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metra again. [merely-a-thought monday]

three and a half years.

if my photos are correct, the last time we were on metra – heading to chicago – was december 15, 2019.

and then, last week. over and over i said, “i can’t believe we’re on the train.”

we used to go on the train quite often…jaunting down to see our son, to catch dinner with him, to simply walk around downtown, to see holiday lights. we really live in a convenient place…pretty much midway between milwaukee and chicago with a hop-skip-jump to madison. each of these cities are within less than a two hour radius. but it didn’t matter during covid. we stayed away.

on the train with dear friends, we talked about the arc of the last three plus years. how 2020 was a watershed into the next, how impacted we all were by the pandemic, how the recovery phase has been slow. and we marveled at sitting on the train together, chatting with our seats facing each other, laughing, having a picnic lunch, taking the easy route to chicago. it was – truly – marvelous.

we don’t mind driving to chicago. we always take the back roads and enjoy the little towns and ravines along the way. it’s not that we are completely interstate-averse, but if there’s a back way and we can plan some extra time, we are going to opt for it. with a tiny bit more control of our schedule, we also felt a little more control of our airspace.

so we had virtually forgotten about the train. until last week.

our first-time-back on-board was kind of magical. much of the route goes along the back road, so new perspectives as we chugged past the towns we love to drive through. it made us all a little dreamy – so many possibilities of things to do together – simply by taking the train.

saturdays and sundays and holidays offer $7 weekend passes and weekdays – on an app – offer $10 full day passes throughout all the zones metra travels. the new ventra app makes it all easy. “easypeasy” as 20 says. i imagine we’ll be using that eataly giftcard we were given one of these days. it’s been tucked into a cupboard, waiting for some time now.

like us. we’ve been waiting. to move back into the world. it’s not like we haven’t moved about. not as much adventuring up to now as most, but we have roadtripped to see our kids, our family, have shared time with closest friends. but we can feel the difference now. we can feel the tug of concerts, the pull of town hall type talks, the visceral tapping on our shoulder of travel and experiences.

it was weird to sit on the train – after all this time – sans mask. there were a few moments i thought about it, a little wary, because the pandemic has left its mark on me. it’s left its mark on all of us. i don’t suppose there will be a time now that my purse won’t have a KN95 in it. and hand sanitizer. i definitely see the wisdom of sanitizer.

we exited metra at our northbound station, tired from the day but not in an exhausted way. a little bit had changed.

and we felt it. we talked it about it later.

life – and breathing a little bit easier – inviting us. on a tiny and a grand scale, both.

to take the train.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this MERELY-A-THOUGHT MONDAY

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readers. [saturday morning smack-dab]

i wear one contact. in my left eye. though i can actually see distance, it helps me see cleeearly – you know, defines the lines a little bit more, makes all the signs crisp. my right eye – sans contact – sees up close. and somehow, for the most part, my brain figures this out.

so i can usually see. most stuff.

but there are times. and – even with the great squint – the greatest squinty squint – i can’t read. like the ingredients on the bbq sauce at the grocery store or the directions for use on the new cleaning product. or the dang menu. in the tiniest font ever is printed all the potential meals we could ever desire…if only we could read them.

there’s always a pair of readers – the cheap kind that came from the dollar-and-a-quarter-store-that-used-to-be-the-dollar-store (does ANYthing EVER stay the same???). but they could be 1.25s. or maybe 1.5s. and there are fonts out there in the world that require flippin’ 2.5s. i know you can relate.

we have this clay bowl in our sunroom. in it are about thirteen pairs of readers. a baker’s dozen. and we have readers tucked into the side doors of littlebabyscion and big red. and we have readers right outside the kitchen hanging on the same hook as the key basket. and we have readers upstairs on the drafting table in the office. and there are readers – yes, yes – next to the bed.

we went into a newly revamped shop in our town a few days ago. lovely. so many nice products. and the proverbial rounder – the one with all the fancypants readers. they are cute-cute-cute!! i was tempted to try some on. but instead, i passed by. $24.99 was pricier than readers-to-add-to-the-bowl can be for me.

