives and an appropriate reward.

“You’ve got to find out what motivates your dog,” she said.

Most often, that motivator is food.

Repetition and consistency are also keys to successful training – dogs need to know what to expect.

The first step in training, however, is to train the people, she said.

“I’ve got to relax the people first,” she said, adding that an owner’s stress “goes down the lead directly to the dog.”

She uses her sense of humor – “you’ve got to have that,” she said – to help people relax and enjoy their dogs.

And the dogs respond.

“You have to physically and mentally stimulate dogs,” she said. Training accomplishes both of these tasks, while teaching the dogs what to expect.

“Nothing in life is free,” she said. “They always have to work.”

“When you train your dog, the dog is working,” she said.

That “work” might be a sit, a down, a stay – and each time the dog succeeds in its task, it immediately receives its “pay” – a reward to reinforce that behavior.

“I always set my dogs up for success,” she said. If a dog is unresponsive, she changes her approach to make sure dog and owner are communicating effectively.

“The only way to build up a bond with your dog is through training,” she said.

Trained dogs know they can trust their owners. Out of control dogs don’t trust that their owners will take care of them, she said.

The best time to train a dog is when it’s a puppy – before bad behaviors have set in. But it’s not impossible to train an older dog, she said.

One common problem – jumping – often occurs because people allow their cute little puppies to jump up on them while the puppy is small.

However, once “Cujo” is big, jumping can be an intimidating behavior to humans on the receiving end.

“Don’t allow a dog to practice behaviors that you’re not willing to live with (later),” Beauchesne said.

People should research breeds before they buy a dog, she said. Many people believe it’s better to have a small dog with small children in the house.

Not so, she said. Toddlers like to climb, and if they climb onto a small dog, the dog could be hurt.

Getting a big dog is actually better. However, “you should never leave a child alone with a dog,” she said.

Beauchesne’s goal is to help people learn to live with and love their dogs.
“I just want the knowledge out there,” she said.

She shares her experience through her classes, and writes a “Dear Rover” column for area newspapers as well.

“I’ve gone to the dogs,” she laughed. “But I absolutely love it.”
You can reach Jean Beauchesne at (262) 514-3048 or email myleau@hotmail.com.

DOGS WILL BE DOGS - NOT PEOPLE

Waterford area resident Jean Beauchesne grew up near Boston, Mass. When she speaks, she still has traces of the accent – though it was tempered by nearly 15 years of living in North Carolina, she said.

She said she has loved animals all her life. She went to college with the intention of becoming a veterinarian; however, “I couldn’t handle the blood, guts and death,” she said.

She eventually earned a bachelor of science in psychology, with a minor in business.

Her psychology background gives her a lot of insight into the way dogs thinks.

First of all, she said, “They’re not people.”

“As humans we expect them (dogs) to act like humans. They don’t understand,” she said. “They only understand what you teach them.”

“You’ve got to treat a dog like a dog…you can’t coddle him.”

One of the most common reasons people give up their dogs: “It’s because they’re acting like dogs,” she said.

She trained each of her dogs in obedience and more. Every dog is either certified or on the path to some sort of certification:

Sassie, her golden retriever/yellow lab, is more than 15 years old. She is a certified Canine Good Citizen and a certified therapy dog. Sassie is retired – she is blind, somewhat deaf and moves a lot slower than her canine compatriots – but she still wags her tail happily when she senses a treat is forthcoming;

Jade, her black Doberman, is a flyball dog champion, certified Canine Good Citizen, and certified therapy dog;

Aries, her red Doberman – and carrier of the blue blankie – is a confirmation champion and working aptitude certificate holder;

And Apache is her whippet – a sprightly, energetic young dog who loves to play. He is working toward his therapy certification.

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR.

THANK YOU IS NOT ENOUGH

2006-11-30T16:15:00.000-06:00

What do you say to someone who gives up his life so you can keep yours?

“Thank you?”

Those words hardly seem adequate to describe the ultimate sacrifice. Yet those words are all we have.

This week, our community buried a young man who made that ultimate sacrifice. U.S. Army Capt. Rhett Schiller was serving in Iraq with his unit of the 82nd Airborne Division when he died of injuries he suffered in combat.

He was 26 years old.

Schiller obviously believed in something bigger than himself, demonstrating this by his dedication to our military.

For your service, Capt. Schiller, we say, “thank you.”

To his parents, brother and sister, fiancé, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and fellow soldiers – we extend our comfort.

As a community, as a country, we grieve over your loss. We are here to put an arm over your tired shoulders, to weep with you, to say goodbye.

Tuesday, the gray November skies wept over Capt. Schiller’s funeral, a reflection, perhaps, of the weeping in our souls.

The U.S. flags in Waterford and around the state hung at half-staff in his honor, a silent salute to the fallen soldier.

Once again, we say “thank you,” Capt. Schiller.

May you always and forever rest in peace.

GETTING BEYOND THE BOOK'S COVER

2006-11-17T12:27:00.000-06:00

Appearances can be deceiving.

From the time we’re young, we learn things like “beauty is only skin deep,” or “you can’t judge a book by its cover” – concepts more profound than our young minds grasp at the time.

I suspect most of us rely on our eyes to make judgments about pretty much everything, people included. In the blink of an eye, we look at someone and make our assumptions as to whether he or she is rich or poor, old or young, healthy or unhealthy, nice or mean, beautiful or ugly, gay or straight, friendly or unfriendly – and we make these judgments based on what?

I’ve been in physical therapy for several weeks, in hopes of preventing a bulging disc in my back from causing the incapacitating pain it did a month or so ago. Some days I work with the therapist in the pool; other days, on land.

One afternoon during a pool session, a friendly older (she was older than me, anyway) woman and I shared time with the therapist. She had a hard time walk-ing—I’m guessing she was com-bating back, knee or hip troubles. We worked on exercises together, and I could see her watching me from the corner of her eye, the wheels in her head turning.

“Hmm. She looks fine. She can do the exercises without complaining. What the heck is she doing here?” I sensed her thoughts. I knew what they were – because I had been eyeballing other patients as well. Some people’s ailments were fairly obvious – a shoulder sling generally indicated shoulder surgery; crutches or walkers gave a nod to the knee and hip patients. Others left me wondering the same thing: “What’s wrong with that guy?”

Finally, she asked the question.

“OK, you look fine,” she said. “But you wouldn’t be here if you were fine.”

