In a room meant to seem more relaxing than it was really capable of being, I sat.
Here and there, small groups of families stand or sit near one another, talking in hushed voices. Some sit alone, trying to read unable to focus. A television is on, but no one is really watching it. Outside, the sun has been replaced by raindrops on the window and a bleak, greyness in the sky. It matched our mood.

At home with a respiratory infection of some sort, I felt guilty sharing my germs with anyone and have been inside for the better part of the last four days. Today, it occurred to me that I had a wonderful opportunity to look through several boxes of family photos that I inherited when my grandparents moved in with my aunt and uncle awhile back. I dutifully took the photos home -- I'm the family genealogist and historian, after all. I packed them up when we moved last summer and brought them to a better space in the new house, never opening the boxes to have a look until today. Oh, but what treasures I found in there!

In years past, I've become quite familiar with my paternal grandmother's family history -- largely since most of it took place here in Whitley County. But my paternal grandfather's history has been largely a mystery. He doesn't elaborate much about it and I guess I've never asked enough questions. So, with each cabinet photo I pulled out of the box, I discovered a new ancestor this afternoon.
I determined that I must get my round face from the Clines, my dark eyes and arched eyebrows from the Zartmans and I've always thought my nose came from the Mains (on my mother's side). I determined that my grandfather looks a lot like his great aunt Monna and that my brother looks a lot like my grandfather's brother. I came across photos of so many great-great-great grandmothers and great-great-great grandfathers...I lost track truly. Plenty of new names to research...Mickelson, Burroughs, Cline, etc.
I found things that made me cry...letters written between family members when my grandfather's brother was in World War II and a tiny lock of brownish-auburn hair tucked inside an obituary for a baby girl who only lived five days -- my grandfather's baby sister. Such heartache my great-grandmother, Mary, endured losing two of her three children early in life. Still, she beemed in most of the photos I found of her -- the vibrant stories I've been told about her coming to life on photo paper.
I found things that made me wonder -- why is it that my grandmother appear to be smiling in most of her photos taken before she had four kids...but that she appears to be grimacing or spacing out in the ones when she has a whole brood clinging to her? Oh, wait, yeah...I understand. Four kids in a few years must have been mind-boggling -- and she worked, too. Still, the kids all looked perfectly neat and tidy clammoring around her and she looked dazed and bewildered.
I found things that made me laugh! I found quite a few photos of my dad as a little boy doing goofy, little boy type stunts. I found a great photo of my dad when "his hair was just gettin' good in the front" -- starting from far side of one temple in wavy combed-over bangs. Oh, and there was a great one of Uncle Roger with coarse, wild dark hair and some heavy duty cat-eye glasses.
I'm not sure when I'll have time again, but I'm looking forward to my next opportunity to dig through another box of momentos. I had to ration myself -- two boxes was enough for one day...and it gives me something to anticipate the next time I'm stuck in the house for a few days!

I cried when I met him and I cried several times Saturday as I joined others saying goodbye.
Indeed, I remember clearly the first day of freshman year, sitting in Mr. Brittain's classroom. The student who wanted to do her best, I listened carefully as he summarily banished "be verbs" from our writing. A great impossibility to me, I returned home and dramatically flung myself onto the peach-colored comforter in my bedroom -- my tears of frustration creating vast drippy circles among the white flowers. My mother tried to comfort me and assured me, I'd be able to do it -- but I was convinced I could not conform to Mr. Brittain's standards. A painful several weeks passed and I

remember spending a lot of time at the typewriter and at the keyboard of the computers in the laboratory at the high school. I tore up page after page. I used a lot of white-out. I stayed up late. I received reports back with ample markings to continue hitting the message home -- that as hard as I might fight against it, "be verbs" would not be tolerated in submitted papers.
Eventually, Mr. Brittain's goals I did meet.
I have learned since then that it was not about the "be verbs" -- it was about the standards he set forth. His class meant a long list of higher level reading and constant writing. Because of the expectations he had for us in our freshman year of high school, we were well prepared for the consistently harder coursework waiting for us in the years ahead -- not just at Columbia City High School, but eventually in college as well.
The foundations he set have made me a better writer -- and in the past several days, I have seen firsthand how many lives he touched in a permanent way. There are professional writers who credit their success to Mr. Brittain. There are lawyers, politicians, doctors and a vast cross section of the community who credit their success to Mr. Brittain. There are teachers who are convinced they are better teachers because of him. To some, it was the writing skills he shared. For others, it was the public speaking or debating skills. Still others were touched by his Christian life, his giving spirit and his commitment to various groups and organizations in the community.
At his funeral Saturday, we all sat shoulder to shoulder grieving...and laughing at stories about him...and grieving. There were students he worked with as recently as last week...and former students now greying at the temples. All men and women, tears streaming from their eyes as they marveled at the influence this one man had on their lives. They came from all corners of the county, state and country...yes, people took red-eye flights to be there to say goodbye to a man who meant so much to their lives.
The great irony is that a man who spent most of his life inside a second story classroom at Columbia City High School, who never married and never had children -- was, in the end, a single most influential person in the lives of perhaps thousands. A humble person, he would surely shrug off the praise spoke in his honor. Someone described him Saturday as "The Great Brittain" and great he was, indeed.
I have had the opportunity to work alongside Mr. Brittain for the past several years on the Columbia City High School Alumni board. Having such respect for him, it was very difficult for me to call him anything but Mr. Brittain. On several occasions, I received emails from him in response to those I sent to him asking repeatedly that I just call him "Bob." I enjoyed the opportunity, as an adult, to spend time with him and to really know him as more of a person outside the classroom and lecture hall experience. What a great sense of humor he had! I realized, too, how important it was to me even as an adult to have his approval. He commented to me several times about Talk of the Town and he quietly gave the nod of approval I didn't even realize I wanted as an adult -- but value even more than a red "A" on a book report. I realized that even as an adult, there are certain people in your lives with a measure of respect from whom the smallest bit of praise and approval has a value worth far more than anything we can quantify. He was one of those people who will always be esteemed in my life and who I will feel grateful to have known and learned from.