besides, i kind of think menus should come with readers attached. or maybe a magnifying glass. a little less ego-bruising.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

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the nest. [d.r. thursday]

apparently, tucked into the dried grasses next to breck-the-aspen-sapling and surrounded by fallen leaves and mulch, the mama bunny tended the nest for about a week. it was the first time we had had a bunny in the backyard. squirrels and chippies and many birds and even a fox, but no bunnies.

there was a day we saw the bunny for the first time. she hopped and scooched under the deck, hiding. we saw her at the base of the birdfeeder, munching. and we saw her nibbling on the green sprouting up around barney.

and then, there was the day we realized that this bunny, that hopped to and fro in our yard, especially around dawn and dusk -scooting away from dogga and under the back fence – was building a nest. we didn’t see her leap a binky into the air – all four paws off the ground – but we imagine she must have been about-that-happy.

and then, the day we peeked under the grasses to see two tiny bunnies scrunched together, their little bunny-bodies breathing quickly, rising and falling, rising and falling. life is amazing, isn’t it? we went on high alert for these sweet little babies and, for the next week or more, mostly went out with dogdog to be sure they were safe.

and then, the day that i looked out the back windows behind our metal frame headboard and saw a tiny bunny hopping along the fence and heard a noise. i ran through the house and out the back door to see dogga carrying one of the bunnies in his mouth. he dropped the kit, who scampered off unraveled, as soon as i said “drop it!” so i was relieved. but still. i felt a sense of parenthood for these tiny creatures. “keep them safe” became my mantra. i celebrated their little lives and kept tiny pompoms close at hand as they left the nest and went to explore the world.

it’s impossible to keep your children safe. you do the very best you can while they are in your care – growing up – but they go to school, to sports, to music lessons, to playdates, to after-school jobs, to stores and concerts and parties. you can’t be all those places, so you have to learn how to let go a teeny-weeny bit. they begin to drive and you have to learn how to let go a teeny-weeny bit more. and then, they go to college maybe or move out maybe or both. and you let go a teeny-weeny bit more. and then they move away and your heart breaks and soars, both – even though you will only talk about the soaring – even though they know the breaking part. and you let go a teeny-weeny bit more. ahhh. it’s not easy, is it?

our daughter drove across the country last week. from the east coast to the mountain west. by herself in ivy, her suv. i remember my sweet momma calling me as i drove long-distance, alone. i both loved it and didn’t love it. i tried to remember this as my beloved daughter drove, not wanting to be annoying, as is so easy to do. i sent her texts cheering her on and held big space for her as she traveled. she was constantly on my mind. i know she knows that. “keep her safe,” i implored the universe. (and how many times have we all said that about our children, i wonder.)

she arrived without harm or incident, like the bunnies running along the back fence and zipping underneath. i am grateful. i can only keep her close in-heart.

and each and every day – my mantra for my girl and my boy is the same – “keep them safe”. my pompoms are at easy access as they explore the world. they are all-grown-up. the nest is empty but i quietly binky – like ecstatic bunnies – every day thinking of them.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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the GrassKing. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

drumroll, please.

yes, yes. he is convinced.

this is david’s year. the year that his grass (aka our grass) might – just might – even a tad – a smidge – a skosh – a teeny-weeny-yellow-polka-dot-bikini-bit – look like dan’s.

dan is The GrassKing. his lawn is manicured and beautiful. it feels lovely beneath your feet and, crosshatch-cut, looks lovely as well. tidy and healthy and green – all the things all those brochures tout – the ones that arrive in our mailbox, tucked into our front door, rubberbanded onto the doorknob of the screen, stuffed under the welcome mat. there are many-many-many companies out there that believe we need their help.

we don’t need their help.

we just need dan.

and so, we wait for instructions. he swings by to examine our poor front yard, post-demolition by the company that eradicated the lead water pipes and everything else in its excavation. he texts, “looks pretty good.” we breathe a sigh. luckily, he also texts, “call me.” he is our grass-hero and we love him for it.