I told her about my back problem; she told me about hers. I told her that therapy was helping a lot, since she was new to the game and wasn’t confident it would make things better.

It was a pleasant conversation, and I hoped I would run into her again so we could compare notes and encourage each other. She had the courage to break the ice, to ask a question rather than make her assumptions and move on.

It’s a lesson I should have learned years ago, when I met the girl who would become my best friend in high school.

The first time I saw her I thought she was loud, obnoxious – and really, just who did she think she was?

Who knows what she thought about me.

Fortunately, neither of us really remembered that initial meeting when we ended up in the same English class months later, when she invited me to a movie, when we talked for hours about the cute boys in class, our favorite TV and movie stars, our annoying siblings and all the other things we had in common.

You’d think I would have learned, but apparently, I need reminders like everyone else.

That’s why I’m glad my pool partner asked the questions, that she took the time to know a little more about me. She made me think about how often I make those split-second judgments that close off communication before it starts. Just because someone is smiling, or says he or she is “fine” doesn’t mean everything really is fine.

That person may be sad or hungry or hurting – but no one else will ever know, because no one asks the questions that would reveal the stuff that’s waiting to come out.

It’s too bad, because that human connection, however brief, could help make the person feel a little bit better – or at least, somewhat less alone in the world.

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

RED

2006-11-05T10:34:00.000-06:00

PRINCESSES RULE HALLOWEEN–UNTIL THEY'RE CHALLENGED BY THE QUEEN - November 3, 2006

2006-11-02T09:20:00.000-06:00

Halloween was sometimes frustrating for us when we were little kids. I remember one year—I might have been 3 or 4—when I wore some sort of gauzy, floaty princess costume. I pranced around the house, convinced I was truly royalty. How-ever, when trick or treat time came, I was quickly reminded that The Queen (my mother)—not The Princess—was the ruler of the household.

As per usual on Halloween—the next best holiday to Christmas in many kids’ eyes—the weather was miserable. I know it was cold. In fact, I believe there was actually snow on the ground.

Now, I know for a fact that princesses cannot possibly get cold or wet, and they are only miserable when the wicked queen says they have to wear a COAT over their beautiful ball gowns and BOOTS over their shiny black dancing shoes.

I don’t remember the details of the ensuing battle, other than there is photographic evidence that The Princess lost—and did, indeed, wear coat, hood and big old snowboots as she ventured into the world to collect the candy that was her birthright.

The Queen solved the problem a few years later, when she made my sister and me matching ghost costumes that fit over pretty much anything, from leotard to parka.

Smart woman, that Queen.

Then there was trick or treating itself. I remember feeling quite intimidated ringing doorbells and saying “trick or treat.” There was that nagging question at the back of my mind—what if the person who answered went with the trick and not the treat?

One of our neighbors scared the heck out of me. She LOVED Halloween—and looked the part pretty much year-round. She was a big woman who wore her hair in an even bigger black beehive. A single, unexplained white streak stretched from one side of her forehead and disappeared into the swirl of her hair.

Think Bride of Frankenstein.

This neighbor always donned a witch costume and painted her face a frightening shade of green. Her front porch was a tangled mass of spiderwebs and ghoulish decorations, and creepy music wafted from an unseen speaker.

Even when I was older, and realized she was just having fun—I was a bit hesitant to ring her doorbell. She’d cackle and laugh from deep within the interior of her house, getting louder and louder until she opened the door…

Like I said, she scared the heck out of me.

The thing was, she also gave out whole candy bars. Good ones, too! Whole candy bars made suffering through the anxiety each year well worth the trouble.

Once we were old enough to trick or treat on our own, my mom would stay home to pass out candy. She worked out a sweet deal with me and my sisters—she always bought candy we liked, which included things like M&M’s, 3 Musketeers (my personal favorite at the time), Butterfingers, Baby Ruths and, essentially, all things chocolate. (The exception: Almond Joy and Mounds bars. Coconut? Ew. I did not know one kid who liked coconut.)

The deal was, as we filled our bags, we’d come home periodically, dump them out and pick out the stuff we didn’t like. Mom let us trade for the stuff we did like—and she gave the icky candy away. The first thing to go was always those black- or orange-wrapped candies of unknown origin. I am convinced they are recycled from year to year, kind of like fruitcakes are at Christmas.

The other items that went were Good & Plenty and all things black licorice—although I suspect my mother, who likes black licorice, may have set a few of those trades aside for herself. Go, mom!

We used to trick or treat for hours—sometimes until eight or nine at night. It was so much more adventurous to be out at night. Plus, we’d come home with the motherload of candy. We’d dump out our bags, sort every-thing, toss the stuff that was open or suspicious or just plain yucky, then count. The sister with the most candy wore the smug look on her face.

I can tell you that, as The Princess (even if I had dressed as a gypsy that year), I was royally unhappy when I wasn’t the “winner.” However, threats from the Queen of losing my entire candy collection if my attitude didn’t improve usually took care of that.

Now, Halloween is over and the stores are offering candy at less-than-half price. I could load up for next year—but that only works with the aforementioned black- and orange-wrapped mystery candy that has been recycled through the generations. Anything good would be eaten long before the next holiday.

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

HUFFING AND PUFFING - October 28, 2006

2006-11-01T09:15:00.000-06:00

Miniature witch Chloe Ewald, 2, works hard to blow up the balloon she received in her bag of treats during the Burlington, Wis., Spooky City festival Oct. 28.

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

BLOWN AWAY - October 28, 2007

2006-11-01T09:06:00.000-06:00

Emily Sisson, 7, has some ghostly fun with the wind and her costume Saturday morning during Burlington, Wis., Spooky City festivities.

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

HISTORICAL INSPIRATION: Waterford couple brings historical icon to life - October 27, 2006

2006-10-27T11:08:00.000-05:00

Nearly every day, Waterford, Wis. residents Rick and Joanne Scheffel drove past the statue at the corner of Col. Heg Park in the Town of Norway on their way to work in the Musekgo schools.

“I think a lot of people drive past that statue,” Rick said.

The Scheffels had been immersed in Civil War history for years, spending time every summer at the Civil War Institute at Gettysburg College since the mid-1970s. It occurred to them that some of that history was already in their own backyard.

Thus began their adventure learning about the life and legacy of Col. Hans C. Heg.

