Autumn Blues

High winds came through the campground here at Laura Lake late yesterday. The leaves are tumbling down, floating over us and filling the site. Gary rakes them away from the fire pit, but it is a losing struggle. He talks about bringing a leaf blower next year. I think he is joking. I hope.

We had a small fire last night but it kept us hopping to put out sparks, so we soon gave up on that.

With unseasonably warm temperatures, the warmest ever recorded in October, we've been beset by hoards of campers. Of the 41 sites, 29 were filled by last night though most of the people in them were quiet senior citizens. Still, with the maples and bushes losing their leaves, we've lost our privacy … and some of the sound proofing.

Our friends the Battens pulled up stakes this morning and left for Illinois. We won't see them again until next year.

The high winds keep Gary from paddling his canoe around the lake. He spends part of his days making plans for improvements for next year's camping. He has the Piragis Northwoods Company's boundary waters catalog to peruse. It's filled with what he considers absolutely essential gadgets. I expect the UPS truck will be pulling in front of our house often this winter.

It is this time of the year, I get autumn blues, knowing we will soon be snowbound. Hallowe'en, Thanksgiving, Winter Solstice, Christmas and New Year's fend off full depression for a while, but by mid-January, I will be thinking back to the brightness of fall and even further back to summer and spring. It won't be until the end of March that I regain my equilibrium.

But what a joyful year it's been! I must remember that.

Visitors

Gary and I have been camping most of the summer. This week, for only the second time, we've had visitors.

The Battens came up from Illinois last Saturday, but they haven't been around the campground all that much. They take their canoe from one lake to another, looking for good fishing, which they can't find here at Laura Lake. Since they catch and release, we are not sure what the difference is, but they do and that is fine. When they aren't fishing they are trying to squeeze in as much of the Wisconsin experience as they can. Today, they are out looking at waterfalls.

Two days ago they went to Florence, at our suggestion, where they looked at the nature center, the county courthouse, and a few other places. They stopped at the bakery, too, and last night treated us to blueberry cobbler and ice cream.

Today, while we were off someplace, Gary's old boss at the Menard's home improvement store stopped by. He wrote his name at the edge of the lake. We were sorry to miss him, but found his message in the sand amusing.

In the afternoon, Gary's sister Kathe and her boyfriend Bill were here. We hiked over to the bog. At least Kathe and I did. Part of the way over there, Bill was tired and his hip was hurting. Just then Gary canoed over in a rescue mission and took Bill back to the campsite.

Kathe and I finished the hike. She and I are descended from hearty pioneer stock. We “bash on”.

The Battens are still gone and so are all other visitors. Quiet descends on Laura Lake once again.

It's just us and the chipmunks.

Here at Laura Lake

No matter how bruised I am, nothing can keep me out of the woods. Yesterday I hiked 2-1/4 miles around the lake.  The autumn colors are past their peak.  So many leaves have fallen in the past few days, the trail was nearly obliterated.

No problem, I've done this hike for decades.  ,

It can get cold, but during the day, temperatures go up to the 70s.  It's cold in the water but that doesn't keep Gary out of the lake.  Yesterday, near sunset, he was fishing at Gordon Lake.

In the evenings, we are met by six mallards, apparently hatched this summer.  They likely were spoiled  by campers because they loudly demand chow. We've fed them crackers, muffins and bread.  Today, in Iron River, we found corn at the hardware store and crackers in the free basket at St. Vincent de Paul.  We hope that will hold them until either they leave or we do.

Oh we love Laura Lake, especially when it looks like this when we wake up in the morning.

How can we face coming home?

Bottom

Whenever I've taught a writing class or been in a critique group, I've preached, “never censor yourself”. A writer must be able to broach any topic. So today, though I find myself with a sensitive topic, I'll write about it anyhow.

A week ago Sunday was a rainy day in Seymour. I'd been stuck inside, yearning to be out walking. Around 8:00 pm the rain stopped so I decided to take a mile walk down over to Highway 54. The sidewalks were still wet and had turned the beige shade they always do when wet. The night was dark and the streetlights weren't up to the task of fully lighting my way. About two blocks on, I came to a spot where gardeners lived. The rain had washed through their flower beds leaving a path of mud over the sidewalk. The mud was the same shade as the sidewalk and was as slippery as ice. I took one step onto the mud and flew down on my right side.

I immediately thought I might have broken a hip, but was able to crawl up to standing, once I caught my breath. Covered in mud, I limped home.

Two days later we were camping. My right side was sore, but I thought nothing much about it. There is no full length mirror in the camper so I never examined my derriere, nor thought about asking Gary about it. With temperatures hovering near freezing, we were wearing long underwear. Frolicking in the nude was not in the cards.

On Saturday, I returned to Seymour. As I was changing for bed, I glanced at full length mirror and was shocked...then interested. My right buttock was bruised all right, it was a gaudy show that looked like a purple tie-died shirt and almost the same size. It was the most elaborate bruise I've ever had, and that included the time I fell on my face.

Herein lies the problem. If one breaks an arm, one can show a cast. When one has surgery, one can sometimes show scars. When I fell on my face, the ambulance came and the local paper showed a photo of my black and blue eyes. There was sympathy from everyone I knew. Buttocks are another story.

I offered to show my bottom to Mary at the bookstore. She declined. I suggested the same to Susan when I met her at the farmers' market. No way, she said. I saw my best friend Norma two days ago, but she also refused to take a look. It almost made me want to go to the emergency room to show off the glory of my ass. No one gives any sympathy for a buttock injury.

So when I returned to Laura Lake, I told Gary to take a look. Gary is a gem of a partner. He reads about all things medical, understands such things as haematoma and was perfectly willing to take a look. He marveled at the bruise and even offered to take a photo. He also noted that I was listing to port so we discovered that the right buttock had swollen up.

