Practice Makes Better

I’ve never been much for practicing anything. When I pick up a new hobby I usually just start making stuff. I don’t really put forth the effort to ever get really good at it. And for someone who considers herself to be somewhat of a perfectionist, I don’t get much perfect. I don’t even get better. When I was a kid it was important to my mom that all of her children take piano lessons. She acquired a beautiful second hand upright that was missing a bunch of ivories and wasn’t tunable. Try running your 10 year old hands down a keyboard with no ivories. Not fun. Only one out of 3 of us kids actually put in the practice and got good at music. It wasn’t me. I was always in awe of my piano teacher, Mrs. Dvorak, when she would say, “You didn’t practice, did you.” How in the world did she know? Apparently practicing for 15 minutes before I rode my bike down to her house didn’t do a whole lot. Needless to say, my level 2 rendition of Journey’s “Open Arms'' didn't make the cut for the spring recital. Last year, during the COVID shutdowns our younger son stayed with us. Both of our sons are amazing musicians, but I never realized the amount of practice that it takes to become really good at guitar. He would practice for hours every day, playing these short riffs over and over and over, (not gonna lie, it got on my nerves a little). But the first time I got to see he and Robby play together I couldn’t believe it. They were amazing. This spring a few friends and I are taking tap lessons. You might remember I took tap lessons several years ago but it was mostly for fun. There was no practicing as is customary for me. But this time I was thinking about Sam and his endless practicing and about how much better his guitar playing has gotten. So I decided I’d take on the example he set. I took a video of my tap teacher and set up a little make-shift dance studio in my laundry room. I have been practicing both the dance she is teaching us and what are called “rudiments'' which are short steps practiced over and over and over. I can’t believe how much more confidence I have. I go to class feeling like I can keep up. I know the dance and don’t feel like the awkward 5th grader confessing that she hasn’t been taking it seriously. I may not be ready to audition for Riverdance, but I can say that practice does make better. And I’m getting better.

As I was submitting my column for this month, I was informed that it will no longer appear in the Markeplace publication. I was told that my column would now be appearing in the Petoskey News Review on the first Thursday of the month. While this news was met with some excitement on my part, (am I now entering the “big leagues?”), I realized that suddenly, a large majority of my readership will no longer have free access to my column in print form. I felt that I owed it to you to personally send a farewell message and let you know how much I have enjoyed writing for this particular paper for all these years. Some of you have been with me from the beginning and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your loyalty, comments, letters, and even chapstick! When I first started writing for what was at that time called, “Saturday,” it was completely by accident. My friend, Renee’ Tanner had mentioned that the News Review was always looking for “stringers.” “What’s a stringer?” was my questions, and after my first submission, The Flip Side, Life After 40 was born. At that time, it was 2010. My sons were middle and high school aged. You were with me through sports, drivers training, a variety of crafts, vacations and stay-cations, and surviving a bee in the car. You learned about my love of shoes and my addiction to chapstick. You were there for me during the saddest year of my life when I lost my brother and mother-in-law, and you were there when the sadness lifted. You have met me in the grocery store checkout lane, in Dunham’s and even up at Johnson Lake in the U.P. Every chance meeting, whether you know it or not, came at a time when I almost quit writing because I just didn’t have anymore ideas. But yet, your one kind comment of, “I love your column!” inspired me to keep on going. Although this is not “goodbye,” I feel like some of you won’t be able to read my writing without some extra effort. I will still be published in the PNR and online. Because my mom insists that I keep my blog current, you can still find me there, although it doesn’t stay updated as regularly as it should be. Every writer writes for an audience, whether it is personal or public. I want to thank you so much for your loyalty and encouragement over the years, and if you continue to follow me, I’ll catch you on the flipside. Notice: This is by no means my final blog post. This is just the one I wrote to say "goodbye" to my readers as my column transitions from one publication to another. I thought I should share because my mom likes to read every one of my posts and will wonder why I haven't posted anything this month. I hope you liked it too. -Dawn