Heg emigrated from Norway to the Town of Norway in Wisconsin with his family when he was 11 years old. He learned to speak and write English and left home at age 20 to make his fortune in the California Gold Rush, returning home two years later in 1851 to take over the family farm when his father died.

He married Gunhild Einong, another Norwegian immigrant, and they eventually had four children.

Like his father, who started the first Norwegian newspaper in Wisconsin, The North Star, Heg believed community service was important. Heg became involved in politics and was elected to the town board. He later served as chairman, then Justice of the Peace.

When the Civil War broke out, Heg was state prison commissioner, an elected position at the time. He involved prisoners in the Union cause by having them sew military uniforms, Joanne ex-plained, and when the governor called for ethnic groups to form their own regiments, Heg petitioned to create a Scandinavian regiment, the 15th Wisconsin.

Heg’s company – Company “C” of the 15th – was composed mainly of men from the Town of Norway. They did a great deal of their training in Waterford as well as Madison, Joanne said.

Heg fought in the War for two years, writing letters to his wife and children. “The Civil War Let-ters of Colonel H.C. Heg,” a collection of the letters edited by Theodore C. Blegen, a University of Minnesota professor at the time, was published in 1936. The Scheffels have their own copy of the now out-of-print book.

The letters reflected Heg’s “interest in politics, his concern about his new country and his concern about the education of his children,” Joanne said.

One 1862 letter from Heg to his son, James, instructed James to avoid running around the streets at night with the other boys.

“You go back 140 years and some of these themes are important to society today,” Rick said. “Back in 1862 they were worried about kids running in the streets.”

Education was one of the most evident themes, Joanne said. Running a close second was “trusting in Providence to bring him back.” Joanne said Heg rarely used God’s name in the letters, substituting the word “providence” instead.

Heg also encouraged his wife and the people who were running the farm in his absence to “be careful with his money,” Joanne said.

His other focus was to encourage those on the home front, especially Gunhild. “If you become a widow, you won’t be the widow of a coward,” Heg wrote.

Although one would assume Heg’s family wrote to him in return, none of these letters was preserved. Rick said that in one particular battle, Heg lost everything but the clothes he was wearing.

On Sept. 19, 1863, Heg and his brigade fought in the Battle of Chickamauga, Ga. In late afternoon, Heg was shot in the abdomen. He died the next morning, at the age of 33.

“His body was brought back to Waterford, then there was a solemn procession,” Rick said. Heg had become a Freemason at one time; as a result, the Norway Church would not allow the fu-neral service to be held within its walls. The service was held at the Congregational Church in Waterford, Rick said. The Norway Church did give permission for Heg to be buried in its cemetery.

Heg holds a unique place in Burlington history as well. A May 20, 1974 Standard Press column on Heg, written by Enoch Squires, reads: “In the annals of (the Burlington Standard – now the Standard Press), Heg forever holds an odd niche. His was the first death of a local area person, either soldier or civilian, to be chronicled in our pages. His obituary appeared in the first issue, Oct. 14, 1863.” (Pokin’ Around with Esq: “Part I-Col. Heg: A Boy Strengthened By Frontier Rigors Moves Toward His Date With Destiny,” Burlington Standard Press, May 20, 1974.)

The Town of Norway installed the Col. Hans Christian Heg Memorial statue in 1928.

Fifty years later, the Scheffels were instrumental in planning the Sept. 25, 1988, Col. Hans C. Heg Commemoration Day in the Town of Norway. They contacted a number of Heg’s relatives, who were scattered across the country. Several of them, including great-grandchildren, came to Wisconsin for the program.

The Scheffels have currently been working with Pam Belden, Waterford librarian, to create a permanent Heg display in the Waterford Public Library. The display will be unveiled to the public on Wednesday, Nov. 1, at 6:30 p.m. The Scheffels will present a dramatic reading from Heg’s letters. Everyone is invited. For information, call the library at (262) 534-3988.

PHOTOS AND STORY COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

CULINARY CONFUSION: I can't believe we ate the whole thing - October 20, 2006

2006-10-19T13:46:00.000-05:00

Hot lunches have come a long way since I was kid – at least according to the menus we get from local schools each week.

I didn’t truly experience school cafeteria food until high school. I spent my tender elementary years at parochial schools where everyone either went home or brought their lunch – save for Hot Dog Day, which was the high point of each month.

Hot Dog Day meant that mom volunteers came in to steam hundreds of hot dogs and buns, put out catsup, (sorry, that was just wrong – we lived in the Chicago area and you NEVER put catsup on a Chicago dog!) mustard and pickles, a big basket of chips and our daily cartons of milk.

Yep, that was it. The culinary high point of the month. Go figure.

I was lucky. My mom made really good lunches – always some kind of sandwich, a piece of fruit, some carrot sticks, maybe some chips and something yummy for dessert. I never, ever traded my lunch, which annoyed the other kids who eyeballed my Hostess Ho Ho as I picked off the chocolate coating, unrolled it, licked out the white frosting of unknown origin, rolled it back up and finally ate the cake part. Of course, perhaps my consumption methodology was a bit unortho-dox and that’s why they eyeballed my Ho Ho.

High school was a new story. First of all, lunch boxes were completely uncool. Actually, I decided that bringing a lunch was completely uncool – until I saw what the cafeteria offered in terms of “food.”

Menu items included mushy yet crisp around the edges macaroni and cheese (I liked the boxed stuff); greasy hamburgers on slightly stale buns with a side of tator tots and gray-green beans; Tuna Surprise (sorry, I like knowing what I’m eating); and of course, pizza.

OK, the pizza wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good, either – but it was tolerable. On Fridays, I’d shell out a bit of my own babysitting money to eat cheese pizza, which was cut into huge squares and slapped onto the plate.

Chef’s Choice was probably the best – or worst, depending on your perspective. It looked suspiciously like a mixture of items from the prior week’s menu baked until dry and smothered in some kind of government-surplus cheese.

Amazingly, my guy friends ate it. They pretty much ate everything – even two of everything. Then they’d hit the a la carte line for a milkshake and fudge cookie. They might have complained on occasion that the food wasn’t the greatest, but it seemed like as long as it filled their cavernous interiors, taste didn’t matter.

Now it seems like kids have more appetizing offerings on their menus – stuff like salad bars, taco bars and even baked potato bars (yum!) – stuff that I would willingly eat, given the opportunity.