Scotland and Ireland often get classified together for some reason.
If one made generalizations like this about other cultures, someone might be offended, but I'm not. Truly, many of Scottish descent are also of Irish descent too since there was a lot of movement back and forth in that area of the world over time.

By Jennifer Zartman Romano

I typically have a lot on my mind -- and most of it doesn't come out in the form of an article or a column. Sometimes it's helpful for me when it does.

Because I'm blessed to have people who love and care about me, I finally heeded the advice of others and made an appointment for a full health assessment a little over two weeks ago. When my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 47, she had never had a mammogram and rarely went to the doctor. She was a healthy person and with a busy life, she didn't have time (nor occasionally the insurance) to go to the doctor. At the age of 26, when she died, I said, "That will never be me. I'll make time to go to the doctor." Five years, two kids and a busy life later, I found that a good amount time had passed since I had been to the doctor.

Six months of occasional, very well-intentioned "bugging" from three important people in my life made me aware of the need to go, but finding an unidentified lump three weeks ago -- I made the appointment. I realized going to my doctor (who was also my mom's doctor) was kind of an emotional thing. When I got there that day, they asked me if I wanted to change my emergency contact and then proceeded to read off my mom's name. My eyes welled with tears as I shook my head, "Yes." Sitting in the waiting room thinking about her situation and the unknown lump, it was kind of a lot to absorb.

After a few initial tests, the lump was determined to be a non-issue and, fortunately, non-cancerous. A few more tests revealed that despite my weight, I have excellent health. There are people who would give their right arm for my cholesterol levels. I also have normal blood pressure and I don't have diabetes. There was one thing I never saw coming, though, and it explains everything.

Of the full battery of tests completed, there was one I didn't even know about. It is called a TSH and it measures the level of thyroid hormone in your blood system. Ironically, I learned the name of the test the same day my test was ordered during the course of writing an article, but I didn't know it was being conducted on me! Before I left the office that day, the nurse said no news was good news regarding all of my health screenings and I really didn't expect a call.

But a call did come. I sweated bullets for 48 hours until last Monday morning when I could call the office back. I thought of every horrible thing possible: cancer, diabetes, cancer, cancer, heart disease...did I mention cancer?

It turns out, that TSH test determined that I have hypothyroidism. An hour of googling later, I determined that it explains a whole lot about my situation. For reasons that are still not entirely clear, my thyroid (a gland located in the front of my neck) is failing me. Because it does not work properly, my body is chemically a mess. This condition is responsible for weight gain due to a lifeless metabolism, fatigue, body aches, paleness, dry skin, lackluster hair, swelling of the face and limbs and an assortment of other maladies...all of which I've been experiencing for awhile now. I just assumed it was part of life. I'm not a complainer and I just dealt with it not realizing there was an underlying reason for any of it.

I like to think I operate at about 110% -- full throttle -- all the time. This may be the case, but now that I know what's wrong, I can't help but think I could be operating a lot better. The upside of hypothyroidism is that a lot will improve for me health-wise in the coming weeks. I can look forward to feeling healthier, having more energy and probably an improvement in each of the areas above that are typically impacted by hypothyroidism. The only downside that I see is that I will have to take medication for it for the rest of my life. I will have to make it habit because now that I realize I don't have to feel like I do right now, I don't want to feel like I do right now.

Also, with the advice of Dr. Jeffrey Gladd, I am now embarking on another journey of health improvement – a gluten-free diet. There appears to be a link between hypothyroidism and gluten (wheat allergies). Seemingly the gluten, in a person with allergic response to wheat and wheat-related products, results in an autoimmune response which begins attacking the thyroid tissue. I’ve read about some studies that discovered that people who were able to adhere to a gluten-free diet were able to eventually come off their thyroid medicine when the immune system improved. I’m not expecting that, but I’m hoping I might be able to improve my health a lot with a diet that includes fruits, vegetables, meats, no gluten and as few processed foods as possible. These dietary changes are being embraced by everyone in our household as a means of supporting my efforts to improve my health, but to help them out as well. This is all very positive change.

