I am beginning to get why someone might be drawn to extreme prophesy such as end times. After last week's presidential election of someone whose name I can't yet bring myself to say out loud, the idea of an apocalypse at this moment seems quaint.
I promised my oldest - age 7 - grandchild we would be celebrating the first woman ever elected president in these great United States. Her mom says when she was told it didn't happen, she was confused. She was also told her grandmother was very sad and had been crying.
Her response: "If Mare is gonna' cry all day, I am too."
I can't let that happen. We have talked and I told her we have to stay positive even when things don't turn out the way we want.
I didn't tell her we can also resist what goes against our values. She will learn that lesson soon enough.
As the shock wears off I think about my father who fought in WWII against many of the same principles our next president seems to advocate: White superiority, Christian superiority, male superiority. Ok, he didn't fight for that last one. But his daughter did.
I'm sorry, Dad. We let you down this year. But you will be happy to know your daughter and some of your grandchildren are heading to Washington, D.C. to march with thousands of like-minded patriots the day after inauguration. We will make our voices heard; and I hope make you proud.
Thursday, November 17, 2016
Thursday, November 3, 2016
I have a lot to live up to
I've thought for some time that my pedigree is pretty good. If that sounds boastful, so be it.
By pedigree I mean the quality of folk who came before me. My parents and grandparents and great-grandparents. Except for a great-grandfather, every single one of my ancestor - to my knowledge - were decent, honest and hard-working. Now that great-grandfather may have been that, too, but he disappeared from the family under mysterious circumstances. Oh, and add tight-lipped to that list of characteristics of most of my forbearers.
Both my parents died this year so I've been drawn to the family story. I attempted to glean family lore from my mother toward the end of her life, but sadly it was beyond her cognitive ability by the time I sat down to take dictation. Still she provided glimpses. While dates and places were irretrievable, people and personality were not.
My maternal grandparents grew up in Minnesota; my grandmother Madge in the rowdy Twin Cities and my grandfather Carl in pastoral rural Minnesota. They really could not have been more different. Madge was gregarious and quick witted; Carl was shy and painfully earnest. Madge hailed from strong women; her single mother - Mary Ellen - stood barely 5 feet tall and ruled all in her purview. Today's Tiger Moms would quake in her presence. As did Carl I imagine.
Carl's parents came through Ellis Island in the mid-1800s and settled in Minnesota alongside thousands of other Norwegians. On one census, his father Han's occupation was listed as day laborer, as was the occupation of most of his immigrant neighbors.
So where did these two meet? Standing Rock Reservation in South Dakota. They both left their homes in Minnesota to teach on the reservation. The tall and shy Carl must have been emotionally upended by the beautiful Madge. A woman who equaled him in intelligence and shared his passion for teaching.
I would give just about anything to be able to write about this most glorious coupling. Who made the first move? Legitimate question given Carl's shyness. But alas, I never got the chance to ask those questions. Carl died when I was in second grade; a good 15 years before my curiosity about things other than myself arrived. Madge lived in Oregon her later years. The last time I saw her was at my wedding, again when I was more preoccupied with myself.
I do know Madge would leave her career as a teacher to raise her and Carl's three sons and two daughters. My mom recalled a normal upbringing. I doubt that. Living in tiny towns, the kids were mostly AWOL from the house until suppertime. Afterwards, my mom describes a most wonderful family routine. After dinner cleanup, the seven Eskelsons scatter, as in go their separate ways. Some to their bedroom, others to living room or front porch. For the next hour or so that loud house stood silent. It was reading time. Books after dinner every night.
I love this image. I understand so much better why my mom was so smart. She had Carl's shyness so not many people knew how brilliant her brain worked. These two young people venturing forth in the world truly on their own. Understanding the value of education and how it can lift a person of any measure. Quality people.
When I was in my mid-30s and still living in South Dakota, a woman I knew in a bipartisan political group learned I was related to Madge and Carl. She said she loved them. They were active in the state Republican Party. Wow. My grandparents were real people. How come I didn't know that?
My grandparents were not only real people, they were quality people. They are a big part of the reason I can say I come from solid pedigree.
Quick fact about Carl: he served in WWI.
Quick fact about Madge: she may have stopped being a teacher, but she never stopped teaching. She tutored children in reading when she was in her early 90s.
That's a lot of good in just two people. My people.
By pedigree I mean the quality of folk who came before me. My parents and grandparents and great-grandparents. Except for a great-grandfather, every single one of my ancestor - to my knowledge - were decent, honest and hard-working. Now that great-grandfather may have been that, too, but he disappeared from the family under mysterious circumstances. Oh, and add tight-lipped to that list of characteristics of most of my forbearers.
