The “castle” in Cedar Rapids, Nebraska, in which my mother’s family lived for a period of time.

My BFF since 2^nd grade is Irish, and has that characteristic Irish ability to tell a good yarn. The amount of truth in any one story is debatable, but she’ll make you laugh.

But this past week, while visiting with my relatives in Nebraska, I discovered that the ability to spin a delightful story isn’t limited to the Irish. The Polish apparently have the knack as well.

To wit….

From my cousin Bill: My dad’s birthday fell on the same day as my Aunt Cork and Uncle Jeep’s anniversary. Furthermore, the next day was Cork’s birthday. They often celebrated all events together. One year, when Bill was a small boy, the birthday/anniversary fell on a Saturday. At the end of that evening, which involved some memorable celebrating (likely including a fair number of beers and martinis), my dad got the notion to bake Cork a birthday cake for the next day. But not just any birthday cake. He gathered up all of the remnants of their celebration – bottle caps, dirty napkins, cigarette butts, leftover food, you get the picture — took them to the bakery where he added them to the cake batter he prepared. He baked the cake (which he later confessed smelled – not shockingly – absolutely nasty as it baked). He then iced the cake and decorated it prettily.

The next day he delivered the cake to Cork. Bill said he remembers being so excited to cut into that beautiful and delicious-looking cake, and still recalls his disappointment at the birthday surprise.

From my cousin John: My parents had a cabin at a lake in Columbus. One Sunday, they were entertaining some of our family at the cabin. The men were sitting in chairs by the lake, watching the beautiful boats go by and drinking beer. (You will notice that beer is a recurring theme in these stories) Suddenly my dad said, “Would you like to go out in my boat?” Very eagerly, the men said, YES!” John said Dad led them to the smallest fishing boat imaginable. They all got in, held their breath as the boat sank into the water, and my dad start the engine. “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” John said the engine sounded its high-pitch squeal as they set out, getting bounced around by the beautiful big boats that roared past. My dad couldn’t have been prouder.

From my cousin Marilyn: One year at the annual family picnic, Marilyn, newly engaged, walked her fiancé up to our Uncle Tommy, who was probably 60-something at the time. Proudly, Marilyn said, “Tommy, I’d like you to meet my fiancé, Roger.” A few seconds passed as Tommy looked at Marilyn, then looked at Roger, then looked back again at Marilyn. “Well, who the hell are you?” he asked, not bothering to be politically correct.

Then there’s the story that is part of our family lore. The brick-carrying contests at the annual Micek family picnic.

Let me just tell you that the Micek picnics were legendary. When we would tell our friends that we were attending this annual family function, they were likely to express their condolences that we had to spend our Sunday that way. What? On the contrary, it was something we all looked forward to every year. They food was unbelieveable. So many funny people and so many funny stories. And then, of course, there was the annual brick carrying contest.

The contest began as soon as the beer drinking commenced. The goal was to see who could carry around a brick the longest. This was not always a simple task, particularly after the beer had been flowing for a while. I’m not sure who holds the title of Brick Carrying King, but I’m sure my dad was in the running.

All of this is to say that it is stories like this that tie a family together. For all of our collective faults, our family could laugh at ourselves, and continues to do so. It was fun to hear about my mom and dad when they were the same age as our kids are now, and some of their antics. There is a lot of love being shared in these stories.

I hope our kids have the same kinds of stories when they look back.

“You can kiss your family and friends good-bye and put miles between you, but at the same time you carry them with you in your heart, your mind, your stomach, because you do not just live in a world but a world lives in you.”
― Frederick Buechner

My mom was the youngest of 12 kids – well, 14, actually, if you count the ones who died as infants. Her eldest sibling was 21 years old when Mom was born. In fact, she was already married by time Mom arrived.

And yet, throughout her life Mom was close to all of her siblings, and made sure that her children knew them and loved them as well. That says a lot about the importance of family to my parents and all of my kinfolk.

What that means for my siblings and me is that we have a lot of cousins. Thirty-two first cousins on my mother’s side if I’m counting correctly. And countless children of cousins.

We grew up and were friends with many of those cousins. However, we haven’t seen most of them for a very long time.

But Mom and Dad were our models. Though we haven’t seen most of our cousins for eons, when we connected up with them on the trip this past week, we might have just seen them last week.