I'm sharing this with you because I want to encourage each of you to make the time for regular checkups. Our families need us and while, as moms, we say we don't do things because we want to be there for our families -- there's a very real chance that if you don't make time for regular medical check ups, you may not be there very long for your family.

In the quiet hours, somewhere after prayers and before dropping off to sleep, I’d think of Debra Houser and her family. I never met them, but having a 9-year-old son of my own, I couldn’t help but think of that child and how lost he must feel not knowing where his mother was as each night grows colder and further from the day his life changed forever. I’d think of her while doing chores and wonder who might find her, would it be soon and would her murderer be able to be punished to the fullest extent without her body as proof of the crime. I would think of law enforcement officers and how I hoped God would speak to them and guide them to her. I felt sadness when they said they’d have to stop looking for her – but I hoped they weren’t telling the whole story…that they’d still keep looking.

And it all finally happened today.

I received a phone call this morning confirming that at last, her body had been found by searchers. Acting on a tip they received Monday, officials searched a stream near CR 200 South and discovered her there. Neighbors had seen her ex-husband’s truck in that vicinity on November 17. Her body was found undisturbed, no evidence of trauma immediately apparent. An autopsy will be completed tomorrow. A press conference was held this afternoon and the details were made known to a concerned public who, along with her family, has been waiting for her to be brought home.

It’s all so horrible and terrible, a nightmare for that family. But there is a little comfort in knowing they can now begin to deal with the entirety of this tragedy. They can hold a funeral, they can begin to fully grieve. Her children will know where she is – though it is certainly not where anyone wants her to be. The community as a whole can begin to process what has happened here. I believe there are many, those who knew her and many who didn’t, who have been drawn in by this story and who want to see justice served and who want to support the family who has lost someone they love.

In my lifetime, I have known the names of four women who’ve lost their lives to domestic violence in our community. Most of these tragedies happened while I was a much younger child…but I still remember what happened and how those tragedies hurt those families.

There is no way to undo the wrong that has happened here, but I think we can all be a part of the solution in not forgetting Debra Houser’s name – or the names of other domestic violence victims. We must remain resolute to get involved in situations where we suspect domestic violence, whether that is comfortable for us or not. That may involve providing resourceful information to direct people toward help. That may cause us to be a shoulder to cry on or that we might make ourselves available, under cover of darkness, to drive someone we don’t know to a shelter far, far away. These are not easy things to think about, but if we remember the pain of this situation – then we’ll also remember how much we don’t want another family to lose a loved one to senseless anger and violence.

Moments ago, I finished reading a story about a young woman in Auburn who gave birth to a baby, didn’t know what to do and put the baby in a dumpster. She says she didn’t know what to do. In reality, she had a lot of options – one of which being that she could have given her baby to emergency workers (EMS, fire or police) and simply walked away. Instead, she’s now facing attempted murder charges.

That baby girl was so, so lucky it has been warm weather the past few days – having laid there in a pile of discarded items for three hours unattended. That is a miracle, isn’t it. A for real miracle.

I wonder: would it make sense to publicize Indiana law regarding the disposal of newborns by putting stickers on dumpsters declaring the fact that if you don’t want the child you’re about to put in there, that you should instead take the child to the emergency room at a hospital and leave it there? After all, it seems like an awful lot of the time, people discard children in dumpsters. But, if you’re hell bent on putting a baby in there, are you going to take time to read a sticker? Does taking the time to investigate your options even cross your mind? Perhaps not.

Every time I read about another woman who has put her newborn baby in a dumpster, I think surely there is a family who would give the world to welcome that child into their home. I saw a news story last year about this law and apparently quite a few children are properly given away in this manner. One family even lauded the law, saying it was because of that law they were able to adopt their daughter.

Back in the day, I wonder how many babies really were left in baskets on front porches? Even a front porch seems like a better place than a dumpster – both realistically and symbolically.

I suppose this all comes back to the point that babies don’t always come into the world with the anticipation and excitement they ought to. Oftentimes, mothers are terrified, uninformed, in denial, uneducated, naïve, you name it. Regardless, no one is a worthless piece of garbage. No one.

When I was little, my Dad worked in a hospital – something to do with cleaning and working on electronics. It was a technical job and one where he was, unfortunately, exposed to a lot of germs which he really didn’t enjoy much. My Dad has always been “Mister Safety” and a germophobe…and maybe that has something to do with his mother, my grandmother, being a registered nurse? I’m not sure, but when he would come home from work at the hospital, he’d have his hands out in front of him and he became adept at opening doors without touching them and was insistent about cleanliness. He was methodical about decontaminating himself from any possible germ when he came home from work -- before greeting all of us at home. At home, because my Mom stayed home with we three children, in a home out in the country where we didn’t necessarily see other people every day, we were pretty insulated from illness – in a bubble of wellness in our home you might say.

Still, we occasionally did get sick. Being sick at our house meant staying home and recuperating – whether that’s what you wanted to do or not. A social and busy person, this imposed quarantine didn’t always sit well with me! I wouldn’t want to miss anything! I recall having serious temperatures, roaring sore throats and all-over malaise – but mustering the gumption to tell my Mom, “I’m just fine!” She knew better and would become very angry if such sickness came to light after we’d potentially exposed others to our germs. In fact, I think that was among the top things that would make her mad. Maybe that was foreshadowing of some sort.