The Case of the Disappearing Footwear

This past year I have been working very hard to practice what I have learned when it comes to my new minimalist lifestyle. I really embrace the theory of minimalism. I truly believe that it isn’t what you have, but how you live that creates a peaceful, happy life. I now agree that more stuff means more chaos. I follow one decluttering guru that has said that your house is more functional when it’s clutter free and organized. I really like coming around the corner into my kitchen and seeing a bare countertop. I used to be that person who would do last night's dishes while I was cooking tonight's dinner. Last week’s clean (wrinkled) laundry got folded as I was washing this week's loads. A different YouTube decluttering mentor said “Always see a job to the end.” So I’m really trying to do that. And it’s worked for the most part. I feel like things are tidier and more organized. The only failure I’d say is that I went a little overboard when it came to getting rid of stuff. Last Christmas I was all ready to make mini loaves of pumpkin bread for my coworkers and went to grab my handy-dandy Pampered Chef 4 loaf mini-baker. It was nowhere to be found and I was frantic. My husband suggested that it fell victim to the Minimalist Challenge, 2019. I was so bummed because it was already seasoned and is pretty pricey to replace. More recently, a friend and I were discussing the need for less shoes. Yes, I said “less shoes.” I came to the conclusion that having fewer shoes that I really like, wear, and are comfortable is more important than sheer quantity of shoes. Unfortunately, my last donation trip to GoodWill included the dress shoes I wore once to my son’s wedding. I kept moving these high heel shoes back and forth between the attic and closet for 2 years and finally convinced myself that I would never wear them again. This also applied to a pair of boots that made it to the donate bin around the same time. After those left my world, I inherited a skirt that would have worked perfectly with the former pair of boots. To make matters worse, a week ago, I was invited to attend a gala event next fall which would require, you guessed it, those wedding heels. So my system isn’t exactly foolproof. I found myself wandering the aisles of Goodwill trying to buy back my donated footwear, to no avail. I didn’t feel peaceful or happy when I left the store empty handed, but I’m still a believer in minimalism and decluttering. I just need to iron out the kinks.

Feeding the Birds

Earlier this month, I was sitting in the lunch room trying to think of something to add to the usual lunch time banter. “Oh check this out! I had some yellow finches at my new feeder!” I excitedly showed the video from my phone of 4 birds happily enjoying the seeds out on my back deck. “So now you’re that person who takes movies of her bird feeder?” my friend jokingly asked. Wow, did I suddenly feel old. I don’t know why taking movies of my bird feeder classified me as the old guy in the room. I have always liked birds. My grandma was an avid bird watcher and had many feeders in her back yard, along with her “Pocket Guide to Birds” book and binoculars next to the window. I’m not that bad yet. But I have fond memories of my grandma telling me about birds and about how blue jays are the “bullies of the backyard feeder.” I always enjoyed watching her yell “Shoo!” at those pretty birds. For the last few years we’ve always had some sort of feeder in our yard. I half-heartedly filled them with whatever bird seed I found in the garage. It was usually the same stuff I threw in the chicken coop. However this year I developed an interest in getting more serious about my bird attracting. I ordered an oriole feeder and then read an article about how to attract them, (with oranges). And what not to feed them, (grape jelly-contrary to popular belief). I had already used a gift certificate to by a cute yellow finch feeder, to replace the thistle seed socks I hung around the yard last winter. I just love yellow finches. They are probably my favorite bird. That feeder is on my deck railing, hanging to the outside of the deck so that my cats won’t mistake it for a lunch buffet. This year I also decided I was going to make an effort to attract not only orioles and finches, but robins. Robins are so quintessential spring in Michigan, that I did some reading about what they like to eat. So our Saturday trip down to Traverse City resulted in a new eco-friendly feeder and some songbird mix, complete with raisins and dried mealworms. My new hobby seems to be paying off. Just tonight there were about 50 little birds that I have never seen before going crazy over my finch feeder. After a quick search on my computer, it turns out they are called common redpolls. I have never even heard of those, but they sure are pretty. So I guess what I am saying is that I’ve turned into my own grandma and if that makes me the old lady in the lunchroom, so be it. Just don’t be surprised if I whip out my phone and show you a video of the orioles when they finally make their way to my feeder.

Those Pesky Passwords

About a week ago, I found myself in a foul mood. Such a foul mood that I stopped at the gas station on my way home for a Little Debbie’s snack cake and some Pringles. When I got home I put my stuff down, played frisbee with my dog, fed the chickens and then went straight to the couch. I laid down under a double-folded weighted blanket, and watched JoJo make the world’s easiest meal, parmesan chicken alfredo, on an episode of Magnolia Table just so I could decompress. I have been doing a pretty good job these days of keeping my stress level in check. I pray, meditate, do yoga, and practice gratitude. So that day, the feeling of tight muscles, clenched teeth, and raw irritability, were something I hadn’t felt since the election. What had me rattled to the point of food soothing and weighted blankets? Passwords. Google Chrome has been on my last nerve lately with the constant updates and re-installing. And if you aren’t having that problem, please tell me how you have avoided the little red circle with the up-arrow, because I see it almost weekly, if not daily (it’s up there now, in fact). And just about every time I re-install it, my passwords go missing. When the whole password thing first started, I could use a password like 1234qwerty. Then I had to get a little more creative like, h4rL3y. And in those days, I could use them on multiple websites. Now that the internet is a virtual wasteland of people and bots trying to steal our information and identity, passwords have gone from easy to remember 6-8 letters and number combinations to 16+ letter, number, symbol combinations that in no possible way can ever be memorized. They look something like this: 7}%7FG^MuG'2u/3f. And forget trying to write them down in your little middle-aged password notebook, you will almost definitely write one character incorrectly and get the dreaded, “Oops! Incorrect username or password. Please try again.” But don’t try more than 3 times or they will lock you out of your account. With some of my accounts, I have stopped trying to figure out a way to remember these god-awful passwords (which shouldn’t even be called “words”). Now I just type in my username (if I can remember which one), and hit “forgot password?” because it is actually easier to go through the 3-step process to just make up a new one with my handy random password generator website and the copy & paste keys, than trying to find the sticky note I wrote the last one on. Where that doesn’t work is on apps like Pinterest where I am signed in on 4 different devices, so every time I change the password, I have to change it on multiple devices. You do not want to catch me on that day! Which was what happened on the day in question and brings me back to the couch, the pringles, and Magnolia Table. So if you happen to find me in a foul mood, it’s probably the passwords.

