Sisters Jenny and Connie at Chicago’s Bike the Drive, May 26, 2013

Every once in a while we’re faced with a lesson we need but often forget:

Our lives can change in an instant.

That truth hit close to home last week when my 40-something niece totaled her helmet in a bike accident. In an instant, long-time rider Jennifer King rode into some uneven pavement and fell hard. Her broken bones required emergency surgery, a stainless steel plate and six screws.

Fortunately, the broken bones are in her arm and not her noggin.

“I was riding back to school. I came home for lunch and was heading back to clean off my desk and get ready for next year,” she said.

Jennifer is a 6^th grade teacher at Happy Hollow Elementary School in West Lafayette, IN.

“I was going down a hill, which I’ve done a million times. There was a lot of traffic in the bikeway so I rode toward a driveway,” she said. That’s when her front wheel found a groove just wide enough for a bicycle tire.

The groove grabbed the tire and Jen went down on her left side. Her leg hit the cement and her helmet-clad head dug into a flowerbed. 

Two people from school recognized her and stayed until Jen’s husband came to take her to the ER.

It was a rough few days for this otherwise healthy mother of Nick, Lexi and Mike. Surgery, medication and the shear trauma of the accident threw her off for a good week.

Mind you, this is a veteran cyclist. Bicycling was her major mode of transportation while in the Navy and stationed in Nea Makri, Greece.

“I lived in the mountains and the (Naval) base was at the base of the mountains,” she said.

That was 24 years ago and she’s been riding ever since. I remember when she rode the 75-mile Bike to the Bay to raise money for Multiple Sclerosis when she and her family lived in Delaware.

A few days after the accident when she finally faced her helmet, she saw it was cracked, had mulch in the air vents and the Bike the Drive sticker was scraped.

I asked Jenny for the one message she would want to share.

“Accidents happen in the blink of an eye. I could not have controlled what happened but that I’m glad I had a helmet, brakes and that people stopped.

“I still believe in biking and that freedom but accidents happened … I love to bike and I know I will get back on it …

Here’s what National Highway Traffic Safety Association has to say about helmets and brain injuries:

• Bicycle helmets are 85- to 88- percent effective in mitigating head and brain injuries, making the use of helmets the single most effective way to reduce head injuries and fatalities resulting from bicycle crashes.
• Despite the fact that nearly 70 percent of all fatal bicycle crashes involve head injuries, only about 20 to 25 percent of all bicyclists wear bicycle helmets.
• Universal bicycle helmet use by children 4 to 15 would prevent 39,000 to 45,000 head injuries, and 18,000 to 55,000 scalp and face injuries annually.

Jenny is healing and we’re all grateful she’s here to share her story. She asks you to make sure your brakes work and to wear your helmet.

Watching the National Memorial Day Concert on PBS, (http://www.pbs.org/memorialdayconcert/) I felt we’re getting better at honoring those who give so much to keep our country free.

Brother–n-law Otto, front and center, is one of a long line of my family’s sailors. Over the years a dozen or more of our uncles, nephews and nieces have served in five of the six branches of the military.

We’re getting better because after September 11th  we began recognizing the real value the United States Coast Guard provides in protecting our shorelines. Last night the concert added the National Guard to the list of armed services. I was happy to see all facets of our military honored at the Memorial Day Concert.

But the event also made the reality of war even worse as we become more aware of its lingering consequences.

Co-hosts Joe Mantegna and Gary Sinese role-played two brothers, Joe and Earl Granville, who enlisted in the National Guard and were called into combat after 9/11. This moving story reminded me of the long lingering and tragic results of war.  The following is from the PBS National Memorial Concert website.

The Longest Wars - The wars in Afghanistan and Iraq are two of America’s longest military conflicts, surpassed only by the war in Vietnam. In the 13-year period of our two most recent wars, more than 6600 service members have perished and over 50,000 have been wounded in action.  Of those deployed, 28% of the force is comprised of National Guard and Reserve troops, and greater than 15% of the total force have deployed three times or more.

Joe and Earl Granville’s Story

Two weeks before 9/11, close-knit brothers Joe and Earl Granville started basic training in the National Guard, expecting a traditional deployment in domestic disaster relief and other aid efforts. Within a few months they were called up to provide security in Bosnia. In the summer of 2005 the brothers volunteered for service in Iraq, returning home by June of 2006. In that year of conflict, the brothers experienced a level of danger, destruction, and loss that would change their lives and those of their family forever. 