Many years later, when my Mom went through four and a half years of chemotherapy, our family’s sense of germphobia was heightened even more.

We all found ourselves as the “germ police,” looking at others and ourselves for any sense of illness that might impact her already compromised immune system and cause her to feel any more ill than she already was. Dad was captain of the Germ Police. We worked hard to not get sick so that we wouldn’t unknowingly give that sickness to her. In her worst of times, a common cold could have spelled tragedy. This was a hard time for all of us…I had a toddler and an infant and kids usually involve germs. I remember once taking Jamee to “just see” her because we had needed to stay away for what seemed like a very long time for fear of getting her sick one winter. I say “just see” because we went to her house and stood on the back porch – with sliding glass windows separating us from her. I remember her eyes filled with tears – just wanting to hold that sweet little boy, but knowing that any germ he may have had would make her horribly sick. I remember him, too, with his little face and hands pressed against the glass trying to reach her and not understanding why we couldn’t go inside. We all just looked at each other because it was the closest thing we could have to being together at that time because she was so sick. (Oh, what I wouldn't give to "just see" her now...)

The thought actually did occur to me a little while after she died that maybe I didn't need to be so germ-phobic because we didn't need to protect her anymore. But, to be perfectly honest, I’m still a germophobe. It doesn’t go away and I believe I’ve come by it honestly. I’m the mom who sends her kids to school with antibacterial wipes for their desks and hand sanitizer. I actually appreciate gifts of hand sanitizer for holidays – and I have multiple bottles of it in my purse, the car, everywhere. I use little pieces of paper to prevent touching the buttons on the bank machine. I go to the full-service gas station to avoid touching the pumps. I avoid water fountains. I request straws in restaurants so that my mouth does not come in contact with the surfaces of cups that may not have been washed thoroughly enough. I use my own pen to sign my name at the bank or at the store after I buy something. I avoid public restrooms unless absolutely necessary and if I do have to go there, I have a whole routine for avoiding germy surfaces in public restrooms that is too detailed to outline here.

Also, I stay home if I’m sick and I keep my kids home even if they “might be” sick. I will avoid you if I think you may be contagious. If I’m worried that a place or situation might be the perfect breeding ground for germs, I’ll avoid that place or situation. Too many people in small spaces sounds germy to me. I feel angry when I see sick kids out in public and I think it is particularly awful, despite the reasons, to send a sick kid to school, to sports team practice or anywhere really. Sick kids need to be in their homes and doted upon -- at least that is my opinion. It still infuriates me that one year, someone brought a sick child to a pre-holiday holiday event and my child ended up with a stomach ailment at church on Christmas -- ruining one of his earliest memorable Christmas experiences. Ok. Maybe I should get over that last part.

With all of that admitted “out loud,” you’ll know I’ve spent a lot of time thinking lately about H1N1 and flu and sickness in general. Everyone has something to say about it. Everyone is scared for one reason or another. Everyone has an opinion. I firmly believe there are things we can do to keep ourselves well, our families well – and my views may not jive with your views and that’s ok. Wading through all the images and information about vaccines, attendance rates at local schools and the prevalence of illness this flu season, I received one message this week that I believe hits on information we should all be more concerned with: how to keep ourselves well. Maybe it’s kind of the “glass is half full, half empty” kind of scenario. We can focus on who is sick and what is making them sick – or we can focus our energy on staying well, avoiding situations that will get us sick and doing a variety of things to improve the likelihood that we will remain healthy.

My father-in-law, whose opinion I value and who I think is quite wise, sent this message of hope and sensibility on a day when I really felt like I needed to receive it. I’d love to credit the original author of the message of sage advice – but nothing was attached. I am italicizing it so that you know I didn't write it.

The only portals of entry are the nostrils and mouth/throat. In a global epidemic of this nature, it's almost impossible to avoid coming into contact with H1N1 in spite of all precautions. Contact with H1N1 is not so much of a problem as proliferation is. Proliferation is the growth or production of cells by multiplication of parts.
While you are still healthy and not showing any symptoms of H1N1 infection, in order to prevent proliferation, aggravation of symptoms, and development of secondary infections, some very simple steps, though not fully highlighted in most official communications, can be practiced.

1. Frequent hand-washing (well highlighted in all official communications).
2. "Hands-off-the-face" approach. Resist all temptations to touch any part of face (unless you want to eat, bathe, or sleep).
3. *Gargle twice a day with warm salt water (use Listerine if you don't trust salt). *H1N1 takes 2-3 days after initial infection in the throat/ nasal cavity to proliferate and show characteristic symptoms. Simple gargling prevents proliferation. In a way, gargling with salt water has the same effect on a healthy individual that Tamiflu has on an infected one. Don't underestimate this simple, inexpensive and powerful preventative method.
4.. Similar to 3 above, *clean your nostrils at least once every day with warm salt
water.  *Not everybody may be good at Jala Neti or Sutra Neti (very good Yoga asanas to clean nasal cavities), but blowing the nose hard once a day and swabbing both nostrils with cotton buds dipped in warm salt water is very effective in bringing down viral population. 
5. *Boost your natural immunity with foods that are rich in Vitamin C (Amla and other citrus fruits). *If you have to supplement with Vitamin C tablets, make sure that it also has Zinc to boost absorption.
6. *Drink as much of warm liquids (tea, coffee, etc) as you can. *Drinking warm liquids has the same effect as gargling, but in the reverse direction. They wash off proliferating viruses from the throat into the stomach where they cannot survive, proliferate or do any harm.

