When spring came to Wisconsin

I grew up in Pennsylvania, and spent much of my adult life in Wisconsin. Winters in Wisconsin, though warmer today, were nothing like the moderate Pennsylvania winters I remembered. During one Wisconsin winter in the 70s, the high temperature didn’t get above 0 degrees F for one month. Yep. The HIGH. Then there was the winter, I think 78, when there was so much snow on the ground, the children couldn’t play. People were shoveling snow off their roofs. Roofs that had been built to hold Wisconsin snows. That winter, I took my two-year-old son to the local mall while his sister was in nursery school. We walked through Penney’s and then, at the opening to the mall itself, I said to him, “Run!” He looked up at me in disbelief. Had he heard correctly? “I can run?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. “Run!” He took off, giggling all the way, and I smiled, taking big strides to keep up with him. When he got to Sears at the other end, I told him he could turn around and keep running. I don’t remember how many times he ran the length of the mall that day. I just remember one very tired and very happy boy.

We’d moved to Wisconsin in May of 1975, after 5 years in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where memories of shocking crimes stood out more than the weather. We made some wonderful friends there. But by graduation, most of us were moving to various parts of the country.

That first winter in Wisconsin, I took Reading the Landscape, taught by the Madison school district’s director of the school forest, Virginia Kline. For two hours every Monday night through most of January, February and March, I listened to Kline talk about Wisconsin’s birds, plants and geology. I was already a casual birder, but Kline’s class opened up the world to me. During the entire time she was telling us about some aspect of Wisconsin’s natural history, she showed slides. A picture of stunning Eastern bluebird got my attention. She explained this beautiful bird arrived in Wisconsin on March 1, like clockwork. How could I suffer from long winters, knowing bluebirds were about? Another harbinger of spring came later in March or early April when ice went out of ponds and lakes. Ducks, swans and loons would drop out of the sky the very day the ice turned to liquid.

While much of March brought snow, I always knew spring began March first, when I could drive in the country and see bluebirds. 

Being Nonna

I picked my daughter up at the school where she teaches and then drove to her house where I would fetch Sweet Grandson (SG) for a weekend at my house. My daughter told me SG had been asking questions about college, wanting reassurance that she and his father wouldn't change their phone number or move while he was away at school. "He's only six! How can he be worrying about such things?" I asked.

She said the topic had come up when he'd asked how his parents had come to be married. They explained they'd met in college.

I walked into their house with my backpack so I could change out of the suit I had worn to an interview that day. SG asked, "Nonna, why do you look pretty?" His mother explained, "She had a job interview today." SG: "Do you have to look pretty when you have a job interview?" I expected more questions about job interviews once he was in the car and we were headed to my house. The first thing he asked, though, was if I had visited Mommy when she was in college. I said I had made the trip from Madison, Wisconsin, to a small town in Iowa regularly. "Were you so excited to see her, Nonna?" I said I was. "My mommy and daddy will visit me when I'm in college," he said. "Will you come, too, Nonna?" I said I would.

The topic changed to what we'd have for dinner. Periodically he'd ask, "Are we still in Beaverton?" or "Are we in Hillsboro yet? Mommy's school is in Hillsboro." Once we reached Forest Grove, he announced, "I'm going to go to college in Forest Grove."

"You can go to Pacific University," I said. He and I often take walks around the campus in search of acorn woodpeckers.
"Is Pacific University a college?" he asked.
"It is," I replied. "There are lots of colleges in Portland you can go to."
"I want to go to college at Pacific University," he said. "I can walk to your house when I'm at college, Nonna!" he said. "I can eat lunch at your house every day!"

Having that major decision out of the way, he enjoyed dinner, played with trains and then got ready for bed. We woke up Saturday to snow. While he ate breakfast, I put my sheets in the washing machine. "Did you pee your bed, Nonna?" he asked. I explained I washed my sheets every Saturday morning even without pee.