It seems more thought is being put into school food, whereas “back in the day” (my son’s favorite way to refer to my long-ago high school days) I think the idea was to fill kids up as quickly and cheaply as possible.

It worked. We apparently survived the fats and starches that were the base of the school’s culinary creations. Besides, the food gave us something to complain about then and something to reminisce about now.

Bon appetit!

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

PHEASANT RUN: Governor, DNR secretary visit Bong State Rec Area - October 20, 2006

2006-10-19T13:37:00.000-05:00

There were more birds than people in the audience Friday afternoon, when Gov. Jim Doyle (top photo) visited Richard Bong State Recreation Area in Kansasville on the eve of the state pheasant-hunting opener.

Department of Natural Resources (DNR) Secretary Scott Hassett (bottom photo) and a number of local and regional wildlife officers were also present for the event.

The hunting season for pheasants runs through Dec. 31.

Doyle spoke briefly while the wind blustered across the grass-lands before he and Hassett opened the crates containing pheasant roosters and hens.

Doyle said it is important for Wisconsin residents and visitors to continue to have places to hunt – and that this is made possible through the state’s Stewardship Program.

Since Doyle took office, Wisconsin has used more than $211 million in Stewardship funds to protect more than 160,000 acres of land for forests, parks, wildlife and natural areas across the state, according to a press release.

“It’s something I feel strongly about because it’s important to the people of Wisconsin,” Doyle said Friday, noting that he, personally, is not a hunter.

The DNR stocks pheasants because they are non-native birds and do not reproduce well in the wild, according to Paul Hainstock, a local wildlife technician.

Hassett complimented the stocking program, which went from 34,000 pheasants last year to 52,000 this year.

Bong is host to a managed pheasant hunt, with a limit of 300 hunters per day.

“This (Bong) gets stocked seven days a week,” Hainstock said, adding that about 180 birds are released in different areas of the park each day.

Bong State Recreation Area covers over 4,000 acres of land that includes grassland, woods, and wetlands. It is open year-round for hiking, mountain biking, cross-country skiing, horse-back riding, dirt bike and ATV riding, camping, hunting, dog training, and other outdoor activities.

Bong is located on Highway 142, about a mile west of State Highway 75, Kansasville, Wis., and is open from 6 a.m. to 11 p.m. For information call (262) 878-5600 or visit http://www.dnr.state.wi.us/org/land/parks/specific/bong

PHOTOS AND STORY COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

NEVER FORGET - September 11, 2006

2006-09-14T13:29:00.000-05:00

Three mannequins in fire fighter turnout gear stand near Phil Bosanko's driveway in Wind Lake, Wis., in silent salute to the fire fighters, police officers and emergency medical service people who died doing their jobs on Sept. 11, 2001.

CLEAN ROOM = PARENTAL GLOOM - September 15, 2006

2006-09-14T13:21:00.000-05:00

I remember dreaming of the day that the floor in my son’s room would be visible, that I wouldn’t need a shovel to clear a path in order to set something on his desk.

A week or so ago, a miracle occurred and my dream came true. The stuff is gone. The only problem: the owner of the room is gone as well.

And I find myself missing the mess every time I walk past his room.

I was almost smug, thinking we’d already launched one of our offspring out of the nest and into college, marriage and even parenthood. We had experience – this time would be easier.

We found out that in this case, experience didn’t matter. We found ourselves caught up in the frantic rush to pack, buy a lifetime supply of soap, shampoo, munchies and other necessities, cram everything into one vehicle – then discover we forgot we needed to fit our 6-foot-2-inch kid in the back seat as well.

We spent a long Saturday driving three hours north then hauled everything he owned up EIGHT flights of stairs (he’s on the top floor of his college dorm, of course), shopped for all the stuff we forgot or didn’t have room to pack, hauled that stuff up the stairs, hauled a metal loft kit up the stairs, put the loft kit together after consulting with numerous other confused parents and their college freshman as to how it actually worked (the directions were useless), found a place for everything, hugged our son and then hit the road for a three-hour drive south.

About five minutes after we left, my mommy world came crashing down. That was it – he was on his own for pretty much everything in a new place.

Without me.

Without his dad.

Without his twin brother or big sister.

In my head and in my heart, I saw the blonde, blue-eyed little boy who filled his days by singing, climbing, jumping, drawing and painting and living in an obviously delightful, imaginary world.

Somewhere along the way, that little boy became a young man who had already determined his own path and was stretching his wings.

I know he’s ready to fly, even if I’m not ready for him to go. He’s doing what we raised him to do, to think independently, to chase his dreams, to work hard, to create his own life.

His brother is doing the same thing in his own time, on his own path, not an easy thing for twins who, by their very nature, tend to be lumped together as one unit. He’s exploring the world, going to school and finding his path. He’s still at home, so the nest is not completely empty. But even with him home – he’s almost never home. So it’s pretty quiet at the old homestead. And his room isn’t as messy as it used to be, either.

One of the most difficult things about parenting is letting go and being able to say, “OK. We gave you all we could and taught you what you need to know. Now FLY!” I want to hang on to their last little bits of childhood, but inside I know that would clip their wings.

I’m learning all over again what it’s like to be a young adult, to choose a path and take tentative steps into my own future. It’s exhilarating to watch my own offspring doing it; it’s exhausting – and a little bit sad – to do it myself, because that means life is changing whether I want it to or not.

It makes me look forward to Thanksgiving – because I know the owner of that really clean room will return – and so will the mess.

And I will embrace them both with open arms.

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT PERMISSION.

"WE CAN'T FORGET" - Man honors those who lost lives on Sept. 11, 2001 - September 8, 2006

2006-09-08T13:55:00.000-05:00

As the fifth anniversary of Sept. 11, 2001, approaches, one Wind Lake resident will be doing what he has done every year in honor of those who lost their lives that day.

His yard will be filled with memorabilia, in hopes that anyone driving by will remember that day as well.

Philip Bosanko, a retired U.S. Air Force assistant fire chief and volunteer firefighter, created a small display the first year after 9-11. Mannequins lit with red and blue lights represented those from the police and fire departments who died serving others. A boat mast displayed an American flag.

“That was what they (the firefighters) used in that famous picture – at least, that’s what I was told,” Bosanko said.

He was referring to the photo of three firefighers posting an American flag over the rubble of the World Trade Center.