By the end of 2007, older brother Joe had a steady job, helping to support his wife and fellow Guard member Stephanie and their two children. Earl struggled to find steady work and decided to volunteer for Afghanistan, deploying in February 2008 to a remote outpost in the Kush Mountains – his third deployment as a Guardsman. Joe was devastated to see Earl off to war, unable to go along and watch out for his little brother this time.

On June 3, 2008, Earl’s Humvee hit an IED, killing two of his fellow soldiers and badly injuring his legs, one of which would be lost. Earl’s difficult recovery, an additional Iraq deployment by Stephanie and the arrival of their third child put enormous stress on Joe, on top of the deeply felt guilt and loss experienced during his first deployment to Iraq.

PTSD’s Inner Struggle

Joe likely suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder or PTSD. This serious mental health problem is thought to affect somewhere between 11-20% of veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, and generally requires treatment by a trained counselor or therapist.
That part of the story ended with Joe’s suicide.

It’s difficult to image the depth of depression necessary to take one’s own life. My heart and prayers are with those who served, who suffered and who suffer still.

With that as a backdrop, I am grateful to live in this free country. We are free because so many of you have raised your hand to serve. “I’ll go,” you said. “Take me.” Thank you for your service, for your commitment to freedom. How I wish  just a bit of your commitment to freedom would rub off on others.

I can’t help but think of the many men in women in my own family who have served, and to Josh, Ethan and Ben who are serving now. Thanks to all who fight for our freedom. Happy Memorial Day. God, keep blessing America. Please lighten the hearts and spirits of those who suffer.

First, a toast to the mothers we’ve had.

My mom was probably better to me than I know.

Mom was a peach. My dad worked various shifts at the steel mill leaving her home to do the heavy lifting. She raised five of us and sat with bundles of grand babies, cooked countless meals, did umteen loads of laundry. She signed my report cards, went to choral concerts, tried her best to help with the dreaded New Math.

While I later realized she was “emotionally unavailable” during my early years, she more than met my needs. I thank her for homemade bread with butter and sugar, games after large family gatherings, and introducing me to so many things from choral singing to the joys of Halupki. She sewed my First Communion dress, bandaged my bloody ankle, had the nerve to teach me how to drive. Holy cow. She must have been nuts!

Nope, not nuts. But helpful, happy – except when she wasn’t, and fun. She laughed, sang, played “In My Solitude” on the piano that came with the house. In fact, our last conversation was over that piece. “Mom, what’s that song you always play?” “Oh, this one?” she said, launching into an arpeggio I’ll never forget. She had a stroke a week later.

Maybe it was because of all us kids, or my dad’s shift work, or being too busy in the family store but I somehow missed out on the talks about boys and marriage and having kids and … but her being away caused me to adopt other mothers. I’m fortunate for all the mothers I have in my life. From my sister and brother to a Scout leader, choir director, dorm mother. Some of you reading this have been mother to me more than once, whether you know it or not!

Whether you are male or female  you’ve been Mother more than once in your life. You possess mothering traits such as kindness, empathy, unconditional love, the ability to mend a sock or clean a cut or fix a bowl of soup.

Consider the times you’ve supported someone in need, listened to a sad or happy story, counseled, nurtured. Ever go searching for an extra pair of gloves or a scarf to make sure a friend was warm enough? Ever make up your couch into comfortable bed?

Have you ever picked up a cake on the way to a party? Made your super sloppy joes for friend’s tailgate party? Sent a card for no reason? I could cry thinking of how much my mother-friends have helped me. I am so grateful to you.

I’m grateful for all the mothers I’ve had in my lifetime – men and women, relatives and not – who listened while I choked back tears, encouraged me to keep going, who told me I should do whatever I want as long as it makes me happy.

I feel certain my mother did more for me than I will ever know and I am grateful for knowing her. And thank you to all my moms. I celebrate each and every one of you. Thanks to your mother our world has you. Thanks to you, we all have many mothers.

A sore back from peeling tile all day is nothing compared to what some folks do day after day.