This week, I’ve made an exceptional effort to do all of those things. Already a frequent hand-washing, I’ve been in overdrive on that lately. I’m gargling at least once a day or more if I think about it. You can get neti pots in local pharmacies for nasal cleansing or you can buy the small containers of nasal saline which also seems to work well (just keep your container to yourself for germ control). Warm beverages are great – teas, hot cocoa, coffee or cider. And, who can refuse a glass of orange juice or some extra vitamin C tablets this time of year. That seems like some of the most sensible things we could all do to avoid being sick – or improve the chances that if you did get sick, it wouldn’t be so bad.

It’s been awhile since I posted and there are lots of updates. Months of planning, boxing, cleaning, clearing and hoping paid off when we closed on our new home and moved in late July. Yes, we’re still in Whitley County and couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. We have an amazing community and we love it here.

There were nights I found myself wandering around the new house unpacking boxes, arranging furniture and decorating at 3 a.m. – and it was wearing me out! Some wise person pointed out, “You know, you’re going to live there for a very long time. You don’t have to do everything in a few days!” Since then, I’ve mellowed out on the obsession with getting everything in order immediately. Which is a good thing – because about a week after moving, we left on a 10 day trip to Belgium and France! You might think this sounds like too much excitement, but this is very characteristic for us. When 11 days after graduating from college we got married and the next day left for our two-week honeymoon in Scotland. See – normal stuff for us!

Belgium and France were very nice and I particularly enjoyed the smaller cities in Belgium like Leuven, Bruges, Ghent and Oostende. The architecture was the best part about the trip – towering cathedrals, statues and grand plazas around every corner. We made the important stops to see the Mannequin Pis, Gran Plas, The Louvre, the Eiffel Tower…and the other to-do list: enjoying the chocolate, warm waffles, crepes with sugar, croissants and baguettes. We sampled the beers (a sweet cherry beer called Kreik was my favorite). All in all, it was an excellent adventure. Hopefully my absence was not noticed as I continued to update Talk of the Town daily during my holiday – just during hours that aren’t typical due to the different time zone.

Every time I go to Europe, I like to make note of the fashions because they tend to arrive here in the Midwest awhile later. On one trip several years ago, I recall seeing women wearing almost comically pointed-toe shoes with flair-legged pants. I thought the shoes looked terribly uncomfortable and after making ample jokes over the years about bell-bottomed pants, I thought it highly unlikely such a look would surface here. But, sure enough, almost a year later, I saw that look replicated here.

So, I made a couple of observations on fashion while I was in Bruxelles and Paris so as to tip off my fashionista friends here as soon as I got home. Yesterday, I did a little shopping in the region to see if I could replicate the look here with little effort and if today is proof, I have accomplished that. I put together a look similar to what I saw there and wore it to a meeting this morning. A little different than what I might normally wear, I did elicit come comments. I did find all of these items ridiculously on sale locally, so snap them up if you can find them.

First, you need a couple of pairs of leggings – particularly black, which you will wear with almost everything, dressed up or casual. Buy them in several lengths – ankle length and capri. You will wear them under knee length dresses and tunics. I saw them in a variety of colors, but since black is slimming and blends with most things, I’d go this route. Everyone was wearing them – regardless of age or body type – and with the longer top or dress over them, they were fairly flattering for most people, really. I found pairs of these at Fashion Bug in Columbia City this week for under $10 in the clearance area.

Second, you’ll need to pick up a tunic or two. Most of the ones I saw were A-line, trapeze style with gathered necklines (usually pleated) or structured ones that were roomy, but not sloppy. Colors like lavender, slate blue, mauve or grey seemed popular for these, but I also saw them in basic black and white, too. A lot of tunics were tank style ones worn alone on warmer days or with cardigans on cooler days. I found several examples of these at Elder-Beerman in Warsaw yesterday for about $4.

Cardigans and tailored hoodies are a must and can be worn with the leggings and tunics. You probably already have these around.

I saw a lot of black and grey ankle boots and slouchy calf boots over the leggings. Similar versions are available at many local and regional stores at reasonable prices. The ones I saw overseas tended to be more pointy-toed and not rounded. I saw heels and flats, so pick what’s comfortable for you.

The look is not complete without a pashmina or scarf around the neck. It wasn’t necessarily matchy – sometimes bright or featuring animal print. There seems to be an art to correctly swirling the fabric around one’s neck that makes it drapey, but not messy looking. I have not mastered this, but will keep trying. A friend told me this morning that she picked up a similar scarf locally for $1 this week.