He built a 16-foot-high plywood model of the twin towers to light up the night sky. Over the years, he added a headstone that reads, “In remembrance,” and lists Flight 93, The Pentagon and World Trade Center and the number of dead at each site.

Last year, a yellow fire truck was part of the display. Bosanko isn’t sure he can get one for this year. However, he has added two American flags – one with the name of every person that died on 9-11, and one with the names of all the Emergency Medical Service (EMS) and fire personnel who died that day.

Red, white and blue lights will surround the display. He also plans to play patriotic-themed music – including “Proud to Be An American” – in the background.

It’s a labor of love for Bosanko, who is struggling to complete this year’s display. Bosanko is battling cancer, and the treatments are exhausting. He’ll have some help from his wife, Kim, who he said gives him a lot of ideas and helps hang the lights around the yard.

“People drive by,” he said. “We probably get 20 people or so from the neighborhood…the cops go by sometimes and hit their lights as a salute.

“As far as I know there’s nothing like it around here.”

“The bottom line is, we don’t want people to forget,” he said. “We’re going to do it until I can’t do it anymore – hopefully for a long time.”

“Never forget. That’s our line. Never forget.”

Bosanko plans to have the display lit after until 10:30 p.m. on Sunday, Sept. 10 and Monday, Sept. 11. The display is located at 7048 West Wind Lake Road in Wind Lake.

PHOTO AND STORY COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. DO NOT REPRINT WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

Unanswered questions, hard feelings: DNR represenatives walk out of mute swan meeting - September 1, 2006

2006-08-31T11:15:00.000-05:00

Questions regarding the fate of 30 or so mute swans on Phantom Lake were left unanswered Aug. 24 when Department of Natural Resources representatives walked out of a meeting sponsored by the Phantom Lakes Management District.

“It’s not fair to let them heckle us,” said Tami Ryan, DNR area wildlife supervisor.

About 80 people attended the meeting at the Mukwonago Town Hall, most of them apparently in favor of stopping the DNR from carrying out its policy to kill mute swans throughout the state, but specifically on Phantom Lake.

The policy was supposed to be enforced beginning in 2002; however, lawsuits prevented its implementation until 2005.

The Mute swan is considered a non-native species that interferes or competes with native species like the trumpeter swan.

“This is not just a local issue, this is an international issue,” Ryan said. “In addition, this is a national issue…and lastly, this is a regional issue.” Surrounding states, including Minnesota, Michigan, Indiana and Ohio, have similar Mute swan policies, Ryan said.

Audience members were primarily from Phantom Lake; however, individuals from Waterford and other areas also attended the meeting.

Phantom Lake resident Pat Kujawa asked DNR representatives specifically if they “plan to eradicate the species (Mute swans) on Upper and Lower Phantom lakes,” adding that the DNR policy does not state that the Mute swans are to be “eradicated.”

The Wisconsin DNR Mute Swan Population Control Policy dated March 4, 2002, states: “The spread of this exotic species will be prevented in Wisconsin. The Department will seek to remove all wild mute swans from the state with the exception noted below (referring to the townships of Waterford and Rochester in Racine County.) Control measures to be considered under this proposed policy include egg ad-dling, removal of swans to game farms or other facilities if they are neutered and/or pinioned, and lethal control.”

Nancy Ward, another Phantom Lake resident, said, “When I get up in the morning one of the first things I look at are the swans.”

“The swans are Phantom Lake and I think getting rid of them is out of the question,” said Phyllis Klaus, Phantom Lake. “Why doesn’t someone do something about the Canada geese?”

Gary Graczyk, Phantom Lake, noted the success of programs to restore the population of whooping cranes, certain butterfly species and even deer over the years. “I love the swans, but if we have the chance to restore a native species, we should.

“I’m not going to be a popular person here tonight, but in the long run, native species can make a comeback.”

Bob Mack, a Waterford resident, said the DNR should “let nature take its course.” He said his experience with mute swans on Lake Tichigan was good. “They’re certainly not mean. They’re gentle and decent.”

Bob Langmesser, Town of Waterford chairman, spoke in favor of the mute swans as well. “It’s funny that these mute swans were protected 10 years ago,” he said.

State Sen. Mary Lazich (R-New Berlin) and state Rep. Scott Gunderson (R-Waterford) were also present. Lazich helped Waterford and Rochester be made exempt from the DNR mute swan control policy in the past. She offered to contact the governor to ask him to put the issue on hold and consider adding Phantom Lake to the exception.

DNR representatives abruptly left the meeting after being interrupted a number of times as they attempted to answer audience members’ questions.

“I am absolutely shocked that happened,” Lazich said Thursday night.

“It was a little disappointing. I know that some of the folks in the meeting were shouting some things out,” Gunderson said during an interview Monday. “Now, do I think it was enough to warrant them saying ‘we’re not going to take this’? Not really.”

Lazich delivered a letter to Governor Jim Doyle Monday afternoon stating her concerns that “the DNR staff’s walkout serves to reinforce a growing sentiment that the DNR is an overly bureaucratic agency that is not functioning as it should.”

“We’ve been through these meetings before,” Gunderson said. “Some of those same (DNR) people were involved in the meetings in Waterford.”

Gunderson wrote a letter to DNR Secretary Scott Hassett on Aug. 10 asking the Natural Resources Board to delay killing the mute swans until the Natural Resources Board reviews a report on the policy sometime this fall.

Gunderson said he has not received a response as of Monday.

“The DNR staff is meeting early this week to go over what happened at the meeting,” said John Hammen, leader of customer and employee services for the DNR’s Southeast Regional Headquarters in Milwaukee.

Hammen said staff members will review questions that went unanswered during the meeting, and that the Phantom Lakes Man-agement District Board will receive the information first.

Until then, “We’re not going to do any shooting of the swans,” he said.

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. WRITTEN PERMISSION REQUIRED TO REPRINT ANY PORTION.

HELLO MUDDER, HELLO FADDER...Remembering summer camp - August 25, 2006

2006-08-23T21:55:00.002-05:00

Summer camp. My mind filled with memories of my own experiences as I sorted photos of a local Boy Scout troop’s most recent outdoor adventures.

I remember packing my stuff – the most important items included pens, paper, sketchbook and a contraband AM transistor radio (it was long before the Walkman or iPod appeared on the cultural radar)—for a week before my sister and I actually left for camp.

Fortunately, my mom had a bona fide checklist of the stuff we really needed. She inspected our suitcases and added superfluous items, like socks, underwear and a few extra T-shirts.