you might think that you know all the special devices and products for lawncare. all kinds of spreaders and seeders and sprinklers and milorganite mixes and shade/sun helpers and weed and feed and lawnmowers and edgers. goodness!

the one thing you might not be aware of? the meat thermometer.

the soil must be exactly right for overseeding. and the only way to know is to set those grilling steaks aside.

yup, dan. the meat thermometer is on stand-by.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

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forsythia. home. [k.s. friday]

forsythia.

it’s coming-home for me.

at the front corner of my growing-up yard on long island was a forsythia bush. and many years, at the march of my birthday, i remember having my picture taken there. home. spring. there are few things that make me think of Home like forsythia does.

except for maybe the voice of my beloved daughter on the phone. she is forsythia for me. for just moments or for an extended conversation or – if i am fortunate – in person together, the sound of her voice, her zeal, is Home.

and except for watching the way my beloved son immerses himself in his music. his hands – now all-grown-up man-hands – moving dials and sliders, his voice and body dancing, his explanations – it’s forsythia for me. Home.

and except for the look across the room from david – the moment he touches his hand to his chest while in his gaze – forsythia. Home.

and dogga – at the door with his angel-babycat greeting me – thrilled, once again, to see us. forsythia. Home.

and the love and care and concern that are abundant in our lives – our family, our friends. forsythia. Home.

and the work we have chosen to do – create – music, paintings, many-many words, cartoons. forsythia. Home.

it’s not a yellow brick road. it’s forsythia.

*****

THE WAY HOME ©️ 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood

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dale of allendale. [two artists tuesday]

dale is a pretty good name for a turkey. but then, so is allen. we decided on dale. (even though i am now, post-visit, thinking allen is funnier.) regardless, dale strutted his stuff around our allendale neighborhood for a few days, acting like he belonged here and we were the aliens.

the first afternoon we saw him, we stopped the car and pretty much just stared at him walking down the sidewalk. he gobbled at us watching him and then harumphed into the street to get to the proverbial other side. then, walking around littlebabyscion, he kept heading west. we saw him another time or two wandering about but haven’t seen him now for days. maybe he moved on or maybe he heard about forest park and headed there – a neighborhood west of us that a turkey named carl called home for quite some time.

i suppose it’s easier to change ‘hoods when you’re a turkey. it’s not like you are carrying much baggage with you. unless he had them stuffed under some bushes somewhere, he carried no suitcases, no boxes or plastic bins. he didn’t have his offspring’s elementary artwork or handwritten stories, the driftwood he found on the ocean, heart rocks he collected on trails, photo albums dating back decades. there were no pots and pans, no spices-in-a-box, no favorite jeans or boots or that old ratty flannel shirt he couldn’t bear to toss out. he had no bill folder, no cellphone, no ipad, no coffee grinder or french press. no cds or dvds or canvases or paintbrushes or pencils or paper.

dale had just nothing. yet he looked as though he was completely confident in the world, wandering, exploring, warbling in that gurgling kind of way. apparently, male turkeys do that most often in the spring when they are looking for love. he must have thought that (one of) thelovesofhislife might be in allendale.

a friend of mine is moving from her home of decades. the decision to move was pragmatic and the move will be generative for them. and yet, there is the whole moving-from piece of it. sometimes i think about that. i understand the need to run and touch every glass doorknob, to brush the woodfloor with one’s fingertips, to wander from room to room, deep in memory. when i think about moving – i know that there would be much stuff to go through, dispose of, to give away. but it’s this place – this house – that holds so many emotions. it’s a mixed bag. after all this time – this town feels like home. after all this time – this town doesn’t feel like home. both are true. the dichotomy of these truths wakes me in the night sometimes and i ponder staying, going.

i used to tell the kids – when they were making a decision – to imagine themselves having made it one way and to feel what that feels like. then, imagine making it the other way and try to immerse in how that feels. it’s not always possible, but sometimes it’s an exercise that helps. in the middle of the night, it’s a seesaw.

what i do know is – as i look around this cherished home – that i must turkey-down. not so much on the main floors, but most definitely in the basement where the bins and boxes are stacked, waiting maybe for dale to come and retrieve them.

ahh, but dale is footloose and fancy-free and he has no interest in such baggage. he’s got places to go and things to see. he’s got a world to love. he blows a kiss to allendale and moves on.