It was fun, at first, and I started thinking about being a laborer and not a writerer (!) But after awhile, when my back started to ache and my hands were shaking from holding constant tension on a putty knife, I began to appreciate those who work with their bodies all day.

While I was using a chisel, hammer and knife to peel, scrape and chip away at a floorful of asphalt tiles, my friend was in the kitchen – moving a gas line, rewiring  electrical boxes, cutting and laying insulation.

During a break I whined my lower back hurt; he commented but didn’t complain about his upper back. I said I thought peeling tile was easier than writing because I didn’t have to think. He said that’s why some people get into the trades – they can do a hard day’s work, go home tired and not think about that task again until the next day.

We talked about people we both know who have been or are still laborers.  We know guys who have given it up because it’s hard on their bodies. What 50-year-old wants to work on a roof, or install a new boiler in some old basement, or spent hours leaning over a putty knife peeling ancient tiles off a cement floor?

We know guys who are still at it because they have nothing else. Were lucky these folks are still around when we need a good handyman. They are “Jacks of All Trades,” these guys. And we pay them so little an hour given what they put themselves through to accomplish our tasks.

So today, I’m especially grateful to those who have given themselves to learning a trade; to all those I’ve ever asked to repair a broken water main (only inches from the foundation) or replace a roof or paint a kitchen or haul mulch to my garden. Thanks to those who go home aching at night on our behalf; to those who have lost digits (my dad) or limbs or worse. True, they were “just making a living,” but they were also making life easier for us to live.

Years ago I was complaining to a colleague about some office BS. To which he replied, “That’s why they call it ‘work.’” Huh. I can hear Dire Straits, “That ain’t working.” I guess I did mess up my lower back schlepping projector boxes through airports. Or maybe it was from those years of wearing high-heels all day.

Most people I know work hard at what they do, whether it’s managing or teaching or patrolling or nursing or … but right now, I’m especially grateful to those who truly toil. Thanks for your hard work.

How much stuff do you need? Why not let it do some good for someone else?

Every time I move I get rid of things, and after 10 moves in 15 years, I’ve gotten rid of a lot of stuff!

I joke about wanting to be prepared to move to “the home” with only my knitting and a couple of books. But what to do with things I enjoy but for which I no longer have room? What’s the best good I can do with things I really like but no longer need?

Besides giving a few items to family, I’ve decided to take a number of bags of good but used clothing and household items to Goodwill Industries.

The Goodwill donation center and store is just two miles away, but I didn’t just want to drop off bags and boxes because of convenience. At goodwill.org (about-us) I learned, “Every 33 seconds of every business day, someone gets a good job, with help from Goodwill.”

I started thinking, I could give “the thing” to someone I know – who might enjoy it but already has plenty – or give it to Goodwill.

Goodwill is more than a resale store. From its website, “Goodwill works to enhance the dignity and quality of life of individuals and families by strengthening communities, eliminating barriers to opportunity, and helping people in need reach their full potential through learning and the power of work.”

I didn’t know and what I’ve learned makes donating that much sweeter.

Goodwill puts people to work in their stores. Store revenues help put people to work in business and industry. In 2011, Goodwill helped 216,000 people find meaningful employment.

When I moved back to Indiana in 2011 I was shocked to read on the bill of lading that I had 7,720 pounds of stuff. ALL THIS, after making donations, holding a time-consuming garage sale and selling the big furniture with the house. With this year’s spring cleaning I’m digging deep into closets, the basement and cabinets to continue to downsize. It lifts my spirit to donate to Goodwill.

I’ve heard nature abhors a void. Making space by giving away things I love but really don’t use allows room for other gifts to come into my life. What kind of gifts? Peace of mind, the knowledge I’ve done some real good for someone else.

If you’ve lived in the same place for many years, chances are you’ve accumulated more stuff than you know what to do with. Start by going through one closet at a time and only keep the things you need. Pass the rest of it on to Goodwill, or Habitat for Humanity’s RESale shop or the Salvation Army or the women’s shelter or the church garage sale or … you get the idea. I guarantee giving away your no-longer-used items will make you feel better.

On the other hand, and this might be hard to read, hanging on to stuff you don’t use can cause dis-ease. It breeds bugs, accumulates dust and the clutter can stifle. Ask yourself why you feel the need to hang on to these things. Dig into why you’re attached to your stuff. Do yourself a favor and let it go. Let it help others.