Oh, there was a lot of catching up to do. What is Kent doing now? How many kids does Chris have? When did Adam get married? My gosh! You haven’t changed a bit! You look more like your dad every time I see you! How long have you been retired? How many grandchildren?

Kathleen, Aunt Leona, Kris, Bec, John, Mary Lou.

You know. Catching up.

But let me tell you one thing for sure. I come from good stock. These are some darn fine people.

And I’m lucky enough to have come from good stock on both sides of my family. My dad’s siblings, and our resulting cousins from his side, are equally fine people. We just didn’t get a chance to see them this time.

As we visited with our cousins, we realized that each of them have a different part of the family story. That is probably not unusual for a family the size of my mom’s. My mother’s eldest sister likely lived quite a different life from that of my mother. Literally two generations different.

I think my mom had a somewhat difficult life growing up. Her mother was not even 60 when she died, and sick for some time before that. Boo-hoo, she would say. Keep looking ahead. That’s what she did, that’s what her siblings did, and that’s what their children do. My cousins have experienced their measure of sadness. Loss of children and grandchildren, caring for frail parents. Still, you simply don’t hear any of them complain. Tough midwestern folks with a sense of humor to get them through many difficult times. It’s true of my family, I know.

No matter the age, the guidelines for a good life are the same. If you work hard, you will be rewarded. Be honest. Worship God. Everything is better if there is food and beer involved. Laugh a lot. Be loyal to your family. And love, love, love music.

Bec, Kris, Chris, Bill, Roger, Marilyn

Grandma and Grandpa Micek were farmers. Except when they weren’t. If you had asked me two weeks ago the occupation of my mother’s parents, I would have, with great conviction, said they farmed in Boone County, Nebraska. But I learned this past week that at some point in their life, when they had at least some of their kids, they lived in Missouri. And I read an obit that said Grandpa Micek had been a shopkeeper – an honest one, according to the notice. Who knew? As I always say, Kids, ask your parents and grandparents questions now.

One thing is for certain. At one point the large, exuberant, very Catholic Micek family lived in what the local newspaper called “the castle” just outside of Cedar Rapids, Nebraska, in Boone County. The third floor of that “castle” was made into a music room by Grandpa Micek. According to lore, he purchased a number of musical instruments with which he hoped to keep his boys busy and out of trouble.

It worked.

I learned this past week that there have been at least three different dance bands, each led by a different Micek son – the Eddie Mills Band, the El Mills Band, and the Bobby Mills Band. (They are alleged to have called themselves “Mills” as opposed to “Micek” so as to not restrict themselves to only playing polkas.)

But here’s the highlight of the story – at least as far as my siblings and I are concerned. My dad met my mom because he played on one of her brother’s bands and she collected tickets. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her, and the rest is history.

Bec and I enjoyed a lot of things about our trip, but I can say with great confidence that spending time with our family was top on our list.

Nana’s Note: Time out for an ancestry lesson. First cousins share a grandparent; second cousins share a great grandparent; a first cousin once removed is the child of a first cousin. So, for example, in my family: Erik(Bec’s son) and Court (my son) are first cousins; Carter (Bec’s grandson) and Kaiya (my granddaughter) are second cousins; Carter is Court’s first cousin once removed. It’s very confusing. I had to look it up.

Every year during my childhood, Mom and Dad would pack up the car, pack up the kids, pack up the cooler with sandwiches, and head off on a road trip. Most often we went to Estes Park, Colorado, but I remember trips to Minnesota and Lake Okaboji, Iowa, as well. Six of us packed into a car. (“Mom, she’s looking at me!”)

Those vacations are some of the best memories of my life.

It’s why I’m amused when I hear young parents today say that they could never EVER take their kids on a car trip longer than a couple of hours. And nowadays they have full theater systems in the back seat! We had the alphabet game, guessing which side of the road the next feedlot would be on, and the license plate game to keep us amused. I’m sure our parents heard their share of “are we almost there’s?” And remember the old 55 mph speed limit? Yikes!

Grain elevators like this are located in nearly every town in eastern Nebraska.