*****

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qrky is born. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

there is often a need to step away – these days. for us, that mostly means a hike at the end of the day or a longer hike on the weekends. sometimes it means getting in littlebabyscion and just driving.

we are a little limited by lake michigan – we cannot mosey east from here. but we can mosey north and south and west.

mostly, we go west. a little north or south thrown in for good measure and to shake it all up a bit, but west. east would mean up and over the u.p. or down and around – through gary, indiana – which is no one’s idea of a good mosey. so. west.

it doesn’t take much for us to decide. our days are filled with trying to sort to optimism, to wishing wishes and dreaming dreams. we work on finding ways and places we can contribute all we have learned and worked at in these last decades. sometimes that is easier said than done. and so, there is often a need to step away, yup.

the wander women – amazing and truly inspiring thru-hikers – have a QR code on their youtube channel. when you point your phone camera at it, it brings you to a place where, in multiples of $5, you can express appreciation, channel sisu, buy them a cup of coffee (or multiple cups, for that matter).

it’s been suggested manyatime to us that maybe we should have a QR code. our very own. i know that we are pretty verbose – lotsa words – maybe more words than anyone wants to read, but you can pick and choose, like from those overburdened menus at tgif’s. but they’ve encouraged us, adding very generous words like “we love to read your posts” or “this would be a way we could say thank you for something that touches us”. their thoughts – QR trail magic – we could use it for coffee or maybe a glass of apothic or…if you wish, it could be thought of as gifting us with miles. miles of thru-hiking middle age. and so anytime we just needed to step away – go find zen in the country outaways west from our home – we could use those miles. to keep going and going and going, thanks to you and you and you.

and then, we could maybe – just maybe – stop and get a coffee or a piece of flourless chocolate cake on our way. if coffee and flourless chocolate cake and red silos and gravel roads don’t help, nothing will.

and so, with the pompoms of people we are grateful for, our QR code is born. we’re gonna name himherthem “qrky”.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

SMACK-DAB. ©️ 2023 kerrianddavid.com


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focused. yep. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

with plates spinning, spinning, spinning – all up in the air at once – women carry on, living in many parallel planes, doing life. i had an email conversation with a young woman yesterday who has a 15 year old, a 5 year old and a 1 year old. she was taking them to school – high school, elementary school, daycare – meeting many distinctly different needs, not to mention her own getting-ready and go-to-work necessities. she wrote that by the time she gets them all where they are supposed to be – first thing in the morning – she is already exhausted. she also wrote that she requires little sleep.

i remember writing albums and talking to retail outlets and concert venues and packing boxes of cds and practicing and doing laundry and reading golden books on the rug and playing barbies or matchbox cars and making grilled cheese sandwiches and grocery shopping and planning birthday parties and holiday shopping and overseeing homework and whipping up paper mache and washing the floor and running children to lessons or soccer or baseball or cross country or ballet and….

d is singularly focused. he pokes fun at me being “circular”. uh-huh. it’s called multi-tasking, my dear.

it would not surprise me in the least to leave him drawing at his drafting table for several hours and to come back to find him still there with little to no awareness that i had left. it must be a guy thing.

“i won the lottery,” i tease him, this artist poised over his work. “the big one. zillions.”