He gave me no sympathy either but at least we could discuss the situation and laugh about it. I became the butt of his buttock jokes. I've heard far too many over the past twenty four hours. I finally tuned him out and  turned the other cheek, so to speak.

I expect to read even more bad puns in the comments area.

There is nothing I cannot share with Gary, bless his heart.  This is why humans need mates, I conclude. It is to have a partner to share our sorrows, joys, and injuries.

Note: I am still somewhat circumspect. I have not included a photograph with this essay.

Welcome Bloggers!

On October 19, 2010,  Nikki Kallio taught an excellent course on blogging basics at the Fox Valley Technical College in Neenah and I was there.  By the end of her class, I had  written my first post.  Tonight, Nikki is once again teaching the class and will be using this blog as an example.

I initially used Colleen Sutherland, Storyteller to get the word out to children's librarians that I was heading west on a summer reading program tour.  By e-mailing each library on my route, I was able to organize 19 performances in North Dakota, Montana, Wyoming, Utah, Nevada, and Oregon in June and July.  Between performances,  I visited national parks and forests, camping in a little Ozark tent.  Each day I wrote about my travels, using my little HP notebook computer.  I posted anywhere I could find Wi Fi, which usually meant public libraries or McDonalds. I traveled 8,290 miles and earned a $400 profit on the trip.

These days, I use the blog as a journal, writing about my adventures camping in Wisconsin's north woods, the happenings here at my home in Seymour, and bragging about my cute and brilliant seven year old grandson.  A blog can be about anything.

I learned how to track my readers by country.  This is my readership for the past week:

United States 89

Russia 11

Singapore                                                                                   4 France 2

Pakistan 2

Denmark 1

Egypt 1

United Kingdom 1

India 1

Latvia 1

Each day, people around the world are paying attention to my adventures.  I know that one of them is Helene in France and another is likely Nancy in the United Kingdom, but who are the others?  Unless they leave comments, I don't know.  Fatima in Pakistan was the last to write one.

Nikki will tell her students to post regularly if they want keep their readers.  I've entered 354 posts since taking her class, missing only three days due to lack of Internet access.  

A month ago, I started a second blog with Wade Peterson, Black Coffee Fiction (http://blackcoffeefiction.blogspot.com)  This time we are posting a new short story each week.  Who knows where that will that lead.

So welcome, future bloggers.  The world is before you.  Have fun. 

Which One?

This afternoon, Wade Peterson and I met and discussed short stories and why we write them.  There certainly isn't much of a market for them, hence our new blog.  We set down our motivations.

"These days there are few magazines that publish short stories. It is still a genre we love. The short story sets the scene, introduces characters, and moves things along to a conclusion in a few thousand words. It is literature that the reader can enjoy during a single cup of coffee.

"Our stories are character driven. We like inventing a character and finding out what he or she will do next. Once we enter the world of our novels (and we are writing novels), we are stuck with those characters for months if not years. Our short stories let us meet new people, deal with them, and move on. It is rather like meeting people on public transportation, hearing their stories, empathizing, and getting off the bus without ever having to see them again.

"So here we are, putting our stories out there perhaps to someday be discovered by those publishers who will give us enormous advances to keep on doing what we love and would be doing anyhow. Wade thinks we are both cracked. Colleen thinks we can't help ourselves, it's what we have to do.

"Above all, we want to be read."

It's my turn to post a short story on the new blog. I've been writing stories for some time now and there are a few possibilities.

There's a story about a boy, a girl, a dog and a sandbar.

How about a woman who can't get over her first love?

Then there's a story about island fever.  Or the one about a depressed pastor.  Or community theatre and a great kiss.

So many stories, and I have to choose one.

I am so open for suggestions.

On Friday, check out http://blackcoffeefiction.blogspot.com and see what I come up with 

Apples, Apples, Apples

Most years, it's tomatoes that everyone is trying to get rid of.  This year, it's apples. It's a bumper year for fruit and that means that people without apples are the friends of those with orchards.

It began when Elaine next door was given more apples than she could handle.  She gave me a bag full and I set to work dehydrating and baking.  I had barely worked my way through that fruit when Lavern, a tenor in my choir, called me over to his van in the church parking lot, and asked if I could use some more apples -- and pears as well.

I kept working at the fruit right up to the moment we went camping. It was a relief to be away from it.

On Saturday morning, I was on my way back to Seymour when my cell phone rang.  I pulled over to the side of the road to take the call (I do that). It was Chris to ask if I would join him, Tisha and Evan to pick apples at the Oneida Orchard.

Any time spent with my grandson is time well spent, besides I was under the impression that they were keeping most of the apples.  Evan picked with great enthusiasm. We found honey crisps, red delicious, empires, and macintosh.

When we were done, I found out that I had three big bags of apples.  The honey crisps are set aside for eating, but the empires and red delicious are being dehydrated.  I'm making apple muffins, too, and at least one apple crisp should emerge before I re-join Gary at the campground.

That should be the end of this fruity binge, but my friend Susan is pleading for someone to come out and pick their bumper crop out at the farm.

To make it worse, I have an apple tree myself, a winesap, an apple I've loved since I was a child.  However I've never been able to bring myself to spray that tree so it's wormy.  We've never been able to eat any of them.  We just throw them away.

However, this year, like everyone else, I have a bumper crop.  The apples hang low, almost breaking the branches.

I started picking the apples this afternoon to put them in the landfill and found out that there are so many apples, the worms can't keep up.  So every fifth apple could be used, but I haven't finished with the honey crisps, empires and red delicious yet!  So I bake, dehydrate and crunch and will do so until I leave for the campground on Tuesday.

Tomorrow I visit my friend Norma in Oshkosh.  I wonder how many I can get her to take.