We went outside and threw snowballs at each other. He giggled and threw until he announced he was cold. We went inside and made oatmeal cookies. "I'm glad I don't have a sister or a brother," he said. "I don't have to share the beaters."
I asked him if he shared the beaters when friends came over. He said he did. I asked him if he felt good when he shared. He said he did . But he was still glad he didn't have to share all the time.

After lunch, we went to my neighbor's house where he ate about 14 of her cookies, and made a city out of Legos. He pointed out where the parks and schools were. Then it was back to my place where we read some stories. I asked him what he wanted for dinner. "My stomach doesn't feel very good, Nonna." We had chicken soup and watched Babe. It was a new movie for him, with more questions than I have time to record here.

Sunday morning we took a walk around Pacific. He wants to be in plays when he's in college, and asked if Pacific had a theater with a stage. I told him there were at least two that I knew of. The buildings were locked, however. We looked for woodpeckers. I pointed out a large sequoia. "Wow. That's a big tree at my college," he noted.

Mommy and Daddy came to get him while he was eating lunch. "I'm going to college here, " he announced. My daughter took me aside. "Thank you so much. We slept 12 hours Friday night. It's such a gift when you take care of him."

After they left, I vacuumed cookies crumbs and loaded the dishwasher before answering some emails and going to a meeting. I knew he was the gift, and after I came home from the meeting, I'd miss him.

McGovern and me

I posted the picture below, thinking of the days I campaigned for George McGovern in the Massachusetts presidential primary in 1972. So many of us supporting McGovern were idealistic and full of hope, after opposing a senseless war. Sen. Obama's candidacy brought those memories back.
My daughter just called and said, "Mom, who's going to know who that is?" Good point. George McGovern, then Senator from South Dakota and running for president, is the man on the left. I'm standing next to him. I was the area coordinator for the campaign in a town north of Boston. I don't know who the guy behind me is.

1972

Naming birds

Yesterday I went to Fernhill, the local wetland, for a walk . I was curious to see if there was any open water for birds. One of the best things about rainy Oregon winters, I've found, is that it seldom freezes, creating flooded fields and food for waterfowl. These last few days, however, it's been cold by our standards: nights in the teens, days in the high 30s. That's partly because we've had a string of days with no clouds, nothing to hold the heat of the day in.

There are 3 main ponds at Fernhill and some wetlands to the east. The first pond was frozen, but had a hundred or more gulls and at least that many cackling geese huddled on the ice. I walked south to the next pond, where there was a bit of open water. There were a few common mergansers, some coots, double-crested cormorants, several gadwalls and a pied-billed grebe. A few great blue herons hung out along the shore.

I turned east and saw sparrows on the path, mostly golden-crowned and song. A little further a hermit thrush flitted in a tree, but I had to take a second look. I'm still surprised when I see birds that would never show up in Wisconsin in January.

Eventually I made it to the wetland east of the first pond. There was plenty of open water. Pintails were in the majority, followed by mallards and green-winged teal--and cackling geese. I love seeing gw teal in the sun. Stunning. I kept my binocs on the ducks. Soon, a canvasback came into view, and then a lesser scaup. I turned toward the north and saw a ring-necked duck with some pintails and a shoveler. Turning back, I saw more ring-neckeds.

Getting back in the car, I drove along a road that borders the wetland and found 5 egrets hanging out in a field, looking for voles. A red-tail hawk flew overhead, while a kestrel perched on a wire. My soul fed by birds and sun, I went home. This morning I posted what I saw on OBOL, Oregon Birders On Line. I noticed someone else had been at Fernhill earlier in the day. He listed 6 or 7 kinds of gulls. I sighed.

I took ornithology when I lived in Wisconsin. I learned the main gulls, though I never came close to mastering shorebirds. When I moved out here, I thought: I'm not learning gulls again. Too hard. What is it that makes us want to name things? I decided years ago I would no longer keep a life list. I watched birds for the sheer joy of it. For the gift of being totally present. For the awe of seeing such feathered beauty.

Yet when I read the list of gulls, I wondered, "Should I learn them?"
I'll keep you posted.

Walking with a Zen master

I found my mother in the living room with several other residents. She jumped up out of her chair when she saw me.