A 5 Star Year for Betsy

As we wrap up on 2020, I can honestly say that it has probably been the most uncertain, difficult year on record. Until this year, my life has been without a lot of crazy turmoil. So when I saw a coffee cup for sale that had 2020 with one out of 5 stars filled in, I thought, “That pretty well sums it up.” And unless you invested in the plastics industry and made a kazillion dollars this year, 2020 has probably been one of the more difficult years for you too. The other day I was looking at my dog, happily lounging in our living room. I was home because of yet, another covid shut-down, and thought “This really has been The Year of Betsy.” Betsy has been our “problem child.” She came to us as a post-Molly, empty nest solution. She has had behavior problems, allergy problems, and injury problems. She is nicknamed “Miss Barky-pants” and “Woofy Woofersons” because of her barking problems. She is no longer allowed in the front yard without being tied out because of her annoying habit of bolting into the road after neighbors who are simply trying to enjoy their daily dog-walking sessions. In spite of all that, 2020 has been a 5 star year for Betsy. It started out like any other year, with she and I taking morning walks and the rest of her days being spent in the garage while Tom and I went to work. But when Covid hit and the shut downs happened, not only did Tom join us at home and on our walks, but our son (her most favorite human in the world) came home from college to weather out the lockdown. Suddenly, Betsy had it made. She had two parents walking with her daily, and almost 8 consecutive months of company. She got to go on additional 4 mile walks in town several days a week with me and my friends. Sam took her out most evenings to either go play frisbee golf, go to the beach, or be the rock star at the park with her own frisbee. Betsy resumed agility classes and we also worked a little bit on AKC Rally skills in the back yard. If I were to guess, the highlight of her summer was probably the day she got to try out real sheep herding. She had so much supervision that were able to stay on top of her itchy foot licking and catch it before she turned her feet into raw hamburger. When I went back to work in September, Sam’s job allowed him to remain remote. Eventually, he moved out and Betsy returned to the garage for a short time, until we shut down again. This second round of shut downs gave me a little bit of crafting time to make her a new fleece tie blanket and matching snuffle mat. Betsy doesn’t care about Covid-19, the presidential election, or the economy. If she can have the ones she loves close by for the majority of the time, it’s 5 out of 5 stars for her. And if I take a moment to count my blessings, it is for me too.

Once Upon a Skunk

I have often said that I would rather run into a bear than a skunk. Actually, I have come in close contact with a (small) bear and after we both stood there in awe and wonder of each other, we simultaneously realized the danger and quickly went our separate ways. That’s not to say that it could be catastrophically worse the next time (and I hope there won’t be a next time). But for me, I have a strong aversion to skunks bordering on irrational fear. It seems to have gotten worse over the years. There’s actually a name for it. Mephitophobia. I didn’t realize the level of phobia I have regarding skunks, until recently. It started out like any other night. My dog, Betsy, was unusually wound up. I attribute it to the fact that she is getting a lot less exercise than she was when I was home over the spring and summer months. So I suggested that we head out in the backyard to play frisbee. It was dark out, so I flipped on the back light. Now, I usually scan the back yard quickly for any sign of a white stripe, but I was negligent. I didn’t even consider it. I swung open the door and Betsy immediately took a hard left and pounced. At first, I thought it was a cat, until she jumped back and I saw the telltale white tail in the air. It was at this point that I lost my mind. I started yelling and jumping up and down trying to get her to come back inside (mistake #1). But for some reason, she seemed to want to investigate this strange new friend further. By the time I got her into the garage, the damage had been done. We proceeded to hose her down immediately (mistake #2), and donned with rubber gloves, we used what we had, roughly half of a 32 oz. bottle of Dawn dish soap. But it didn’t seem to work at all. Our entire house reeked. I swore I could taste it. The stench seemed to coat my nostrils. The level of anxiety that this particular incident invoked rivaled that of a car accident or natural disaster. I was a wreck. Would I smell like skunk at work the next day? How long would our house stink? This whole incident was a practice in calming down and reminding myself that it could, in fact be worse. I could have gotten mauled by a bear, right? I definitely won’t be as lax the next time I swing open the back door after sunset. The funny thing was, that no one really batted an eyelash. “Oh, that happened to my dog last week,” my friend said casually. And after a few days it really wasn’t that big of a deal. My husband seemed somewhat amused when he said, “We just need to learn to get along with our skunk friends.” That’s fine. As long as they keep their distance.