“You know, you’re not supposed to bring radios,” she said, rolling the socks together and lining them up along the inside edge of the suitcase.

“Um, yeah,” I said, setting the forbidden object on my bed and making a mental note to pack it when she wasn’t looking. Mom was more into rules than I was back then. You just couldn’t mess with my precious pop music.

Early Saturday morning, my parents woke us up, loaded our bags into the car and headed to the circus that was part of the leaving-for-camp ritual.

The parking lot swarmed with frantic parents trying to cover all the details and excited girls who just wanted to get to camp. A few official looking people carried clipboards, answered questions and pointed people in different directions.

My sister and I got on the enormous bus, complete with microscopic bathroom in the back. The motor rumbled and occasionally sighed, its diesel-scented breath filling the air.

Finally, it was time to leave. The doors snapped shut, the bus jerked forward, and we waved at the parents lined up like soldiers along the curb. I now suspect that as soon as the buses were out of sight, the parents high-fived each other and went out for a celebratory champagne breakfast.

That didn’t matter—we were finally headed to a parent-free zone with friends, campfires, swimming, canoeing, hiking and tons of other stuff to fill the long summer days for the next two weeks.

Hours later—OK, for a kid who tended to get carsick 99.99 percent of the time, it seemed like days later—we arrived at Camp Windego, somewhere in the forest that was Wild Rose, Wisconsin. Relief! Campers were quickly sorted as they leapt from the bus. This was usually the last time I saw my sister—other than meal-times--until the ride home, because we were always assigned to different units. We grabbed our bags, gathered into our groups and hiked into the woods in search of the tiny tent villages that would be our homes.

Granted, my camp experience wasn’t entirely primitive. Our tents sat on wood platforms off the ground. We had the choice of an outhouse or, if we wanted to walk a long, long way, there were actual flushing toilets out there in the woods.

It was primitive enough for me, a girl from the ‘burbs of Chicago. The outhouse was a no-go unless desperate measures were in order, like in the middle of the night. The same woods we skipped through during the day took on a Blair Witch Project look at night as our imaginations ran far ahead of the dim beam from our flashlights.

We hiked everywhere, singing silly camp songs along the way. I often wonder what my parents thought of the musical selections my sister and I would belt out in the back seat of the car when the mood struck. Sure, there were the traditional “If I had a hammer” and “Kumbaya,” but we liked the more interesting songs, like one about a billboard:

As I was walking down the street one dark and dreary day,
I came upon a billboard, and much to my dismay,
The sign was torn and tattered from a storm the night before.
The wind and rain had done its work and this is what I saw:
Smoke Coca Cola cigarettes;
Chew Wrigley’s Spearmint beer;
Ken-L-Ration dogfood keeps your complexion clear;
Simonize your baby with a Hershey’s candy bar;
And Texaco’s the beauty cream that’s used by all the stars.

That’s only the beginning. But after almost 30 years I remember every word!

Camp wasn’t always perfect. I usually attended with one friend or another from home—and inevitably, we’d end up in a big fight over who-knows-what, and not speak to each other until we were home for a good week. Then we’d cry, apologize, and forget what the fight was about in the first place. Stupid girl stuff.

I was introduced to horses at camp. My friend, Nancy, was a horse freak. I was not. Nancy convinced me we needed to be in the horse unit one year. I figured it would be an adventure, and maybe I would love horses as much as she did.

I was wrong.

The horse unit had to get up early to muck out the stalls (for you uninitiated, that means we had to shovel the horses’ poop) and feed and brush the horse that was ours for the two weeks.

Strike one: getting up at 5 a.m. was not my idea of fun at the time, especially because I tended to stay up until nearly midnight yacking with friends or reading a book by flashlight.

The bonus was supposed to be that we got to ride our horses before breakfast as well. However, we quickly learned that we were the lepers of Camp Windego, since the horsy smells tended to follow us wherever we went. We had our own table at the mess hall, and generally ignored the other girls’ wrinkled noses.

Strike two: the horses.My horse was named Nikki. I think horse people would describe her as an old nag. She uncooperatively poofed out her belly when I pulled the saddle straps around. If I didn’t pay attention, as soon as I put my foot in the stirrup and swung the other leg over, the saddle would slide sideways.

I swear she snickered when that happened.

Once I learned to check the straps more than once, I figured I had her conquered. Ha. She was always at the back of the line on trail rides, munching grass and leaves and taking her sweet time.

“No, Nikki!” I yelled, pulling the reins up and hoping her head would follow.

“Don’t let her eat. She’ll have a bad attitude,” our unit leader said.

It was too late for that. Nikki’s attitude was years in the making, probably from dealing with kids like me who had no clue about horses.

One day we were riding in the ring. Nikki must have had an itch to scratch, because she got down on her knees.

“What is she doing?” I asked, yanking the reins upward.

Nikki looked over her left shoulder, her eye gleaming. Then she started rolling over.

I jumped off.

“Don’t let her roll over,” the leader said.

Sure. No problem. By then I realized Nikki could do whatever she darn well pleased. She was much bigger than me and, I suspected, much smarter as well.

It was with relief that I would head back to the stalls, put Nikki inside and toss her a bunch of hay. That was the only time she was truly happy.

Nancy, of course, had a great time. She loved her horse, which was the biggest one. He was in the stall next to Nikki’s. One day when I was brushing Nikki, he leaned over the wall and bit me in the back. Maybe that’s what started our fight. Nancy thought it was kind of funny, and I’d had enough of horses. Never mind that at this point I realize she was right—it was funny.

Even the year of my horse adventures, when I looked forward to going home, the final night of camp was filled with tears around the campfire (more stupid girl stuff, I guess.) We’d sing our repertoire of pretty and obnoxious camp songs, talk about all the stuff we did, made amends with the people we didn’t get along with and exchanged addresses with the promise of writing at least once a week.

I remember the scent of smoke mixed with burning sugar—an invisible testament to the marshmallows that had dropped off our carefully carved sticks into the fire below, and canopy of stars far above our heads. I remember feeling like I was really part of the natural world.

Sometimes I wish I could go back, so I could appreciate every moment as it happened. My two weeks at summer camp gave me a chance to operate as an individual, without being defined by my parents or siblings. I saw and ex-perienced things I never would have otherwise. I probably have a better time visiting camp in my memories—and when I do camp that way, I don’t have to deal with mosquito bites.