I recalled our past road trips this past week as Bec and I embarked on our own road trip – back to our old stomping grounds of Nebraska. Our travels took us a total of over 1,000 miles. The ride was much more comfortable than back in the day – we had air conditioning, for example. We had CDs to play on the radio, unlike our youthful trips where sometimes the best you could hope for was farm reports or an Indian station.

We talked a lot, but sometimes we just watched the corn fields sail past us as we flew down the road at the legal speed limit of 75 mph. We slowed down every 40 or 50 miles because of the evidently-mandatory construction cones (though we saw almost NO sign of any actual road construction). We took turns driving. Because they have had a lot of rain in the Midwest, the cornfields were bountiful and beautiful. I love to see the lush trees and other foliage that grow along the Platte River as it winds its way to where we were going, our hometown of Columbus, Nebraska. You can almost see the humidity in the air. And it smacks you in the face when you get out of the car to stretch.

I-80, which takes us the whole of the way through Nebraska, is rich with places to stop and spend your money. We roared past innumerable roadside attractions. Here are some of the things we could have seen, but opted not to stop…..

Heartland Museum of Military Vehicles, Lexington

Boot Hill, Ogallala

Great Platte River Road Archway Monument, Kearney

Strategic Air and Space Museum, Ashland

Holy Family Shrine, Gretna

Sod House Museum, Gothenburg

Pony Express Museum, Gothenburg

Kool Aid Museum, Hastings

Pioneer Village, Minden

Largest Ball of Stamps, Boys Town

20^th Century Veterans Memorial, North Platte

…..just to name a few.

We opted, instead, to keep on driving so as to spend our time visiting with our family who still remain in Nebraska.

Over the next few days, I’m going to tell you a bit about our week in the heartland. We gleaned a lot of information. We learned why we have some of the beliefs we have. We learned why we all have such a strong work ethic and an equally strong sense of musical rhythm. We learned why we focus on the weather more than most people. We learned why we like to eat what we like to eat.  We learned some funny stories about our mom and dad.

But most of all we learned that growing up in the Midwest isn’t a bad thing at all. There’s no question about it. Nebraska is a great place from which to launch.

Next week, Nana’s Whimsies will be closed for business. I will be spending a week on a road trip. Nana’s Whimsies will be back in business on July 28. Stay tuned for vacation stories in your future.

Have a great week.

When I grow up, I want to be Ruth Reichl.

She has written cookbooks. She has owned restaurants. She was editor-in-chief of the now-defunct Gourmet Magazine. And most enviably, she was the restaurant critic for the New York Times. Can you imagine a better gig?

Reichl has also authored a trilogy of memoirs, including one about growing up loving food but being the daughter of a mother who absolutely couldn’t cook. Tender at the Bone: Growing Up at the Table is the story of Reichl’s food journey.

Delicious! Is her first novel, and I absolutely loved it. If she continues to write fiction, Delicious! probably won’t end up being her best. Nevertheless, it had everything I enjoy in a book – a good storyline, a mystery, an interesting main character and quirky side characters, some romance, and, best of all, lots of talk about food.

The novel’s main character, Billie Breslin, has the ability to not only identify – through one taste – every ingredient in a recipe, but to also be able to figure out what ingredient(s) are necessary to improve the dish. An impeccable palate.

Billie goes to work as an executive assistant at a magazine – Delicious! – where part of her job is to answer the telephone calls from those folks taking advantage of the magazine’s guarantee that all recipes will work or the cook gets his/her money back. Through this aspect of her job, she meets interesting characters.

The magazine goes belly-up, but Billie is kept on to continue to honor the magazine’s guarantee, at least for a while. She has lots of time on her hands, and in the process of exploring the magazine’s library, she comes across some letters from a young girl written to real-life cookbook author James Beard. Billie is caught up in the mystery the letters present. The result is a lovely story.

I say this won’t be her best novel because much of the story is very predictable. For example, the “mystery” of Billie’s sister is really no mystery at all. But I felt as though Reichl did a good job of creating appealing characters and an interesting story to drive the novel.

Because almost all of the characters are involved in the food industry, there is a lot of conversation about food and cooking, which I loved. One of Billie’s friends owns a wonderful food market, and the descriptions of the things he sells made my mouth water. I want to visit that market.