Both my parents died this year so I've been drawn to the family story. I attempted to glean family lore from my mother toward the end of her life, but sadly it was beyond her cognitive ability by the time I sat down to take dictation. Still she provided glimpses. While dates and places were irretrievable, people and personality were not.
My maternal grandparents grew up in Minnesota; my grandmother Madge in the rowdy Twin Cities and my grandfather Carl in pastoral rural Minnesota. They really could not have been more different. Madge was gregarious and quick witted; Carl was shy and painfully earnest. Madge hailed from strong women; her single mother - Mary Ellen - stood barely 5 feet tall and ruled all in her purview. Today's Tiger Moms would quake in her presence. As did Carl I imagine.
Carl's parents came through Ellis Island in the mid-1800s and settled in Minnesota alongside thousands of other Norwegians. On one census, his father Han's occupation was listed as day laborer, as was the occupation of most of his immigrant neighbors.
So where did these two meet? Standing Rock Reservation in South Dakota. They both left their homes in Minnesota to teach on the reservation. The tall and shy Carl must have been emotionally upended by the beautiful Madge. A woman who equaled him in intelligence and shared his passion for teaching.
I would give just about anything to be able to write about this most glorious coupling. Who made the first move? Legitimate question given Carl's shyness. But alas, I never got the chance to ask those questions. Carl died when I was in second grade; a good 15 years before my curiosity about things other than myself arrived. Madge lived in Oregon her later years. The last time I saw her was at my wedding, again when I was more preoccupied with myself.
I do know Madge would leave her career as a teacher to raise her and Carl's three sons and two daughters. My mom recalled a normal upbringing. I doubt that. Living in tiny towns, the kids were mostly AWOL from the house until suppertime. Afterwards, my mom describes a most wonderful family routine. After dinner cleanup, the seven Eskelsons scatter, as in go their separate ways. Some to their bedroom, others to living room or front porch. For the next hour or so that loud house stood silent. It was reading time. Books after dinner every night.
I love this image. I understand so much better why my mom was so smart. She had Carl's shyness so not many people knew how brilliant her brain worked. These two young people venturing forth in the world truly on their own. Understanding the value of education and how it can lift a person of any measure. Quality people.
When I was in my mid-30s and still living in South Dakota, a woman I knew in a bipartisan political group learned I was related to Madge and Carl. She said she loved them. They were active in the state Republican Party. Wow. My grandparents were real people. How come I didn't know that?
My grandparents were not only real people, they were quality people. They are a big part of the reason I can say I come from solid pedigree.
Quick fact about Carl: he served in WWI.
Quick fact about Madge: she may have stopped being a teacher, but she never stopped teaching. She tutored children in reading when she was in her early 90s.
That's a lot of good in just two people. My people.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
Memorial pictures
Their granddaughter Kara traveled the farthest - from Denmark. Others came from nearby in Montana as well as from Texas, Washington, South Dakota, and Nevada. Their five surviving children were there, having been preceded in death by their eldest son Frank. Grandchildren and great-grandchildren lent a noisy and joyful backdrop so loved by Frank and Shirley.
I had talked to my mom just months earlier about what she would want done with her ashes. She approved of the idea of spreading hers with Frank's in Flathead Lake. In fact she said "that would be very nice." And it was.
Ashes sinking slowing into Flathead Lake.
Flathead Lake, Montana, where the folks lived for about 20 years.
Family and friends at community library, of which they were founders.
From left: John, Andy, Charlie, Mary and Jim. Surviving children.
Frank and Shirley were preceded in death by their eldest son, Frank.
Refreshments at local brewery after the memorial.
Spreading the ashes.
Left to right: Eric and Angie Lochridge, Jenny and James Cole, Ethan and
Emma Lochridge. Standing in front of Frank and Shirley's A-frame "tree house."
Emma Lochridge. Standing in front of Frank and Shirley's A-frame "tree house."
Hanging out in Lakeside rental.
Double rainbow the day of the memorial!!
Jan Ernst playing cribbage.
Dawn and Jim Lochridge
Randy Long and Jan Lochridge-Long.
Jenny Cole nursing James with Shirley's "lunch ladies."
Oldest (sorry Charlie) and youngest (James) family members at memorial
Plaque in library.
Kara Lochridge
John Stickney and James Cole
Charlie doling out ashes
Dock where we spread ashes
Andy Lochridge and Brenda Morris
Two Johns: Lochridge and Stickney.
Walking to the public dock.
Lorie Lochridge and Jenny Cole
Eddy Lochridge
Dan and Lorie Lochridge with John Stickney
Irelyn, Delaney and Teya Lochridge.
