Imaging how it could have happened

The Unicycle

Emil was an old sailor, solid and strong, very lanky with long limbs. He had been known to be good at acrobatics with his family laughing and cheering him on as he climbed down his home’s steep stairs on two hands.

Nothing seemed to phase Emil except the phone call he received on a windy November afternoon, which surprised and rattled him. Placing the phone back in its cradle, he sat down on his green chair, a smile slowly forming on his weathered face. He knew exactly what he’d do.

Putting his hat on he told his wife perhaps the first fib of his very long marriage. He told Edna he was going to walk to the Lake to think, which he never really did as his wife was fully capable of thinking for him.

The north wind blew strongly as he forced his body to lean into the November gale. He waved at his Polish neighbor, Mrs. Mulchis, who was sitting on her cement porch wearing her always present babushka, heat or cold. He chuckled as he remembered she was the only one on the block who had her ice block delivered by mule. He would be called to haul it up her stairs but not before the neighbor kids would break off a chunk to crunch. Quickly he hurried past the McCarty house - Emil glanced in the side yard for the boys – “The McCarty Boys.” No one was there - probably looking for trouble, Emil speculated. At least they won’t be picking his strawberries this time of year.

Trudging down Baraga Avenue, he saw the lights on at the corner store, 7Up, which made him thirsty for Grape Nehi, frosty and cold, fresh from the pop fridge on the stoop. He saluted toward the store where the Greek clerk manned the cash register. Emil was frequently taken aback by her bushy mustache when stopping there for a treat. He smiled.

He reached the Queen City Bicycle Shop just as the flimsy door flew open from the wind whipping up from Lake Superior. This didn’t faze Kevin, the shop owner, as they were used to the winds slamming the door around. No need to lock them in this town.

Emil explained that he was looking for a unicycle and wanted to have a lesson in riding the one-wheeled contraption, as it was the only vehicle he could afford. Kevin stifled a laugh as Emil was over 70 but he was a paying customer, so taught him how to ride the bike in the front alley of the shop.

Kevin was amazed as Emil was a quick learner and soon able to maneuver it to his specifications. Emil paid for the cycle and headed back home up the hill on Baraga where he would hide the unicycle from his ever-present wife, as he knew the consequences of her tongue.

Evening came and another lie, telling Edna he felt like having a beer with his friends at the pub. So again, donned his cap but this time snuck down to the lower porch, where a family of Native Americans were living, to grab the hidden unicycle, then continued fighting north through the evening gale. Instead of a left turn on 3^rd toward the pub, he went right on down toward the nightclub. This was a first for him, as his wife felt the devil lived in the club and would never allow her husband to grace its doors.

Emil was getting excited about the prospect of being a celebrity and began visualizing the headlines in The Mining Journal. He also imagined the tongue-lashing his wife would give him in its publication.

These thoughts ran through his occupied mind as he neared the nightclub when a gust of wind ripped away the unicycle tossing Emil to the pavement and sending it flying down the hill toward Lake Superior. It was too far for him to run down and get the cycle as he had to be at the nightclub in ten minutes.

The Tricycle

“Dang it” he blurted out to the wind and started thinking of a solution. Hanging his head in thought, he spotted Peepee Pants Peter’s tricycle sitting on the wind-protected porch on 3^rd. Letting the pent-up tension from his cheeks, he snuck up to the porch, reached over the creaky rail, grabbed the small tricycle. Climbing on he pedaled his long legs, knees almost bumping his chin with each rotation, propelling him quickly to the club.

Emil steered the tricycle under the club’s awning -- considering it was not an automobile he decided it would be just fine to park it there. Lifting his tall body and unfurling his legs from the bike, he checked his clothing and put his hat on, then walked to the heavy wooden door of the building.

A rush of wind, the “November gale” grabbed hold of the door but his strong arms took control and Emil manually pulled the door shut as his eyes adjusted to the dark lobby. The music pulled him into the hall, his eyes slowly adjusting to the warm room. He wiped at his fogged-up glasses as he wanted to be the first to see his caller and wanted to look his best.

The host came up to him greeting Emil by name. “Everyone seems to know who I am”, he reflected, as all eyes in the packed nightclub turned toward him, some whispering behind their hand.

Emil’s heart was racing, both for whom he was going to be meeting but also, thinking of his wife, Edna, and how he would explain his lie to her. What if things didn’t pan out the way he imagined? Oh, she would be madder than the wet hens in the chicken coop in the back of his house.

The Meeting

There was a hush in the room - the crowd quietly parting as a small group of men in fedoras and flat hats strolled through the gap. Catching his breath, the men stood aside, as HE walked toward Emil hatless, holding out his hand to Emil’s hand.

“I hear we are the same height,” he said to Emil in his slow drawl. “I think you would be perfect, he continued, while still holding Emil’s sweaty hand in his gentle grasp.

Emil’s words were caught in his throat as he shook hands wondering where this was going when Jimmy offered him the opportunity of his life. “We are filming a movie here in Marquette and Ishpeming, as you may have heard. The movie is based on the book, Anatomy of a Murder, and it will be an honor if you would like to accept the role of my stand in double,” Jimmy asked. “You would need to stand in place to mark where I would be standing. Is this something you are interested in doing?”

Emil stumbled out his answer of “YES, I would be honored, Mr. Stewart. Absolutely. Tusen takk” he added forgetting the English of his adopted country.

Emil Olsen in middle of Eve Arden and Jimmy Stewart

This is a fictionalized yet true story of my grandfather, Emil Olsen, being part of the cast of the famous movie, Anatomy of a Murder, which included Lee Remick, Ben Gazzara, George C. Scott, Arthur O’Connell, Eve Arden, and Joseph N. Welch. I like to think that Jimmy Stewart did shake grandpa’s hand, and that Emil was written up in Marquette’s The Mining Journal. I hope you enjoyed being pulled through Baraga Avenue in Marquette on my grandfather’s fictitious adventure

Welcome to the New Year

After hours of editing my journals, pictures, and old boxes of collected cards and notes - I hit a level of enough and pulled myself away to take a healthy break.

I smelled of old memories

Washing and scrubbing my hands allowed me to symbolically be free of the past and eager to create new adventures and easier paths for my future. The new year was around the corner and I was ready.

I spent time contemplating what made me smile, what was energizing or created the dreadful feeling of being burdened. What could I do to achieve more smiles and etch out time to pursue my passions. Something NEW this year.

From 2003 onward I wrote essentially the same obligatory goal list each year, with occasional glimmers of new activities. I cut and pasted these on a board the artwork that spoke to me - without much thought - yet this was my inspiration for the year. It worked! But, as so many things, it needed a dose of freshening up.

What made me smile in 2025?

• Drinking a good cup of coffee
• Being heard
• Enjoying a good time with friends who care for me -- harder to find than I thought
• Visiting with my children
• Reading on a quiet and cozy afternoon
• Watching TV by candlelight
• Writing at my local coffee shop or bookstore
• Looking at the stars and waiting for the aurora to show itself while we stood on a hill in the neighborhood
• Smelling flowers on a walk and discovering I liked to take their pictures
• Seeing my daughter and husband planning the garden by pouring over the plant brochures
• Picking up trash on trails walked with magical thoughts
• Pulling invasives
• Learning about trees, forest life, conservation and its stewardship
• Patiently healing from 2025 injuries
• Talking with my siblings
• Finding orienteering flags in the woods, even losing our way and getting lost in the events
• Embracing my Pacing Days of relaxed, no conflict or sense of urgency days
• Smiling over creation

Notice all the VERBS 

Maybe it's the VERBS (action) on this list that in my daily life makes me smile, happy, feel accomplished and delights my soul - so simple.

A New Year feels so clean and full of promise. 

An open calendar brings excitement over what's ahead.

Happy New Year. I hope you find some meaningful verbs to carry into 2026.

I wish I were as brave as Sojourner Truth

"It is the mind that makes the body" -- Sojourner Truth

    This quote resonates with my life experiences. Does it resonate with you too?

    Sojourner Truth was an advocate for civil and women’s rights in the 19th century. She was a former slave who acted in accordance with her beliefs.

    She believed that our perception and focus influence how others see our bodies. Truth suggested that if someone constantly fears they will get cancer, this strong belief might contribute to that outcome.

    A secure upbringing in a loving family can positively affect one's demeanor. Nevertheless, sometimes we can tell if someone has faced challenges just by looking at them. I've seen people who have endured hardships but appear content, while others from loving, affluent backgrounds show signs of distress.