The food industry is enormous, but pure in New York City. Lots of farmers’ markets, real butcher shops, many locally-owned restaurants, cheese-makers, and so forth abound. It is the perfect setting for the novel, and a natural locale since Reichl is a New York City native.

Delicious! is a wonderful book for anyone who enjoys reading about food and likes a uncomplicated storyline. I hope Reichl undertakes another novel.

Buy Delicious! from Amazon here.

Buy Delicious! from Barnes and Noble here.

Buy Delicious! from Tattered Cover here.

By Bob B.

This week I have driven from North Platte, NE, up to Bismarck and Minot, ND, and it occurred to me that it was only 3.5 months ago spring was trying real hard to blossom but we were still dealing with snow and freezing temperatures. Since then, spring arrived in all its glory and has since matured into a wonderful summer in spite of the frequent thunderstorms which have their own kind of beauty.

As I was driving this week I noticed how prevalent the color golden yellow is in nature. As far as I could see, rolling hills were covered with the bright yellow of flowering ragweed accenting the green of the prairie grass and occasional tree. It made me think of how as spring emerged, so did the the wild daffodils with their refreshing yellow blooms reaching up from the tender mat of new grass announcing the change from winter. Next came the golden yellow carpet of billions of dandelions over the darkening green of the stronger grass below. The dandelions have given way to the yellow daisies and wild yellow snapdragons lining the roads and highways. Soon, the brilliant yellow of sunflowers and golden yellow of mature corn will dominate the dark green fields of corn and sunflower stalks.

I realized that there is a progression of intensity of the colors green and golden yellow as spring becomes summer and summer becomes fall. This realization made me wonder why Mother Nature so liked green and gold among all her other wonders and it led me to the one obvious conclusion: God must be a Green Bay Packer fan! Go Packers!

Nana’s Note: Let it be known that Nana’s Whimsies doesn’t necessarily support Bob’s hypothesis. After all, the beautiful orange and blue sunsets prevalent in the west and midwest indicate the probability that he is a Bronco’s fan.

If you look up the word “fearless” in the dictionary, you will NOT see my face. In fact, if you’re looking at a thesaurus that shows antonyms, there I will be, timidly smiling. I don’t swim because I’m afraid of water. There is nothing that could make me go onto a roller coaster that climbs more than three feet (as my brother would say, “it’s just a matter of time.”)

Sky diving? Nope.

Parasailing? Not on your life.

Ziplining? Let’s get serious.

But 13 years ago, for some inexplicable reason, I decided I wanted to learn to ride a motorcycle. In fact, I didn’t just want to learn to ride a motorcycle, I decided I wanted to buy a small motorcycle so that I could ride alongside Bill on his gigantic Yamaha Road Star. I can’t exactly tell you why, but somehow it seemed like a good idea at the time.

When I told Bill my plans, it’s safe to say he was pretty surprised.

“A motorcycle?” he asked.

“A motorcycle,” I confirmed.

In his gentle and calm, but firm, manner, Bill was able to convince me that a motorcycle wasn’t a good idea for me, but that perhaps I might want to consider a motor scooter instead.

A scooter. My only experience with scooters was seeing them on our trips to Italy, driving crazily around the streets of Rome, sounding like giant mosquitos. For all intents and purposes, there were no scooters to be found – at least in Denver. They simply hadn’t made their way across the Atlantic Ocean, or if they had, they hadn’t made it to the Colorado mountains.

I began doing some research, and decided I wanted to buy an Italian scooter, and I was leaning towards a Vespa. After all, they came in such pretty colors and you could buy a matching helmet. I considered pink. You think I’m kidding.

A scooter store had recently opened. Bill and I headed down to Sportique, and I sat on a Vespa. I immediately realized that my legs were so short that the wide body on that adorable scooter was simply uncomfortable given my narrow leg span. Dang.

But the nice salesman, surprised to see a middle-aged woman interested in a scooter, steered me to an Italian scooter with a narrower body called a Scarabeo Aprilia. I sat down and fell in love.

One test drive and $2500 later and I was the proud owner of an Aprilia scooter. Bill drove it home for me as I was too timid (remember that picture in the dictionary?).

Later that afternoon, he took me to a nearby almost-vacant shopping area with a big parking lot, set out some coffee cans, and gave me driving lessons. Flashback to my dad giving me driving lessons in the parking lot of Ag Park in Columbus when I was 15.