If scarfs are not your thing, you’ll have another option: jewelry. Long strands of chain and larger beaded jewelry were popular and in colors that didn’t necessarily match the rest of the outfit – but they were statement pieces. I’ve seen similar ones in local stores and also handmade, amazing versions at the Farmers Market.

Typically, I’m up for anything, but with the big move and other things piling up on my horizon, I wasn’t convinced that any sort of deviation from focus was a good idea. I couldn’t have been more wrong and I’m glad that others in my household were more insistent.

So, after spending most of Friday packing (I owe a great debt of gratitude to my dear friend Tiffany and her family for helping me), we managed to pack up and leave town as the late afternoon sunrays fell over Whitley County. There were a few bumps along the way that took us off track and with each one, I wondered if maybe we just shouldn’t go. Maybe we should just go back home. It was a good thing I wasn’t driving or we just might have gone back home – which would have resulted in 75% of my household being incredibly unhappy.

By evening, we arrived in Elkhart in time to find friends we see about once a year all gathered around a campfire, waiving as we rolled in with the ’59 Avion. Everyone there owned an Avion, but a good many were a few generations newer…ours was the oldest one there and despite our arrival toward the end of the rally, they’d saved the front row spot for our shining example of the brand’s history.

No sooner had we pulled through our campsite, friends were already coming over to see us – extending handshakes and plenty of hugs, as glad to see us as we were to see them. It was then that I realized how glad I was that we set all the things we felt we had to do aside to do something we really wanted to do.

There’s a lot to love about camping – the simplicity of worrying about basic things, enjoying the great outdoors, avoiding the distractions of our everyday lives. There’s also a lot to enjoy about camping with others. For that reason, I always look forward to the camping adventures we have with fellow Avion owners. We’ve now gone to Michigan, Kentucky and various points in Indiana together over the past four years. After countless nights around campfires, rainy days in pavilions, games, laughter and other time spent together, you almost wish you could see everyone more frequently – but in a lot of ways, this makes once or twice a year camping trips so much fun and something we always look forward to.

As I sat around the campfire Friday evening, something important occurred to me. Here we were, in the darkness, staring into a blaze fueled by pine relating to one another. I heard stories about people I will likely never meet – and yet they were meaningful and wonderful and relevant in my own life. When you’re camping in a group like this, you leave the trappings of your everyday life at home. No one knows (or cares) how much money you make, what you have or what you don’t. It’s just about enjoying time, relaxing and relating to one another where you are, when you’re there. The things that prevent us from understanding each other are not there. Our view of other people is not obstructed by the things in life that divide us – rather, we are drawn together by what we have in common and it’s easy when there is little complication in that. How great it is that people could just enjoy other people when they don’t allow silly divisions like age or socioeconomic status to get in the way. How wonderful it would be if we could all relate to one another, to those we encounter in everyday life, in this way. Imagine if our cars, homes and the other trappings in our life didn’t divide us – but put us closer together, elbow to elbow, like we are around a campfire?

Saturday was as blissful as Friday – napping in the camper, windows open, breeze blowing the vintage linen curtains. I couldn’t help but grin with delight upon awaking from my nap, pulling the fluffy chenille bedspread up to my chin and taking in a deep breath of the unseasonably cool air and seeing the blue sky out the window above my bed. It was a day of group meals, catching up, reading gossip magazines, listening to the radio and purposefully doing a whole lot of nothing. It was wonderful and, for us, a rare treat – and a glimpse into what life may one day be in our retirement years like so many of our friends in the group who are already retired or semi-retired. What must it be like to live an exciting life on the road, going where the wind takes you, seeing new sites and old friends with such frequency?

But as with any good time, Sunday morning came and it was time to pack up and head home to reality: big changes in our lives this week. Yet, because of the opportunity for quieting of the soul, slowing of the pace, I think we will face this week with more tenacity and vigor. I should be quick to say will be a very good week for our family, one we have been looking forward to for a long time – it will just be a busy one with little time to breathe or reflect on what’s happening.

So I guess I shouldn’t have been entirely surprised when, yesterday, following a full day of hustle and bustle in Fort Wayne, a place we rarely go anymore, when I asked a rosy cheeked Mahri if she felt ok, she enthusiastically responded that she was just fine. About two seconds later, she got sick all over the place and so began that painful 24-hour period in a parent’s life when you find yourself staring at the child for any sign they might be about to throw up. Any change in posture, any grimace, any movement at all is an alert – “Honey, are you going to be sick? Do we need to get to the bathroom? Do you feel ok? Are you sure? Are you sure?”

The rosy cheeks, for her, are a pretty obvious outward indication that things are not fine, regardless of what she said. She had a temperature and though she didn’t get sick again last night, I was just sure at any minute she would….so I hovered. A lot. All night.

She was offered the standard “mom’s line of sick kid care” which includes 7-up, crackers, lots of towels, some sort of emesis basin nearby, a bath and an insistence on rest.

By the end of the evening, both of my kids were getting very annoyed with the constant worry and concern. Both – because you know if one’s got something, the other will have it soon enough. We went ahead and made them both “sick beds” just in case.