    Sojourner Truth spoke with timeless wisdom – read again: "It is the mind that makes the body.” It's never too late to adopt a positive attitude. By focusing on optimism and noticing the positives around us, we can reshape our mindset and develop an outlook that we are proud of and cherish.

    I aim to be a positive person who laughs and dreams vibrantly. My mother was an optimist, and while I lean more positive than negative, there is room to grow. We have the power to choose optimism and pursue contentment daily. I strive to adopt an attitude that shapes my journey.

I wish I could talk to my younger

self and encourage her to take more chances

 

 

Showering with an Introvert

Standing naked in the shower after a hot day of biking on this tour, I tried to use one of the poles as a barrier to the mass of women mulling around on the tile. Laughter, bursts of conversation, and their contentment of their own bodies made this necessary bathing even more intolerable. I knew no one and was a true introvert.

I signed up for the ADVENTURE as I needed and wanted connection, to stretch myself beyond my zone of comfort, and yet, there I was - exposed and embarrassed. Why is shame an emotion you feel for being, what seems, the only one without a friend? 

I wanted to go home.

Memory – Middle School Group Showers. The physical education teachers lined a table by the entrance - waiting for the students to soap up and stand in front of them raising our arms and spreading eagle. They would make sure you soaped everything before we were let loose to rinse off and dress. BUT if you were on your period, you had to PROVE it to these women before being excused from the shower, then stand at the cold, wet sink basins for a "birdie bath" - washing up completely as girls came and went out of the room. At that time, shame, embarrassment, anger perhaps, and vulnerability, was intensified due to my being an introvert. 

Back in the camp shower, my poor exposed bottom, legs wobbly from the humidity, body burning with sandy sweat made the dread palpable, powerful and deep. I wanted to disappear. If I close my eyes, can I be invisible? 

Strange for me, this biking tour created in me a brutal exhaustion. Hours of biking over the years made me rather fit and healthy. But now, the chores of setting up camp, eating in a crowded and steamy cafeteria, and having an empty evening ahead to fill was overwhelming. As an introvert, you tend to lose energy in groups of people and am sure that was my issue.

I dreamed of home but the smell of DIAL soap burning my nostrils brought me back to the present in this sanctuary of young priestesses. How do you start a conversation with a naked bather? I almost laughed but remembered I was an introvert. 

I quickly pulled my wash cloth from the plastic bag and gasped as it plopped on the soapy and gritty floor. Knowing my next move was to bend over to pick up the cloth, I broke into a jittery mess. Best get to it, so in humiliation I exposed my cheeks to these teenyboppers to get the cloth and stuck it under my armpit as THERE WAS NO SHELF AVAILABLE.

Wrapping my hand towel around my body, I exited the tile floor only to run into a group of entering women. Scooting out to the lockers, my still wet body magically dressed in clean clothes, I left the building, holding my shoes, into the humid outdoors.

Group showers are the worst. Dislike, dread, dread, dread.

 

 

The Hardwood Walking Stick

All through my 30s onward, I’ve walked woods from the Appalachian and Smoky Mountains, along with the mountains, hills and valleys of Michigan - with a treasured hardwood walking stick I had discovered as it leaned against a tree. Its grasp was a perfect fit for my hands, the wood smooth and free of bark. What a find?

When resting, my stick leaned easily against a tree - my water bottle hung safely from a little nub near the top. I would lay out a special wool blanket - which was gifted to me from a priest-friend in the early 1980s. He was a peace-activist and purchased the blanket from a market crafter in Guatemala during one of his excursions. I loved that blanket - it traveled everywhere with me along with the walking stick.

The stick came into my hands when I found it leaning against a tree in an "Indian Cemetery" in a small town along Lake Superior's shores. What brought me to that place was what kept my Upper Peninsula grandmother and I close. We shared a nonfiction book, Lady Unafraid, passing it back and forth, reading it over and over. Upon her death, the book was given to me. The author wrote about this area from the 1800s during a time that Bishop "Father" Baraga* was traveling the region, visiting this Indian village on his route. She wrote about being a teacher to the Indian children , her experiences, concerns, travails, the beautiful views of valleys, the bay -- grandma and I adored the story. One year, mom and I visited this town and stopped at the cemetery to breathe in the essence of the entire area - to see what the author saw.