“mmm-hmm,” he mutters without moving his lips.

yep.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

SMACK-DAB. ©️ 2023 kerrianddavid.com


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stripahs! [not-so-flawed wednesday]

striped squill. “stripahs,” crunch might call them.

it sounds like you should grill it and have it with rice pilaf, some sort of midwestern whitefish.

it’s not.

crunch’s stripahs, back then, in the day, were striped bass, so these tiny blooms would not truly bear his nickname.

it’s these “invasive” flowers that are decorating our yard these days, paving the way for the dandy dandelions. they are actually quite beautiful. “puschkinia” in plural, which sounds like an americanized-botched-spelling plural of a mini version of those ridiculously yummy sweet-filled polish paczki donuts. everything sounds like something.

for me, peering for spring in the front yard, they are a sure sign of hope. early arrivers these early stardrift, they signal that maybe-just-maybe the snow is over and maybe-just-maybe warm sun will take over where cold march days left off. they are harbingers of open windows and adirondack chair time and basil sharing space with cherry tomato plants and flipflops. so much anticipation in tiny flowers.

these days are unseasonably warm. we are not sure why the jet stream seems to be blessing us with this gift but we are elated to walk in degrees that are in the sixties and even seventies. spring in wisconsin has never – in my experience – been a season of warmth. i remember too many soccer and baseball seasons huddled under blankets tucked into my bagchair. but this one is different.

next week is supposed to be back in the fifties. but even those temperatures are happy for us. maybe-just-maybe i’ll get a glimpse of forsythia one of these days, a sure sign of spring on growing-up long island.

in the meanwhile: bravo little stripahs! bravo!

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this NOT-SO-FLAWED WEDNESDAY


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a hub. [two artists tuesday]

in the late afternoon, the sun streams in the west windows and lights up the sitting room. it is the coziest of cozy rooms with the comfiest old slipcovered couch, smushy fur throw pillows, sherpa blanket. good lamps, happy lights and no television make it the perfect place to share time with a book. we love sitting there.

the sitting room had history as a cozy room. many years ago it was the only room in the house with a tv. when my children were little-little they watched mr. rogers and thomas-the-tank-engine and sesame street in there. my son lined up matchbox cars on the rug and my daughter sang and danced with barney and the gang. the little mermaid and the lion king and sing-along songs were on regular line-up. a small room, it was a hub of activity for small babies and toddlers. we danced for hours to the grapevine song and woke up the household on saturday mornings to brother band’s bagpipes.

the giant tv went to the curb and someone picked it up with a wagon and toted it away. the camelback rolled-arm loveseat, much worse for wear, took its own turn at the curb and the old couch from the living room donned a slipcover and – with great effort by my son and me – made its way into the cattycorner.

then, there was a period of time it was a little bit ignored. more of a pass-through than a room, it begged attention, some of our time.

and now, the rickety old farm table is next to the couch and holds an antique clock that magically stopped at 11:11, some dried flowers and charlie – the heart-shaped philodendron who clearly loves being the star of the room. beautiful paintings and an old screen door. and the sunlight greets us every afternoon and each time we walk from the hall into the bedroom or vice-versa.

it is easy to sink down into the couch and close one’s eyes. we know this from experience. it’s a really good nap couch. i wonder how it would have been for two toddlers on the move. i suspect it would have been a good addition back then. funny how cozy takes over somewhere along the way.

loveseats are good – and quite lovely. but couches – the kind you can sink down into – read a book together on opposite ends leaning back on fuzzy overstuffs, under a blanket – are better. looking back i can see that now. smushy > camelback. this would have been a better couch back then. hindsight. sigh.

lounging on the sofa the other day i closed my eyes, but not in sleep. for a moment, i could hear the tiny voices of my children – decades ago – as they played on the rug and sang along, “it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood…”, “under the sea”, “i love you. you love me”, “colors of the wind”. wistful moments. time flies by. our home holds us, ever-watchful.

i looked at the changes of the sitting room. a serene spot in the house, a place to think back and re-relish earlier times. times of barbies and baby dolls, stacks of books, matchbox cars and balls of every sport. growing children, dogs, a cat. it was a hub back then. it’s a different kind of hub now. and i’m eternally grateful for both.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY