Be Mine . . .

Conversation Hearts

Such meek

Little tokens

Sugary white,

Shy green, prom

Yellow and pink.

But spiced with

Mottoes: SURE THING,

OH BOY!

Each one like

A reckless wink.

-by Valerie Worth

(Winking Bambi - photo credit to Delicious Monster on Flickr)

Happy Valentine's Day!

Designed by an Olympian . . . Open To Mortals!

Okay, so Muskegon isn't above the 45th or the Big Mac. So sue me! Why am I blogging about Muskegon?

Because it is home to an amazing luge run and the Winter Olympics started yesterday - that's why!

And because what's more U.P. North than hurtling down a frozen track on a piece of wood on runners with nothing between you and an instant brain concussion then shear luck and a little skill?

And because a 39-year-old man with a receding hairline spoke this week in Vancouver of discovering his life's purpose as a teenager when heavy machinery invaded his neighborhood park.

"There were some bulldozers tearing up my favorite sledding hill, and I asked them what they were doing," said Mark Grimmette, a five-time Olympian from Muskegon, Mich. "They said they were building a luge track."

Twenty-five years later, Grimmette's teammates elected him to carry the U.S. flag in Friday's 2010 Winter Olympics opening ceremony. He competes in doubles luge, a discipline that requires men to lie atop one another on tiny rudders going 95 miles per hour, in a sport so obscure it holds annual recruitment drives.

If you think sledding is exhilarating then you need to try your hand luging at the Muskegon Winter Sports Complex where you can play Olympian for the day. The price of admission comes with elbow pads, a helmet, and a well-maintained luge sled. An instructor carefully goes over each part of the sled with a beginning slider and teaches easy to learn methods of steering the sled.


Footnote: If you are thinking of heading to Muskegon to try the luge out first hand please note that there is a Health Insurance and Waiver Requirement – A signed waiver by participant (and guardian if under 17) and proof of health insurance is required before participating in the *Muskegon Learn To Luge* program. An insurance card or photocopy of card is required. No Exceptions.

Head on over to http://www.msports.org/ for more info. Let me know when you are going - I'll meet you there!

The Snowmobile Song . . .

One of my favorite singers is Canada's very own country legend, Stompin' Tom Connors. He is as Canadian as hockey and maple syrup and expected to be one of the entertainers for the Vancouver Olympic Games.
Today's post is in honor of the opening of the Olympic Games AND the M.I.R.A. Snowmobile Races taking place all weekend long on the ice out in front of Drummond Island Yacht Haven. Enjoy!

Life can be real with a snowmobile

There ain't no deal like a snowmobile

*Footnote: For those of you not familiar with Stompin' Tom - he is most likely Canada's most prolific and well-known folk singer.

He was born Charles Thomas Connors (known as Tommy Messer) in Saint John, New Brunswick to the teenaged Isabel Connors and her boyfriend Thomas Sullivan. He was a cousin of New Brunswick fiddling sensation, Ned Landry. He spent a short time living with his mother in a low-security women's penitentiary before he was seized by Children's Aid Society and was later adopted by the Aylward family in Skinners Pond, Prince Edward Island.

At the age of 13 he left his adoptive family to hitchhike across Canada, a journey that consumed the next 13 years of his life as he travelled between various part-time jobs while writing songs on his guitar. At his last stop in Timmins, Ontario, which may also have been his big "break", he found himself a nickel short of a beer at the city's Maple Leaf Hotel. The bartender, Gaet Lepine, agreed to give Tom a beer if he would play a few songs. These few songs turned into a 13-month contract to play at the hotel, a weekly spot on the CKGB radio station in Timmins, eight 45-RPM recordings, and the end of the beginning for Tom Connors.

Let's Dance!

“When was the last time you danced?”

– question put to the sick by a Native American Medicine Man

This may or may not surprise many of you that know me well – I LOVE to dance! And no I am not talking about Dancing With the Stars dancing. Just plain old Let’s Dance! dancing.

I have always started every day with 15 minutes of enthusiastic, wild and uninhibited dancing. Any music is good as long as it fills my mind, body and soul with the urge to move. Lately I have been fond of Santana’s Adouma from the Shaman CD. Barry very wisely leaves me alone during these times so as not to “interrupt my creative juices” as he puts it!

Imagine how validated I felt recently when reading an article on health and fitness that listed among its suggestions for helping middle-aged baby boomers achieve fitness without actually having to do an exercise routine they might find unpleasant – none other than a day started with a morning dance!

Raised by a great-grandmother who not only encouraged such foolishness but actually actively participated herself I have come to believe – as a result of her influence – that the beginning of dance is giving gesture to what we feel. And the ongoing effort to dance, to give gesture to what we feel and experience, is an ultimately healing process. Grandma always had her phonograph spinning – mostly jazz and blues. But towards the end of her life she fell in love with Elvis. We would twist and giggle at every opportunity – her polished hardwood floors and my bobby socks adding to the merriment.

My dancing was interrupted a few years ago. Somehow, without realizing it, I had simply stopped. Illness has a funny way of overshadowing one’s life – stealing the laughter from your heart if you are not careful. I let it interrupt my dancing – allowed it to creep into my soul and steal pieces of who I am. I am just now waking up to the idea that in spite of illness I can remain myself if I remember to be happy in small ways. Dancing makes me happy.

So I am once more moving with not-so-wild abandon across the living room floor as the sounds of Santana and Chloe’, our Border Collie, fill the air. It is truly a liberating experience – with its health benefits reaching far beyond the mere calories expended.