Dawn, Eddy and Danny Lochridge
Sunday, August 21, 2016
I am seeing a pattern
I realized something today. My approaches to working out and house cleaning are very similar.
My Dyson vacuum cleaner was on the fritz this morning so naturally I wonder if it's time to get a new one. I'm in the kitchen thinking about this and, looking at a dull floor, wonder if a new steamer is in order, too. I know we got one a couple of years ago, but think maybe we loaned it to one of the kids.
Truth is, I am a sucker for any gadget that makes cleaning house easier. There is a collection of mismatched broom attachments in my laundry, mostly of the dusting variety. The kind that will dust overhead fans and hard-to-reach ceiling moldings. I don't need them anymore because my Dyson has a cool attachment for that. And some day I might even try it out.
I have been wanting to get that Swifter box that's all over TV recently. You see the ads: the older couple, the couple with kids and pets, etc. A box appears on their doorstep and, like magic, their floors and overhead areas are dust and pet-hair free. I must have that box.
It hits me today that I have accumulated a good number of gizmos and gadgets for cleaning just as I have accumulated machines and what not for working out. Examples: two unused treadmills, a row machine the kids now have, stationery bike, jump ropes, free weights, resistant bands for every part of the body and the list goes on. All neglected while they inhabited my house. Same with the sham wow (we really did have one!), the floor steamer used maybe a half-dozen times, and the untold number of magic dusters magically disappeared. It is a pattern. It's me avoiding the hard work.
So I stop thinking about a new vacuum and employ broom and dust pan to the worst areas. I end up getting more done than I planned. Paul diagnosed the problem with my Dyson and has a filter arriving via Amazon in a couple days. Best of all, I got some good insight.
To be honest? I still want that Swifter box.
My Dyson vacuum cleaner was on the fritz this morning so naturally I wonder if it's time to get a new one. I'm in the kitchen thinking about this and, looking at a dull floor, wonder if a new steamer is in order, too. I know we got one a couple of years ago, but think maybe we loaned it to one of the kids.
Truth is, I am a sucker for any gadget that makes cleaning house easier. There is a collection of mismatched broom attachments in my laundry, mostly of the dusting variety. The kind that will dust overhead fans and hard-to-reach ceiling moldings. I don't need them anymore because my Dyson has a cool attachment for that. And some day I might even try it out.
I have been wanting to get that Swifter box that's all over TV recently. You see the ads: the older couple, the couple with kids and pets, etc. A box appears on their doorstep and, like magic, their floors and overhead areas are dust and pet-hair free. I must have that box.
It hits me today that I have accumulated a good number of gizmos and gadgets for cleaning just as I have accumulated machines and what not for working out. Examples: two unused treadmills, a row machine the kids now have, stationery bike, jump ropes, free weights, resistant bands for every part of the body and the list goes on. All neglected while they inhabited my house. Same with the sham wow (we really did have one!), the floor steamer used maybe a half-dozen times, and the untold number of magic dusters magically disappeared. It is a pattern. It's me avoiding the hard work.
So I stop thinking about a new vacuum and employ broom and dust pan to the worst areas. I end up getting more done than I planned. Paul diagnosed the problem with my Dyson and has a filter arriving via Amazon in a couple days. Best of all, I got some good insight.
To be honest? I still want that Swifter box.
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Dew Drop Inn
Love is in the air this time of year every year since 1978. That's when Paulie and I got married. August 19 to be exact.
This morning he texted me a "Happy Anniversary" one day early. Awwww. I texted back a more accurate "Happy Dew Drop Inn Anniversary." For every wedding day story, isn't there always a night before the wedding day story? We sure got one.
August 18, 1978. Think about that. Bee Gees were singing about Stayin Alive, the most popular arcade game was Space Invaders, Jimmy Carter was president, and Garfield the cat was first introduced in newspapers. It was a long ass time ago.
We both had just graduated from college at the University of South Dakota and chose to get married in Montana because that's where most of my family lived. My folks managed a campground about a mile from Glacier National Park. A nice place to gather. The number attending the wedding was small as it was quite a trek for most of our friends.
Paul was represented by three childhood pals from the Chicago area where he grew up. For them, it was more reunion than wedding, which is typical for these kinds of events. Still, they took seriously their obligation to throw a goodbye to single life party for their friend.
Hello, Dew Drop Inn.
The chosen party spot was a local dive bar in the middle of nowhere just off the main road about a quarter mile from the campground. As I recall, I had stayed back at the campground with family members - my parents, five brothers, a sister-in-law, niece and nephews, aunt and uncle, grandmothers, and mother-in-law. Once things wound down, I along with my brothers and sister-in-law headed out to join Paul and his friends at the Dew Drop Inn.