Awaking this morning, it was very clear that whatever she had has probably gone. The cheeks are a normal shade of pink and the perky, effervescent personality has reappeared – complete with summersaults, bickering with her brother, singing, dancing – the regular day in, day out “Mahri Show.”

The Mom Alert is still in effect though and I’ll be watching Jamee closely for any indication he’s got it because, given the options of going swimming or staying home doing nothing – he’s going to be where the fun is, even if how he’s feeling is no fun at all. I know…been there, done that.

So today, that extra time was spent making things. I used to never cook. Now, I sometimes cook. This week, with the exception of last night, I’ve been cooking at home frequently. Today, I had three cooking goals and I’m now within 15 minutes of achieving the last one.

My first goal was to make sushi. My eight-year-old son has been asking almost daily when we were going to make it and finally, today seemed like a good opportunity. For any reader now feeling squeamish, I want you to know this: not all sushi is made with raw fish. You can have perfectly delicious sushi made with cooked crab, cooked shrimp, smoked salmon or without any meat at all. I only started eating sushi about three years ago at the urging of my dear friend Christy Smith (who pens the “Half Baked” column here on Talk of the Town). One taste and I was hooked. My son seems to love it about as much as I do – minus the time we accidentally got a kind with fish eggs on it. Uck. He didn’t ask for sushi again for a couple of months after that episode. I’m now very, very careful when ordering it. If the menu says “roe” you don’t want it – unless you know you like that sort of thing.

So, today’s adventure in sushi making went pretty well. We used a kit we got at the local Kroger store and used crab and cream cheese. The end result was neither as attractive nor as consistently perfect looking as the sushi you’ll get at fine Japanese restaurants, but it tasted basically the same and we were delighted to have tried it.

The next goal was making something I saw on a television show awhile back – dulce de leche. This carmel-like deliciousness is a treat often enjoyed in South America and, based on the television show, looked easy to make. The first time I attempted to make it, I bought unsweetened condensed milk. NOT what you need – you need sweetened condensed milk. Guess what? Making it was even easier than it appeared on television and it is amazing. I’m now trying to figure out what I’m going to do with it. I think it would be delightful drizzled over brownies or on ice cream. I think I’m going to try it over warmed bananas like I saw on television.

My third goal for today was utilizing the salmon I got on sale at the grocery store this week. I’m kind of bad about buying things and not using them and I didn’t want these two perfectly lovely salmon filets going to waste. I used to drive all the way to Warsaw to go grocery shopping at the Marsh store there. Silly, I know. Gas was cheaper back then and I just really liked the store…well, I liked things I could get at the store and one of those favorites was their stuffed salmon filets. I determined I could probably make them myself at home and they’d taste the same. Again, not tricky to make – just salmon filets stuff with crumbled feta cheese and fresh or frozen spinach.

Well, we’re now within a short while of those being done and when they are, I will have been successful in making all three dishes I set out to make today. Thus far, my son has voiced approval for all three. My daughter, age 5, was less than pleased. She claims to not like sushi, said the dulce de leche was “ok” and said the salmon “looks gross” and the feta cheese smells “ugh!” Quite the critic, eh.

If I had the ability to recreate June Cleaver’s kitchen, I’d do it in a second. I’m envious of Rachel Ray’s appliances with the modern conveniences and their big, shiny, retro coolness, but not so in love with the prices – yes, I’ve looked into them. Pricey. But if you buy for-real old ones, they’re pricey too – on the electric bill.

I’ve oogled my friend Kelley’s kitchen for quite some time. She has “the first modern kitchen” in Whitley County – or so it was called way back in the day. It is still dreamy! My friend Mindy has those fantastic metal cabinets that a lot of 1950s kitchens had, also amazing. They look at me like I’m wacky when I tell them I’d gladly trade my raised panel oak custom cabinetry with brass handles for their kitchens in a heartbeat. It’s all in what you love.

Is it that I’m really in love with the style or the life style? Good question. When I think about the 1950s, in my mind at least, it’s all smiling mom at home in pearls and an apron, meals around the dining room table, kids minding their manners, dad is handsome, all is well in the world. At our house, dad really is handsome, kids to mind their manners, I wear pearls occasionally and I collect vintage aprons…but due to “failing chairs” sitting around the table isn’t possible, meals are as often eaten on the go, and clearly, all isn’t well in the world.

I stumbled across an excellent website recently http://retrorenovation.com/ that could give me some excellent decorating ideas…only, since I won’t be living in a retro home, pulling off anything like this is, well, unlikely. I am certain my husband will not allow me to tear out a perfectly, beyond nice kitchen to put in the retro-fied one of my dreams. I’m also fairly certain that while he enjoys or at least tolerates my retro decorating in our 1959 camper – he’s not allowing the obsession to trickle over into the house. The lake house one day, perhaps….

But if I could…I would also love to go for a bathroom with a matching pink or green sink, tub and toilet combo – with tile walls that go up about shoulder high. I must be alone in my affinity for this: you wouldn’t believe how many toilets and sinks I saw that looked like this out of the trash day last week! This kind of bathroom reminds me of the bathroom at my grandma’s house growing up – where her starched white nurse’s cap and uniform would be air drying on a hanger and where the whole room smelled of big bars of Dial soap and baby powder. Her 1950s era bathroom had what seemed like a giant-sized cabinet for piles of scratchy (yet lovely) line-dried towels and bubble bath. A couple of seafoam green chalk fish hung on the wall. Her tile walls were white with gold flecks in them.