I have also started teaching our five-year-old twin grandsons a few “moves” – as Riley calls them – in preparation for summer evenings at the Northwood listening to the jukebox, messing around the dance floor with their grandma while their parents sip cold beers and discuss the catch-of-the-day. There is, after all, a legacy to pass on.

Nietzsche was right – “Without music, life would be a mistake.”
 let’s dance!

Paddling My Own Canoe . . .

"I am just sitting here filling myself full of happiness." - Esther Sessions Keyser

Today's blog is a plug of sorts for a book about canoeing. But really, it is more a book about growing up female in a time and place when being female didn't typically mean having the freedom to live your dreams.

Having spent a good many of my summers canoeing the Mississauga River in Northern Ontario, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that the mother of a dear friend was Esther's closest friend and partner on many of her paddling adventures.

Written when Esther was 86 years old, Paddling My Own Canoe is a beautiful description of her life long love for Algonquin Park in Northern Ontario. First traveling from her home in upper New York State to Algonquin Park (approx. 125 miles north of Toronto), as a child of 12, Esther fell in love. As a young woman, she worked at a tourist lodge, and then as an independent guide (hence the subtitle). She was lucky enough to obtain one of the very few leaseholds in the Park (all on lakes immediately adjacent to the main highway through the Park - the remainder is wilderness). She built a very basic cabin on Smoke Lake, and returned to the Park virtually every summer for 60 years.

Paddling My Own Canoe combines stories of her personal life (marriage, divorce, 2nd marriage, three kids, retirement, death of her husband) with excerpts from diaries she and her husband kept during the innumerable canoe trips they took through the Park in the ensuing 60 years. Her love for the Park - and the beauty of the Park - come through loud and clear.

Reading one almost forgets how remarkable Esther is as a woman. Not only that she was willing to engage in a very personal rebellion (in the 30's it was hardly typical for a young woman to leave "civilization" so she could devote herself to outdoor camping and canoeing - let alone doing so in the midst of wilderness - and then making an actual career (albeit, short lived) from it. Then later on to keep canoe tripping into her late 80's, is truly a testament to a life well lived.

I highly recommend this book for anyone who is interested in getting a sense of this magnificent natural resource, planning a trip to Algonquin, or who just loves good nature writing.

*Footnote: Julia Dickerson was Esther's best friend and partner on many paddling adventures. Julia's daughter - Grace - is a dear friend of mine. This summer we hope to retrace one of the orignal routes they explored down the Mississauga River. Neither Grace (now in her 60's) or I have been on the river system in some 20 odd years. It will be a grand adventure for both of us!

To purchase a copy of the book for yourself go to the official Algonquin Park website. The book can be found at this web address:
http://store.algonquinpark.on.ca/cgi/algonquinpark/00258.html?id=shGwkQ43&mv_pc=470

Esther's Granddaugher has written a children's book in honor of her Grandmother that can also be purchased from the Algonquin Park webstore. A fabulous new book for both young and old on the lure and wonder of a canoe trip in Algonquin Park.

http://store.algonquinpark.on.ca/cgi/algonquinpark/00490.html?id=shGwkQ43&mv_pc=543

Frozen Milk, the Pickford Creamery and other Snowy Treats . . .

"A snowflake is one of God's most fragile creations, but look what they can do when they stick together!" ~Author Unknown

Cold, snowy winter mornings when I was real young meant one thing. By the time I was rousted out of bed the Pickford Creamery would have delivered the days milk. Out on the stoop. In glass bottles with cardboard lids. Unhomogenized. So it seperated and the cream rose to the top. In the cold the cream would freeze and push the little cardboard disc out of the bottle.

Instant ice cream cone!

You can't get the real deal anymore. But you can still make a snow day something special by making a batch of Snow Ice Cream.

All that's needed are a few simple ingredients and some freshly fallen, pristine snow. The kind you only find Up North. Where the air is still clean.

The recipe is pretty basic:
2-3 cups clean snow
2 TBs half-and-half
1 TB maple syrup
1 TB cocoa powder
1 dash pure vanilla

Add ingredients to medium-small bowl, smoosh with a spoon, serve and enjoy!

It's a Way of Life . . .

Do you think you could live on an Island? Do you have what it takes to be a member of a rural community accessible only by ferry, plane or boat?

Here's a bit of a test to find out if you have the right stuff . . .

Do you flash your Rolex, brag about your car, name drop about who you know, or what blue blood schools your kids attend?

Getting noticed . . . do you dream of a huge house and a garage full of cars designed to impress others? Think you are special, put on earth to be awed, sought after for advice and your presence?

Do you have an ego needing stroking? Have an attitude needing attention? Are you a gold digger? Do you want to live in a gated wealthy snobby community and is your life about money . . . only money?

Think you were always destined for greatness? You don't strive to keep up with the Jones . . . that you are the Jones.

Translation - you are NOT built for living on Drummond Island and being part of it's rural, close-knit community.

Impressing others and having the latest material items is not what living on Drummond is all about. It's about helping others, serving your community, not calling attention to yourself.

Drummond Island, simple, real, honest living.

Outdoor campfires, picnics, paddling a kayak. Snowshoeing the ledges or cross country skiing through a silent glade. Folks on Drummond get excited hiking a shoreline trail and seeing three deer drinking from the lake. Enjoying a sunrise on Potagannissing Bay with a mug of hot coffee. A family of loons paddling by. Island people attend and get excited to help out at a church bean supper for a family that was burned out or struggling with cancer.

It is not about who you know . . .  it's not about being exclusive. It's about others. People come for a day, stay a life time. You don't need alot of money . . . that's not what impresses people in "Vacationland". On Drummond they help others, check on the elderly, coach youth sports. Teach Sunday school.

It's a way of life . . .