“There’s my sister,” she said, happy to see me. A few minutes later we were in the car, driving west into the lush hills of Vermont township. Lucky, my golden retriever, stuck his head into the front seat and licked Mom’s face.

“Quit pestering your grandmother,” I told Lucky.

“He can kiss his grandma as much as he wants,” cooed Mother.

Lucky gave me a quick look of disdain and then turned his attention once again to my mother.

“Isn’t the color glorious?” I said. We were surrounded by red and orange oaks and maples. “Doesn’t it remind you of West Virginia?”

“Oh yes,” my mother replied.

I’m not sure if she really did remember her childhood home, but the hills touch something deep inside her.

“We had a good time,” she said. “They had several of them. He did a good job. But that’s the way it goes.”

Most of Mom’s speech is now made up of short sentences strung together, making no sense. She can’t carry on a conversation. If you ask her if she has children, she’ll say no. She has no recollection of me as daughter or my two sisters or my brother. She can’t remember my father, who died in 1978.

Alzheimer’s disease has taken so many memories away. Yet on that lovely day on Lakeview Road, just north of Barneveld, I was thankful Mom’s sunny disposition was still with her. Although she no longer recognized me as her daughter, she was still very recognizable to me as Mom.

When she was first diagnosed with Alzheimer’s two years ago in Texas, I was gripped by fear. I knew very little about what kind of care she would need. I didn’t know how to judge the various assisted-living homes in the area.

I did know enough, however, to call the Alzheimer’s Association. I talked to Mary Anderson, the director, at least once a day for the first couple of weeks. She cared for her husband’s parents when they had the disease. She has extraordinary patience and compassion. Thanks to the information I got from Mary and the Alzheimer’s Association, I found a wonderful assisted-care home for my mother, who gets loving care there. And I am free to simply enjoy her, savoring each meeting.

On that day in the country, we got out of the car and walked up and down the hills of a friend’s land. I stood and watched for minute as Lucky bounded the hill and Mom sauntered along after him, smiling, calling to him, enjoying the beauty and the sunshine of the day.

At the bottom of the hill, Mom kneeled down and embraced Lucky, laughing as he lavished her with dog kisses. She was still my mother in essential, telling ways.

Published in the Wisconsin State Journal 1993

Debby Thompson de Carlo

Life's a Teach

Life’s a Teach

I used to work in the public information department at a large community college in the Midwest. I wrote about students, faculty, and staff. One of the great things about the work was how it upset my assumptions.

I was visiting a satellite campus about 40 miles from the main campus. It was relatively new, and had a heating and cooling system that used the sun…and ice. The custodian gave me a tour of the system, explaining details in ways I could understand. I asked if there had been any problems with it. He said there had, but he’d been able to fix them. In fact, the manufacturer of the system had sent their engineers to the school to learn from Clint. It didn’t take me long to realize the story was Clint, not the heating and cooling system. I asked him what he did in his spare time. “I build airplanes,” he replied. I envisioned the small, toy-sized models I’d seen people flying at a local park. I asked if he ever flew his planes at that park. He smiled. “I fly my planes at the Experimental Aircraft Association show at Oshkosh each year. I have an airstrip on my property.”

A few weeks later, I interviewed a woman who, after she’d gotten a PhD in environmental toxicology, complained to a friend that her work wasn’t what she expected. She didn’t really like it. Her friend, a machinist, suggested she try machining. He was joking, but she asked him to describe what he did. As he explained how he designed parts on a computer and then programmed a machine to manufacture the parts, she wanted to know more. A few weeks later she enrolled in the machining program at the community college. When I interviewed her, she’d just become a machining instructor at the college after working seven years in the field.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was the day I sat down in the cafeteria and asked the student at the table what program he was in. “Auto mechanics,” he replied. I asked him what his favorite course was, expecting him to talk about engines or transmissions. “Ms. Kenney’s World Literature class,” he said. “I love reading Shakespeare. He’s really writing about archetypes, much like Carl Jung.”

The students, faculty and staff at the college were my teachers. I’m still learning.

Debby de Carlo ©2007