Now, 6,783 mile later, I still ride that scooter nearly every day during the summer. When I first got it, I bravely rode it 15 miles each way almost every day to and from work downtown. Now I mostly ride it around the neighborhood – to and from the grocery store, over to the grandkids’ houses, back and forth to the library. It costs me $3 – $4 to fill it up, and I get in the neighborhood of 60 mpg. Nice.

Every spring when Bill gets it going again after its long winter’s nap, I feel completely and totally happy as I ride. I love the feel of the wind in my face; I love to zip around the corners; I am delighted when I see the looks on the faces of people who realize they are looking at a 60-year-old woman driving this adorable navy blue scooter.

Now, of course, there are scooters everywhere you look. I sat at a stoplight recently and saw three others besides me at the same light. But I know that, for once in my life, I was ahead of the curve.

My sister Bec, who really IS fearless, always tells me she can’t believe I won’t ride a roller coaster but I will ride a scooter. Of course I realize the chances of an unthinkable accident are much, much higher with the scooter than with a roller coaster. Still, I’m very careful, and my scooter doesn’t make me feel like tossing my cookies.

By the way, here is what I look like to you when you see me on my scooter…..

Here is what I look like to me when I ride my scooter…..

Yep. Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck. Roman Holiday. Need I say more?

Nana’s Notes: Baby Bird Update. I’m sorry to say my friends that the baby bird is nowhere to be seen. The mommy bird spent all day yesterday looking for him where he had last been seen. I fear he was washed out in the fierce rain. Such is nature. Very sad.

After not hearing much from our bird friends as of late, the last couple of days have brought DRAMA DRAMA DRAMA to the ornithological world in our back yard.

The evening before last, Bill and I were enjoying a glass of wine in the backyard, quietly talking about our day. Suddenly, from somewhere very near to where I was sitting came a distinct CHIRP. Somewhere on the ground, someplace from which there should be no CHIRPS. Perhaps I heard wrong.

CHIRP.

Nope. There was definitely a chirp coming from behind the loveseat. I peered under the seat and saw hidden way in the corner a tiny little baby bird – a house finch, I think, though it was hard to tell since it was all fuzzy gray feathers and yellow eyes. He (or she) was huddled against the house, quietly shivering, and occasionally letting out a soulful CHIRP.

Drat, I thought. This is the part about nature, and about having birds living in your backyard, that I heartily dislike. I suspected this little bird had fallen out of his nest and would die of starvation over the next day or so. Only the strongest survive, I reminded myself. That’s the way it’s meant to be.

It reminded me of a bird saga we had a couple of years ago at our house in Arizona. It was prior to our spending the entire winter in Arizona, so it was February and we had just arrived for a short stay. The day after we got there, I spotted a few little birds on the ground at the bottom of the tree in our front yard. One was dead, but a couple of them were walking around. I began calling my family and telling them they couldn’t stop by until I gave them the go-ahead because I didn’t want them bothering the baby birds. We learned from our neighbor that they had been watching mockingbirds build a nest, lay some eggs, and then watching the eggs hatch. A short time later, the mommy bird started kicking the birds out of the nest. It was time to learn the ways of the world. Some did, and some didn’t. Only the strongest survive.

But back to our little birdie.

I checked on the little fellow yesterday morning and he (or she) was still huddled against the house, but this time making no sound. I assumed the worst, and reminded myself to tell Bill to dispose of the little birdie corpse before the grandkids find him (or her). It made me very sad.

I was working on dinner last night and Bill was sitting outside reading. Suddenly he called me to the window and told me we wouldn’t be able to sit in our usual spot for our glass of wine. “Why?” I asked. “Because the little bird’s mom keeps flying to and from the tree with food for the baby bird,” Bill said.

Well, friends, nothing could have made me happier. I’m not ashamed to tell you that I actually teared up. The mommy bird had not forgotten about the baby, who was still alive. Perhaps he (or she) had fallen from the nest; perhaps Mommy had given him (or her) a little push. But she was not going to let her baby starve. Last evening we watched as the mother bird flew back and forth with dinner for her baby and I was very pleased….