We slowly walked through the cemetery observing the care taken for the deceased with relics of their lives carefully laid around the burial plots: stones, pictures, work utensils. I was awed by the hush as we respectfully acknowledged each of the deceased. 

Large trees lined the perimeter but leaning against a hardwood tree within the grounds -- was the walking stick of my dreams. I had no clue the significance of this stick, only that the feel was so soft and sturdy, and it seemed to a random stick.

As I held the stick, a snake slithered from below one of the funeral huts making my mother scream and run from the area. I should have listened to her scream. 

On the 10-hour drive home, I was sick for the entire trip. 

Over the years, I matured and developed an understanding of Native Americans and their practices of honoring their dead. 

I felt the pull of my walking stick wanting to be returned to its home but kept forgetting to bring the stick with me to the UP - but do acknowledge that the connection between the stick and me had grown strong as my memories of adventures were entwined with it.

 Our family visited the cemetery years later … the tribal chief followed us down the dirt road to outside the entrance gate where he stood, patiently, watching us as we quietly walked around and even allowed for pictures. Asking some locals about his presence I was informed that the cemetery was being ransacked and tributes to family were being knocked down. The chief was protecting his people.

My heart ached with shame and guilt as I realized that I was ONE of those people who participated in this activity, too. 

Finally, and with the firm intention to return the hardwood walking stick "home" — our family, including cousins and an uncle, took the long trip along Lake Superior to the Indian Cemetery to humbly and with tears in my eyes, return it to the tree. 

Uncharacteristically, the chief did not follow us on this visit. I wandered around the grounds searching in my memory for the hut of the snake and large hardwood tree from where I took the stick. Change was evident in the cemetery - disarray, stones leading to the burial places were missing -- my heart broken, I found the tree where I took the stick in the early 1980s and, saying a silent prayer with an honest apology for my actions, and asked to be forgiven. I thanked the walking stick and spirits for letting me use it on my adventures and believe it carried these memories within its wood.

I placed this beautiful hardwood walking stick against the tree, where it seemed to stand tall and proud - it was home again.

(Please forgive my writing “Indian Cemetery” rather than Native American or Indigenous People Cemetery. I wanted to give the proper name, at times, but the cemetery was the “Indian Cemetery”.)

*Father Baraga (1797 to 1868) was consecrated to bishop in 1853 and was the first bishop in Sault Sainte Marie, Michigan. He was a missionary with the Catholic Church in northern Michigan along the shores of Lake Superior working with Ojibwe natives. Baraga was also known as the “Snowshoe Priest”.

Let me explain "who" I am

 If you were to ask who I am, I’d say that I’m an essayist focusing on life in Michigan, shared in this blog, but also a recorder of family stories shared through the years.

I came to love storytelling by listening to our family elders share their adventures in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan along with grand stories of life on the coast of *Lake Superior. Hilarious and colorful descriptions of the unique characters they met brought laughter - which just encouraged them to talk more. Cookies and milk, a seat on semi-comfortable couches, or splayed out on the hardwood floor were some of my favorite memories. 

I was enriched with the hours spent with my gentle maternal grandfather, affectionately named The Birdman of Small Acres Lane, by the local papers. We sat in his yard twiddling our thumbs, as he quietly shared his stories surrounded by flocks of birds brought in with bird houses and plenty of meal. 

Comic strip by Kim E. Perez

Writing down memories, stories, and experiences happens mainly in coffee shops and bookstores, although during the pandemic, my porch was my desk. Anyone who knows me, understands that I am always on the lookout for cozy places to piece together these essays. 

My ultimate joy is being outdoors, preferably in the woods, as whether I’m happy, down, troubled, stressed or contemplating a situation, a clarifying visit in nature is like a cool breeze on a hot day. A found bench provides a sitting post in which to bathe in the green and listen to nature, feels so much like I am participating in a Forest Bathing experience. I am then good to go.

I hope you find a glimmer of something positive if you are reading these blogs. Everything written is true -- at least that's what the family sailors and storytellers told me.

*Gichi-Gami (Great Sea) is the name the Ojibwe people called Lake Superior. The name Gitche Gumee was popularized through Gordon Lightfoot’s song, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald and through the poem, The Song of Hiawatha, written by H.W. Longfellow.