My two younger brothers were not of age. One snuck in through the kitchen. That makes me laugh thinking about that. Today he's the brewer of great beers. The youngest was left out in the cold. And it was cold in Montana when we were there to get married. Snowed the day of the wedding. Snowed!
Back to the Inn. We gather tables together and commence celebrating. Lots and lots of drinking. Paul's friends kept them coming for my soon-to-be husband. He was smashed. I was getting there, too. I can only recall having maybe one of the best times of my life in that moment in that Montana dive. That was about to change.
"Are you Paul?"
We all look up to see a 6-foot mountain dressed in overalls. No way to process.
"Are you Paul from Chicago?" Now he's looking directly at his subject sitting next to me. His tone has silenced the table, none of us prepared for what he was about to say next.
"You got my 16-year-old daughter pregnant," he says as he rounds the table toward our side. I think I went blank. I hear lots of shouting but no words. Then my oldest brother Frank begins a chorus of "You got the wrong guy. You got the wrong guy."
By this time Mr. Mountain is standing next to Paul. I instantly insert myself between them and join in my brother's chorus, "You got the wrong guy," all the while I am lightly tapping this behemoth on his face. Why? I have no earthly idea.
While this was happening, a group of manly men, locals, were eager to join in the commotion. To prevent a real tragedy, someone responsibly ended this obvious (to everyone but me and Paul and four of my brothers) pre-wedding gag. Mr. Mountain then broke character and wrapped his arms around both of us, squishing me so tightly my glasses broke. In half.
Mr. Mountain turned out to be a tourist from California. Of course, Paul's friends had put him up to it. I don't recall much of anything else from that night, but we did have a lovely wedding the next day. Below is one of my favorite pictures from the day. My parents, Frank and Shirley, in conversation with Paul's mom Lew. The newly weds only have eyes for each other. Notice I am not wearing glasses.
This morning he texted me a "Happy Anniversary" one day early. Awwww. I texted back a more accurate "Happy Dew Drop Inn Anniversary." For every wedding day story, isn't there always a night before the wedding day story? We sure got one.
August 18, 1978. Think about that. Bee Gees were singing about Stayin Alive, the most popular arcade game was Space Invaders, Jimmy Carter was president, and Garfield the cat was first introduced in newspapers. It was a long ass time ago.
We both had just graduated from college at the University of South Dakota and chose to get married in Montana because that's where most of my family lived. My folks managed a campground about a mile from Glacier National Park. A nice place to gather. The number attending the wedding was small as it was quite a trek for most of our friends.
Paul was represented by three childhood pals from the Chicago area where he grew up. For them, it was more reunion than wedding, which is typical for these kinds of events. Still, they took seriously their obligation to throw a goodbye to single life party for their friend.
Hello, Dew Drop Inn.
The chosen party spot was a local dive bar in the middle of nowhere just off the main road about a quarter mile from the campground. As I recall, I had stayed back at the campground with family members - my parents, five brothers, a sister-in-law, niece and nephews, aunt and uncle, grandmothers, and mother-in-law. Once things wound down, I along with my brothers and sister-in-law headed out to join Paul and his friends at the Dew Drop Inn.
My two younger brothers were not of age. One snuck in through the kitchen. That makes me laugh thinking about that. Today he's the brewer of great beers. The youngest was left out in the cold. And it was cold in Montana when we were there to get married. Snowed the day of the wedding. Snowed!
Back to the Inn. We gather tables together and commence celebrating. Lots and lots of drinking. Paul's friends kept them coming for my soon-to-be husband. He was smashed. I was getting there, too. I can only recall having maybe one of the best times of my life in that moment in that Montana dive. That was about to change.
"Are you Paul?"
We all look up to see a 6-foot mountain dressed in overalls. No way to process.
"Are you Paul from Chicago?" Now he's looking directly at his subject sitting next to me. His tone has silenced the table, none of us prepared for what he was about to say next.
"You got my 16-year-old daughter pregnant," he says as he rounds the table toward our side. I think I went blank. I hear lots of shouting but no words. Then my oldest brother Frank begins a chorus of "You got the wrong guy. You got the wrong guy."
By this time Mr. Mountain is standing next to Paul. I instantly insert myself between them and join in my brother's chorus, "You got the wrong guy," all the while I am lightly tapping this behemoth on his face. Why? I have no earthly idea.