How is it possible, you might ask, and rightly so. “Happy to see the dentist” is not typical. In fact, earlier this week a nephew posted on Facebook that – in spite of a diagnosis indicating the contrary – his dentist asked him if he wanted a root canal anyway. (Sure, and may I have a colonoscopy with that?)

While my bottom teeth are being reorganized, I’m finding even more reasons to be happy about life.

But my happiness wasn’t about dental procedures – this visit was just a monthly progress report and to pick up Invisalign trays 5 and 6 – what made me happy was realizing with gratitude and great joy some things I so often take for granted. In less time than it takes to rinse and spit, I had these thoughts:

• Wow, so grateful for being healthy enough to drive myself to the dentist! To afford a car, gas and the three bucks to park on Wrightwood RIGHT IN FRONT OF a green parking-money machine.
• My appointment is in Lincoln Park where I lived for more than 20 years. I had two apartments and two condos within six blocks of this office. This neighborhood is home to me and it feels good each time in I come back, in spite of green parking-money machines.
• Ted Gehrig is my dentist deluxe. Not only is he highly competent and skilled, he’s a great guy! Always upbeat, gracious, smiling, sharing what’s going on in his life and with his family. I figure he’s been taking care of my choppers and me off and on for more than 25 years. He told me recently he doesn’t have plans to retire. “People retire from work. This isn’t work. I enjoy it – so what’s to retire?!”

An added bonus to visiting Dr. Ted is that I get to have lunch with downtown friends and family, or stop by the Shedd Aquarium to visit a leafy sea dragon, or pick up some Meyer lemon olive oil at Old Town Oils.

I can honestly say that even if I was seeing Ted for a drill and fill, I’d be okay with that. He and his team do a great job of making sure their patients are comfortable. But it’s about more than teeth; it’s about finding joy in the everyday. Turning a visit to the dentist into a trip down gratitude lane.

So why last week while watching WTTWs “Remembering Chicago Again” did I feel like an outsider?

Thanks to growing up next to Chicago, I watched Miss Frances and Ding Dong School. Had my very own Miss Frances tray – boy, I wish I still had THAT relic.

My old friend Miss Frances (photo thanks to Craig’s Lost Chicago.)

Do you remember Miss Frances?

Wikipedia said her show first aired in 1952. We must have gotten our first TV soon thereafter. What a warm memory, balancing a bologny sammich and a glass of milk on my special green, half-moon tray – replete with Ding-Dong School stickers AND a groove for crayons, which also served as a milk-catcher in case your glass happened to tip over en route – to have lunch with Miss Frances.

We were city kids, weren’t we?

Otto Kerner was our governor, as far as I knew, and Richard M. Dailey was mayor. We listened to WLS and WCFL, traded Silver Dollar Surveys, went to concerts at the International Amphitheatre to see – well, YOU might have gone to see the Beatles, but Mickey and I went to see Paul Revere and the Raiders!

My dad said Chicago was OUR suburb. After all, living in Robertsdale, Indiana we were closer to State and Madison than a lot “official” city kids.

I remember after a hard morning with Miss Collins and my Franklin School kindergarten class, I got to ride downtown with my dad to pick up bowling shirts. He was the area distributer for those cool shirts with the colored vents, plus most of the other team shirts and jerseys you saw around Whiting. It was a quick 20 minute ride up the Outer Drive – before the Skyway was built! Why would I think I lived anywhere but Chicago?

Weren’t we city kids? Waking up with Howard Miller on WIND every morning. Because of him I know the words to so many old songs. I often imagined myself winning big on Name That Tune.

We weren’t outsiders when we listened to Franklyn MacCormack’s All Night Showcase. Shall I thank him and the Meisterbrau Showcase for my love of Benny Goodman and Anita O’Day? Having those lyrics in my little pea brain came in handy in high school.

In fact, raise your hand if you remember Mr. Church leading the George Rogers Clark Concert Choir in hits from the ’20s, ’30s, ’40s and ’50s during Spring Sing each year!

And while you’re at it, remember dancing and singing in the aisles of the auditorium – wearing bell bottoms and tie-dyed shirts – singing “Age of Aquarius/Let the Sun Shine?”

We weren’t outsiders. We listened to The Outsiders, and the Buckinghams, and New Colony Six.