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA. OBTAIN WRITTEN PERMISSION TO REPRINT ANY PORTION.

TINY SUNS - August 18, 2006

2006-08-19T07:46:00.000-05:00

Flowers bloom like tiny suns dotting the landscape on the shore of Devil's Lake, Wis.

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA

SWAN SONG: Mute swans scheduled to be killed on Phantom Lake as DNR implements mute swan policy - August 18, 2006

2006-08-18T21:44:00.000-05:00

Written by Christine Lupella and Mike Schmidt
The mute swans on Phantom Lake in Mukwonago may become just that – phantoms – if the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources finally implements its plan to eradicate the white-feathered fowl.

The DNR will be enforcing a mute swan population control policy adopted March 4, 2002.

The policy states “the mute swan is a non-native species with the potential for rapid population growth.”

“In general, invasives are damaging to native wildlife and to the habitat in which they invade. In the case of mute swans, they compete with our native wa-terfowl,” said Signe Holtz, DNR bureau director of Endangered Resources. She explained that the competition extends to ducks, tundra swans and especially, trumpeter swans.

“We’ve been trying to recover trumpeter swans for 20 years, and the swans have been quite successful,” Holtz said. Historically, the trumpeters have nested in the northern part of the state. Recently, however, some have nested in southeastern Wisconsin – including on Phantom Lake.

“We were really excited to see them return to the southern part of the state,” Holtz said.

The policy was scheduled for review in three years, which should have been done last year.

However, “we weren’t able to implement the policy for several years,” Holtz said, “because of court cases.”

Implementation actually began last year. The DNR attempted to control the mute population on Phantom Lake by addling the eggs, which involves painting a substance on the eggshells that seal them, essentially blocking the air and preventing hatching.

Parts of Racine County were exempt from the policy until the three-year study was completed. It states “no control of mute swans will take place in these townships (Waterford and Rochester) with the following exceptions:

“Mute swans are interfering with a new trumpeter swan territory…Mute swans occur within boundaries of state-owned lands…or that private landowners, local governments or lake associations request a permit to control nuisance mute swans.”

The impending death of the mutes upsets some Phantom Lake residents.

“We discovered, about a month ago, the DNR’s policy to systematically eradicate the mute swan species,” said Fred Malesevich, an 11-year Phantom Lake resident.

He does not understand why the DNR finds it necessary to kill the mutes. “To eradicate a species simply because they are not indigenous to this continent seems a bit extreme,” he said.

“The (mute swans) are just a beautiful asset to the lake,” he said.

“They (non-native species) are a problem to the natural system that’s there, including the fact that they really compete with and displace our native birds,” Holtz said.

“Our responsibility is to protect the native ecosystems and species that are part of Wisconsin’s natural heritage,” she said.

Mute swans are known for their aggression as well – although some local residents question this information.

“For 18 years I lived on Lake Tichigan and I’ve never seen an aggressive mute swan,” said Jim Farnum, a Town of Waterford resident and supporter of saving the mutes.

He said he has seen mutes defend their nests, but that aggressive behavior would be expected from any animal defending its young.

“You see 6-year-olds swimming with them (the swans), you see the 6-year-old feeding them by hand, and they come when you call – all these things,” said Pat Kujawa, Phantom Lake resident and Malesevich’s wife.

The mute swan issue extends well beyond Wisconsin’s borders. Twenty-five agencies, including the American Bird Conservancy, various chapters of the Audubon Society, Ducks Unlimited, The Izaak Walton League and others, petitioned the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service on July 16, 2003, asking for a “significant reduction of mute swans from the wild.”

The petition states “there is no biological basis for supporting continued populations of mute swans in the wild while there are sound ecological reasons to eliminate all wild populations.”

A letter from state Sen. Mary Lazich (R-Big Bend) addressed to Kujawa on the issue notes that the Wisconsin mute swan policy “has the endorsement of the Wisconsin Waterfowl Association, the Wisconsin Society for Ornithology, the Wisconsin Wetlands Association, the Migratory Committee of the Conservation Congress, the Voigt Intertribal Task Force of the Great Lakes Indian Fish, the Wildlife Commission, and others.”

Lazich noted that several years ago she acted on behalf of Waterford to stop the DNR from killing the mute swans.

State Rep. Scott Gunderson (R-Waterford) also supports a delay in killing the Phantom Lake mute swans until a final report on the DNR’s policy is completed.

“It is my belief that the Department of Natural Resources should refrain from the use of any DNR sharpshooters on already established mute swan populations until the final report is presented to the Natural Resources Board. This would allow the Natural Resources Board to review your report on the success or failure of the trumpeter swan reintroduction and the mute swan control policy,” Gunderson wrote in a letter to Scott Hassett, Wisconsin DNR secretary, dated Aug. 10, 2006.

Gunderson wrote that he believed delaying the use of lethal means on the present population is a “reasonable request because it allows to the Natural Resources Board the opportunity to review your findings and possibly alter the mute swan control policy, before the mute swan populations are eradicated because the sharp-shooters’ actions cannot be undone.

“One may wonder what the purpose would be of providing a report on a species that has already been eliminated,” Gunderson added.

“The bottom line is, the DNR has established something they want to do,” Kujawa said.

Malesevich wonders why the DNR will not allow the mutes and trumpeters to live together.

“Just let nature take its course…I can’t see, from my own experience, why they can’t exist together,” he said.

It is all about protecting the native species, Holtz said, adding, “we’re hoping that if we have trumpeter swans that people will enjoy them as well.”

“It would be great if the trumpeter swan would make a comeback,” Malesevich said. “There’s no guarantee that’s going to happen.”

Concerned residents and interested individual are invited to attend a public meeting at the Mukwonago Town Hall, W320 S8315 Beulah Road (intersection of County Highway EE and Beulah Road.) Representatives from the Department of Natural Re-sources (DNR) are scheduled to attend.

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA AND MIKE SCHMIDT. OBTAIN WRITTEN PERMISSION TO REPRINT ANY PORTION.

EARLY MORNING AT DEVIL'S LAKE - August 18, 2006

2006-08-18T07:39:00.000-05:00

Tedd enjoys an early morning wade in the tranquil waters of Devil's Lake, Wis.