As far as 1950s flooring goes, I could take it or leave it – though I do like the black and white checkered look and some of the short pile rugs are nice. There was a rug at my grandparents’ house that was room-sized and a dusty blue color with a short, patterned pile. As a pre-teen, I once commented how much I liked that rug and Grandma told me that as the rug was being delivered to her home and laid on the floor, November 22, 1963, she learned that John Kennedy had been shot in Dallas. I think that whenever she look at that rug, that though popped into her mind – and maybe made the rug a little less appealing. I still liked it, though, and briefly contemplated claiming it when they downsized and moved into an apartment a few years ago. I didn’t end up taking it because I had no logical place in my house for it – hopefully it went with a cousin or maybe the homeowners found it endearing?

I suppose that while my overall decorating scheme will not ever mimic the mid-century look, I will find unique ways of incorporating it into my home. Just this week, I bought a vintage 1950s mahogany dining room suite. The long table will eventually be dressed up with my collection of 1950s tablecloths. Some people collect them – I actually use them. I have a chrome table and my mother-in-law has promised me a set of aqua pearlesque  chrome chairs to match when I have room – as soon as I can, I’ll find a spot for that. I’m contemplating tossing out my everyday dishes in favor of a set of Fiestaware. On special occasions, I can use my great-grandmother’s circa 1942 china – a treasured gift from my mother on my 26^th birthday. She didn’t just give it to me all wrapped up. She served a spaghetti dinner on it and after dinner, said, “So, Jen, go do the dishes and then take them home!” I hate…absolutely detest…doing the dishes, but I’ve never washed them so dutifully as I did that evening.

I didn’t grow up loving things from the 1950s. It’s fondness that’s grown with age. Maybe one day I’ll outgrow it, but I think not. I think it’s all about wishing for a return to a time that seemed less complicated, where people were closer to their roots, more engaged with their families and involved in their communities. It may be idealistic, but striving for that once again isn’t such a bad idea and if a daily reminder of that is a Weil & Durrse tablecloth, a turquoise pitcher or an Eames era starburst wall clock.

After spending several weeks this spring making countless trips to the second hand store and consignment store, and later a storage unit, we managed to whittle away much of the stuff our family has accumulated over the past nine years -- all in anticipation of moving.

Just when we were beginning to feel some pangs of defeat and question whether God really had a plan for us to move, we got an offer and I’m pleased to say we’re now in the process of watching and waiting for inspections, appraisals and surveys to be finished, mortgages to go through and all the other things that keep you on edge when you might be moving. I guess I say might because for some reason I feel like I’m going to jinx this whole thing if I make it an absolute – as much as I am absolutely hopeful we are moving.

Many readers wondered if I was moving far away. Not a chance! I can't imagine being anywhere but Whitley County. Others have wondered if we’re moving to the lake full time at last. That remains to be seen. If things work out like we’re hoping they do, we won’t be moving up there just yet – but we’ll stay in town due to the proximity of daily activities.

In the meantime, we’ve entered the phase of home inspections and approvals. On inspection day, after spending considerable time at the place we’re hoping to be moving to, I think I can say out loud that I will be crushed if this doesn’t work out for some reason. Crushed. Worse still – the little people in our home will be crushed too as they’ve now picked out bedrooms, boxed up most of their belongings and are eager to have their own new rooms and all the other cool things we discovered – topping the list, a tree swing in a corner of a shady lawn. Simple things, but big things to little people.

If nothing else is accomplished from all of this, we’ve managed to lighten our load and get rid of A LOT of stuff. I’m sure some might argue there’s a lot more we could do with out and I think we will be happy to part with it. I can’t begin to tell you how liberating it has been to continue to give away – and then give away even more. The first couple of barrels full of stuff were difficult to fill, but I found it got easier each time I did it. Now, I can get rid of things daily, effortlessly – when I have time.

Now that summer is here, I’m find that while Daylight Savings Time had made our days longer – I seem to have less time to work with! It fills up with practices, camps, classes, meetings, zipping here and there. I was eagerly awaiting sleeping in now that kids don’t need to be driven to school at 8 a.m. – but the sun and loud, chirping birds have us up and out of bed earlier than it typically did in the winter months!  

One thing I’m not really looking forward to is the packing to move. A lot of it has been done already when we moved things into storage, yet there is plenty yet to do. I don’t want to be spending the nice days packing boxes indoors when I could be at the lake or the Splashpad with the kids. What a dilemma! I am grateful to the friends who’ve not only offered to help us move, but those who’ve offered to come over and help me pack too. Many hands make the work light and such will be the case with packing. I can’t thank you all enough.

So now, we just have to be patient and wait. We think we might be moving…we just don’t know when. We think we know where we want to be and we’re hopeful we’re right. Regardless, this is going to be a big summer for our family and I can't wait to tell you we ARE moving!