Okay, okay. We weren’t city kids. We were Whiting kids, or Robertsdale kids. But, oddly, enough, neither were we Hoosier kids.

When I went to downstate to school I was pretty surprised to learn some folks from south of US 30 had a bit of “an accent.” Kids from Chicagoland didn’t say UM-brella or motorSICKLE. We didn’t know from IN-surance or Christmas DEE-cor.

I wonder if those of us who grew up in northwest Indiana are Chicago wannabes? What about you? Do you wish you grew up in Chicago instead of next to it?

Not me. I love Hoosierville. I love that I grew up equidistant from The Beautiful Confines and the Indian Dunes National Lakeshore. I loved taking the Outer Drive downtown for movies, taking the elevator to the top of the city’s tallest building – the Prudential.

In fact, if I’d grown up in Chicago, I would have missed the smell of french fries on a rainy day. Write if you know what I’m talking about!

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“What IS that taste?” I said. “It’s wonderful.” Our server smiled and said, “It’s our secret ingredient.”

Chef and member of Les Dames d’Escoffier International, Angela McCrovitz of Angela’s Pantry, 6132 Miller Avenue, Miller Beach, Indiana

The smile was genuine and the meal satisfied my hunger for secret ingredients so I let it go. But recently, the Chef Angela McCrovitz satisfied my taste buds’ curiosity during an interview.

“A couple was in for dinner,” she said, “and I overheard them ask one that same question … ‘this is SO good – what’s the secret ingredient.’”

“Love … That’s what makes it all worthwhile,” she said. “Cooking is an act of love.”

Perhaps that’s what makes her restaurant so special. Love, along with the freshest ingredients, house-made stocks, a lifelong passion for cooking and a wealth of experience stock Chef Angela’s pantry. And she cooks up wonderful, beautiful, mouth-watering and satisfying meals Wednesdays through Sundays at Angela’s Pantry, Miller Beach, Indiana.

Born in Gary, the Half Hungarian/Czech-half Italian McCrovitz started playing with food when she was just 7 years old. Her grandmother Margaret’s “Coconut Geminis” won the Pillsbury Bake-Off and a dance with Lawrence Welk in 1966. Her grandfather cooked for Al Capone.

An award-winning chef with more than 20 years experience, Chef Angela’s culinary skills are as bountiful as her energy and passion for food. She has been recognized as a “Rising Star of the Year” in Dallas, “Entrepreneur of the Year” by Indiana University and recently the Urban League of Northwest Indiana nominated her for its Diversity Award.

Her experience includes designing and baking artisan breads, teaching culinary skills at the Art Institute of Charleston, executive pastry chef on Kiawah Island and food stylist and recipe developer for Better Homes and Gardens.

Today, her love-infused creations are accessible to those of us living in Northwest Indiana. If you haven’t yet visited her “pantry” restaurant on Miller Avenue in Miller Beach, you owe it to yourself to visit for lunch, dinner or Sunday brunch. In fact, go soon because Chef Angela has created a new spring menu.

Angela’s new menu includes her unique take on risotto, for instance, with wild mushrooms, goat cheese, truffle oil and pesto. There’s a grilled asparagus salad with balsamic reduction, gorgonzola cumulus and diced tomato.

Pizzas will be special, with her homemade crust. Pasta “Angela” is angel hair, mussels and spicy marinara sauce. Be sure to allow room for an entree because you don’t want to miss the chef’s Pollo Romano, pork chop with pancetta, red peppers, garlic and red skin potatoes or the oven roasted salmon.

Angela’s Pantry is located at 6132 Miller Avenue, Miller Beach, Indiana. It’s about six minutes from I80-94 at the Route 6/Ripley Blvd.-51 North exit. The Chef prepares lunch and dinner from Wednesdays through Sunday brunch. Call 219-427-1076 for reservations, which I highly recommend.

Oh, the Pantry is in a sweet, two-story house that used to be a flower shop. Be prepared for a lovely, home-like setting and for Chef Angela and her staff to take excellent care of you.

In case you’re wondering, yes, there’s a full bar and some wonderful desserts. Hmmm, I guess there will be much more for me to write about this gem near the shores of Northwest Indiana.

During my Las Cruces years I visited Santa Fe on business and drove up from ABQ for lunch but I’d never been there to explore. Funny that I had to move to Indiana to appreciate our country’s oldest established capitol.