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA

Hot Dog! It's the Cubbies - August 5, 2006

2006-08-11T23:23:00.000-05:00

What could be better than a summer Saturday at Wrigley Field, eating a hot dog and watching the Cubs beat the Pirates 7-5?

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA

CHICKEN DANCE - August 4, 2006

2006-08-04T13:31:00.000-05:00

Kevin Holterman and his brother, Ryan, offer their pullet--and each other--some encouraging words just before showing her at the Racine County Fair July 28.

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA

TALKING TURKEY - August 4, 2006

2006-08-04T13:23:00.000-05:00

John Suhling of Sturtevant, Wis., helps his turkey cool off with a bath during the Racine County Fair July 28, as temperatures reached the mid-90's.

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA

GAS WARS: Station owner pays $22,000 – for charging too little for gas, according to state law - July 28, 2006

2006-07-27T15:17:00.000-05:00

To the casual observer, everything may look fairly normal in the Waterford, Wisconsin area with its rural, small-town atmosphere. However, pulling up to the gas pumps reveals a different Waterford.

This Waterford is becoming a war zone – a gas war zone. And the ones who will ultimately suffer its effects are the customers, according to Waterford Pharmacy Station owner Steve Spitzer.

Spitzer is one of the first casualties of the war. He recently paid $22,000 to Roettgers Company Inc., owner of the BP Station at 200 North Milwaukee St., for pricing his gas too low according to state law.

A nearly 60-year-old law known as the Unfair Sales Act – which is often incorrectly called the “minimum markup law," governs retail gas prices. The Act prohibits the retail sale of gasoline at a price below a legally defined cost, in which the cost includes a minimum markup of up to 9.18 percent, depending on whether a gas station is refinery or privately owned.

“We thought that 6 percent over the cost you bought it at is how we should price it,” Spitzer said. Pharmacy Station is in the privately owned category.

Unlike regular retail sales, the markup percentage for gasoline is figured on top of wholesale cost plus the various federal and state taxes, transportation and delivery fees.

That creates extremely high gas prices, Spitzer said. For example, based on Tuesday’s depot (wholesale) cost of gasoline plus taxes, plus the required markup, gas would be $3.35 per gallon.

“There isn’t anybody that’s selling gas for $3.35 a gallon,” Spitzer said. “There’s no legal price around here.”

Roettgers Company filed suit against Pharmacy Station in Racine County Court in October 2005. Spitzer said his station was the “low price leader” – that is, had the lowest price in the imme-diate area – for 12 days. Based on the established civil remedy – essentially a fine – of $2,000 per day, Spitzer could have paid out $24,000. He said Roettgers Company settled for $22,000.

“That $22,000 hurt Pharmacy Station and all of its employees,” Spitzer said.

It’s also forcing him to take action against other local stations, he said.

“Do I want to be suing other gas stations? No,” Spitzer said. However, he filed suit against WH Pugh Oil Company of Racine, which owns a station in Waterford, on July 20.

“All I want to get out of this are my attorney fees and the $22,000 I lost,” he said.

“I need the people of Waterford to understand that I don’t want to do this,” he said.

The end result will most likely force Waterford gas stations to raise prices to the legal minimum, since the station with the lowest price on a particular day (if it is below the legal minimum) can be sued by every other filling station in town for $2,000 a day.

Then there is the fact that other communities, like Burlington, are charging below the minimum markup. People will most likely buy their gas there if prices are too high in Waterford.

That would be a loss of thou-sands of gallons of gas that are pumped daily in the “little town of Waterford,” Spitzer said.
“This is a game. This law is a bad law for the public of Wiscon-sin,” Spitzer said. “I don’t know why Mr. (Dave) Roettgers did this.

“Who is it helping?

“High gasoline prices hurt everybody,” he said. “This law is absolutely stupid.”

Dave Roettgers was unavailable for comment.

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA - OBTAIN WRITTEN PERMISSION TO REPRINT ANY PORTION

WALKING A MILE IN A SOLDIER'S BOOTS - July 14, 2006

2006-07-14T11:01:00.000-05:00

It’s a rare opportunity to view the world from someone else’s eyes, to walk in their shoes, to gain a perspective so far removed from our daily lives that it would otherwise be nearly impossible to connect to our personal reality.

Although hundreds of thou-sands of our relatives, friends and neighbors put their lives on hold for a year or more to head into the dusty Middle Eastern desert, those of us left behind in the safety of the States essentially have no idea what they experience as soldiers in a foreign, often hostile, land.

A recently released documentary film, “The War Tapes,” provides that long-overdue glimpse of our soldiers’ experiences. The movie won the award for best international documentary at New York’s Tribeca Film Festival this year.

The film focuses on a group of New Hampshire National Guardsmen who used cameras to record their tour of duty in Iraq in 2004. The result is a candid and sometimes painful portrayal of three soldiers’ lives before, dur-ing and after their Iraq experiences.

While I still will never know what it is like to be in a state of constant stress – will insurgents attack the tent we’re sleeping in? Will a roadside bomb explode at the precise moment our vehicle drives past? Is that Iraqi child really being friendly and curious, or might he be planning to kill us all? – the film certainly gave me a better understanding of our sol-diers’ experiences.

The War Tapes is not for the faint of heart, or for anyone who does not want to face the reality of war, of the decisions made by high-ranking officials that directly affect those hundreds of thousands of men and women, their families and friends, changing them forever.

War is what it is. It involves death and destruction, sometimes intentional, oftentimes not. The magnitude of the War’s effects on people and property is astounding, its apparent motives disturbing.

The movie forces us to look at those things from a very human perspective and leaves us all wondering what happens next. How will our soldiers rebuild their lives after all they have seen, heard and lived on a daily basis? Are we willing to give them the time to heal, to talk about things we may never understand, to wrap our arms around them when it all seems like too much?

This very moment my son-in-law is waiting in Iraq to board the plane that will take him home—for now. I pray for his safety, I pray his parents and friends will give him the time he needs to readjust to “normal” life, and I pray he and my daughter have the chance to see The War Tapes together, to help them talk about all that has transpired over the past year he’s been gone.

Like many documentaries, few places are showing the film. We saw it at The Music Box Theater in Chicago last weekend. However, anyone interested in seeing it or sponsoring a showing could contact the producers through the website (www.thewartapes.com) for more information.

COPYRIGHT 2006 BY CHRISTINE LUPELLA - OBTAIN WRITTEN PERMISSION TO REPRINT ANY PORTION