While this was happening, a group of manly men, locals, were eager to join in the commotion. To prevent a real tragedy, someone responsibly ended this obvious (to everyone but me and Paul and four of my brothers) pre-wedding gag. Mr. Mountain then broke character and wrapped his arms around both of us, squishing me so tightly my glasses broke. In half.
Mr. Mountain turned out to be a tourist from California. Of course, Paul's friends had put him up to it. I don't recall much of anything else from that night, but we did have a lovely wedding the next day. Below is one of my favorite pictures from the day. My parents, Frank and Shirley, in conversation with Paul's mom Lew. The newly weds only have eyes for each other. Notice I am not wearing glasses.
Friday, August 12, 2016
Poetic tribute
Poem read at my parents' memorial by great-grandchildren, ages (approx.) 7, 9 and 10.
GREAT Grandparents
By Irelyn, Teya and Delaney Lochridge
G is for
Grandma muffins she made all the time, with 3 little raisins on top in a perfect design.
R is for
Reading us our favorite books, they would sit with us and read for as long as it took.
E is for
Eating cookies galore, Grandpa was always the first one to want more.
A is for
Always wanting to help clean up from dinner, if we would have raced, we know Grandpa
would have been the winner.
T is for
Target to where we would walk, where grandma would always let us pick out our own pair
of socks.
G is for
Goofy jokes Grandpa would always tell, I've heard them so many times I know them well.
R is for
Really, really sweet, like the candies, cookies, and ice-cream Great Grandpa and Grandma
would always give us to eat.
A is for
Amazing athlete Grandpa always will be, he played basketball with us well after he had turned
Ninety.
N is for
Nothing but nice all the time, they always had patience even when we would whine.
D is for
Dominoes that grandpa love to play, he always reorganized them when Delaney put them
away.
P is for
Playful They played games all day, we never wanted to leave we always wanted to stay.
A is for
All the time we visited and played, we wish it could have always stayed that way.
R is for
Remembering the time she used to play, cat with Delaney almost all day.
E is for
Every time Grandpa started to tickle, Delaney would fall to the ground with an enormous
giggle.
N is for
Never forgetting all the love that they gave, the smiles, the laughter, they're very special way.
T is for
Walking to the community room together, where all of their family and friends would gather.
S is for
Special in our life, they were huge part, we will always keep memories of Great Grandpa
and Grandma close to our hearts.
and Grandma close to our hearts.
Thursday, August 11, 2016
Day One
Day one. Beginning something can be exciting. Wiping the slate clean. Forward ho!
It also signals a long road ahead. Hard work. Change.
Today is day one of my latest attempt to get healthy. It really started yesterday with a visit to a new doctor to talk about weight management. It's his specialty and he had come highly recommended.
Immediately he identified areas that needed to change. And there are so many areas: high blood pressure, heart disease, pre-diabetes, depression and of course obesity. Vicious cycle.
Starting today I will be injecting myself with Saxenda to treat Type 2 diabetes. It just happens to also curb hunger and has shown to be valuable in weight loss. He also added a medical vitamin called PoDiaPN, which works on the nervous system. Something about folic acid and metabolism. It was a lot to take in. He did say something about mounting evidence that this could be valuable for someone like me.
I go back in three weeks, when we get to see what was running around in the four tubes of blood extracted in his lab. Can I say how convenient it was to have onsite lab? I was the only person in line.
Until my next appointment it's on me to move forward. Three meals a day five to six hours apart, no snacking (handful of almonds, spoonful of peanut butter if necessary), no food after last meal, protein for breakfast (no toast). And mild exercise.
Can I do it? I believe I can.
It also signals a long road ahead. Hard work. Change.
Today is day one of my latest attempt to get healthy. It really started yesterday with a visit to a new doctor to talk about weight management. It's his specialty and he had come highly recommended.
Immediately he identified areas that needed to change. And there are so many areas: high blood pressure, heart disease, pre-diabetes, depression and of course obesity. Vicious cycle.
Starting today I will be injecting myself with Saxenda to treat Type 2 diabetes. It just happens to also curb hunger and has shown to be valuable in weight loss. He also added a medical vitamin called PoDiaPN, which works on the nervous system. Something about folic acid and metabolism. It was a lot to take in. He did say something about mounting evidence that this could be valuable for someone like me.
I go back in three weeks, when we get to see what was running around in the four tubes of blood extracted in his lab. Can I say how convenient it was to have onsite lab? I was the only person in line.
Until my next appointment it's on me to move forward. Three meals a day five to six hours apart, no snacking (handful of almonds, spoonful of peanut butter if necessary), no food after last meal, protein for breakfast (no toast). And mild exercise.
Can I do it? I believe I can.
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