During a tour of the Palace of the Governors on the plaza, I learned the town was first inhabited by Native Americans in 900. When Spain began to colonize the west, it was established as a capitol of New Spain in 1610.

If you’re a time traveler, as I try to be during such visits, you can imagine a time when natives in pueblo villages dotted the dusty hills, along with adventuresome – although, yes, they were also conquistadors – settlers from Spain. It was fascinating, albeit sad too, to learn about people coming to the Americas via land bridge from Siberia, down through what is now the western US, into Mexico and Central America.

One day, after visiting the Georgia O’Keeff museum (wonderful paintings but also fun to learn she wore PF Flyers while stomping around the desert!) I had the luxury of spending several hours reading about local history.

I walked into a very inviting local book store, (Collective Books on Galisteo) bought a coffee and sat on a big soft sofa reading, “New Mexico,” by Calvin and Susan Roberts. Read 50 pages that day, came home and ordered the book. You may think you know where the story ends – New Mexico celebrated 100 years as a state in 2012 – but do you know how it got there?

The whole excursion opened my brain for more American History. That’s not been my favorite part of world history, until now. When I was a kid I wanted to be an Egyptologist (and an oceanographer.) Wanted to study “really old” stuff.

Now I know the Western US was inhabited more than 12,000 years ago. That the natives then were big game hunters tracking mammoths and bison. Geez, I was in pursuit of the best fish tacos until I started to learn about Spaniards coming over to convert the natives. My quest for knowledge once again is bigger than my appetite. (Although Santa Fe is home to some pretty tasty fish tacos, too. Pictured above is my dinner at The Shed.)

If my creative setting isn’t just so, my brain goes numb. Unwanted noise stifles my fingers like a pair of boiled wool mittens.

Here I’ve gone to the trouble to call the front desk about turning on the fireplace, filled a glass measuring cup with water for Via – Columbian Roast – found my notepad and a pen, actually turned the chair toward the window. This cozy little corner of the living-dining room was going to be my writer’s den.

What do you do? YOU nonchalantly pad into my writing space and pick up the remote. Poof. Writing ideas gone. Happy writing moments gone. 

It’s 7:30 in the morning, for cryin’ out loud. Who needs the TV at this hour? And is it breaking news? When someone stops to stand in front of a TV, I expect to hear something akin to a lunar landing. What? What’s that I hear? Some nameless person rattles about car parts or car speed or car art and I’m getting more irritated by the minute.

But do I speak? No. Why not? Because this should not bother me.

We’re sharing a lovely apartment with a pretty view. I’ve got my laptop, an overstuffed chair by the window AND the fireplace. Coffee is but seconds away.

Besides, what’s a little TV chatter to a writer like me? I’ve been doing this my whole life. Second nature like, ummm, drat. Metaphors escape me. Car-man is asking some garage guys the top speed of juiced-up El Camino.

How am I supposed to turn a phrase with this TV trash turning my stomach?

I can do this. Thoughts should flow effortlessly to fingertips. There’s was a time I could write copy on a crowded bus. One morning, years ago, I wrote a mission statement with one hand and dried my hair with the other.

Not today.

Get over yourself, I say to my head. Fix the coffees, take your notepaper and sit, write. Block out the auto babble.

I can’t write. Too distracted. The flat, rectangular elephant in the room is making me crazy. The microwave beeps three times – a sound I’ve been anticipating.

Get over yourself, my head says back to me. Be thoughtful here. Not upset. I walk over to the TV watcher. Manage to pry open my gritted teeth.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, thanks.”

Polite too. That makes it worse. How am I supposed to write when the TV-watching living-room-taker-over is polite?

Taking my irritation-flavored coffee to the bedroom, I prop up pillows and nestle in for practice with pen and paper.

“Home is where the heart is,” the pen writes. After boring myself with home and heart, the pen moves on its own – like the moving-thingy (“planchette”) on a Quija board – forming other words.

“My apologies … but I write to the rhythm of my pen …” Words get crossed out; parenthesis embrace the writer’s distractions.

I gaze out the window for inspiration. Nothing. Snow falls over Santa Fe. Television murmurs through closed doors. I can’t write. I got nothin’.Photo: news.com.au