….until last night, about 10 o’clock, when it began to rain. And then it rained harder. In fact, we got a good ol’ fashioned gullywasher. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen it rain so hard. It quite literally came down in sheets of rain, and for a good half hour or so. The street in front of our house looked like the Nile River.

That doesn’t bode well for the little bird, I fear. But perhaps he (or she) will be one of the strongest who will survive. As Mylee would say, “Dum, dum, duuuuuum.” We shall see.

As an aside, in the middle of the storm, likely because of the rain, my car (which I had left out of the garage) began sounding its alarm. That made all of the neighbors really happy. As I scrambled for my car keys, it suddenly stopped as quickly as it had begun. All was well. Until 3 o’clock, when it happened again. So in the middle of the night, I ran downstairs to the garage, moved things around so my car would fit, and moved my car into the garage and tried to think just how I was going to make it up to my neighbors. Sigh.

In 1969, the NCR Corporation invented thermal paper. Designed to replace papers requiring ink printers, thermal paper offers quick printing that is crisp and clear and doesn’t require changing ink cartridge after ink cartridge. Inkless printers, having fewer parts, don’t jam as often so they’re more cost effective.  Isn’t technology grand?

Except now, here it is 15 years later, and we are being advised that the ubiquitous thermal credit card receipts are DANGER, DANGER, DANGER. Do not touch them as the BPA will enter your skin and, I don’t know, something bad will happen.

Similarly, maybe six or seven years ago, spray-on sun screens became popular. Finally, a sun screen easily applied to children who worry exactly NOT-AT-ALL about sunburn and who want nothing more than to get into the swimming pool or out onto the playground! Mom, Dad, Grandma or Grandpa can apply sun screen to all of the kids very quickly and effectively making it much more likely that we will do so.

Except now we are told spray-on sun screens are a no-go. Too risky we are advised. Back to the 10 minute lotion application process per kid. All this while we are learning that more and more kids have a Vitamin D deficiency because most of the Vitamin D we get is from sunshine. And, according to singer Bill Withers, there ain’t no sunshine when you’re slathered in sun screen every second you’re out of the house. I think that’s how the song goes.

Hard to keep up.

Eggs were good for you. Then they were bad for you. Then they were good for you again. I think that’s where we are right now, but I better fry one up really quick before it changes. And if I’m frying it, should I use……

….butter or margarine? In the later part of the 20^th century, oleo was the only way-to-go. Now the fear of dreaded transfats has alerted us to the fact that perhaps all-natural butter isn’t so bad after all. Some municipalities are even passing ordinances prohibiting the sale of transfats. Don’t get me started on the idea of a city council telling me what I can EAT…..

Same with red wine. Depending on which research study you believe, a glass or two of vino rosso can be extremely good for you, or it can flat out kill you. How do you know what to believe? Well, that’s a dumb question, really. Of course you believe the “good for you” camp. How can anything that tastes so good possibly be bad for you?

If coconut oil so bad for you, why is it sold in health food stores?

While I’m sure that overall we are safer, happier, and healthier now with all the FDA restrictions on food, it was easier, if more dangerous, to eat back when I was a kid. Frosted Flakes were “Grrrrrrrrrreat” despite the sugar. Soft, white Wonder Bread built strong bodies 12 ways. Hostess Twinkies were filled with good ol’ lard and sugar, making them much tastier than the more recent versions.

Thank goodness for bicycle helmets as I believe they make our children safer on bikes (though I don’t recall a lot of kids running around with bandages on their heads when I was riding a bike in the 1950s – plenty of scraped knees, however). Same with seat belts. When I talk to fellow baby boomers, we laugh about how our parents placed their toddlers in the little car seats with the steering wheels that clipped onto the front seat. Nearly all of us recall standing up in the front seat of our parents’ car or sleeping on the ground in the back seat during family vacations. Believe me when I tell you that I don’t purport we return to those days. I am a committed seat belt user, and have been since driving my first car that had a seat belt (which happened sometime in the late 70s, no sooner.

In fact, I’m not taking an editorial stance on any of these issues, more just making an amused observation. In our efforts to be safe and to keep our children safe, I hope we don’t forget to have fun.

By the way, there are research studies that show that people who smoke, drink wine, alcohol, and coffee, and use marijuana are less likely to get Parkinson’s disease. Hmmmmm.

Keith Richards