By Jeremiah Cahill

When our two granddaughters were in elementary school, my wife and I signed up for a family membership at Parkcrest, one of Madison’s numerous neighborhood swimming pools. Just blocks from our home, it was a great choice for healthy outdoor recreation. We returned each season for several years.

Back in 2017, our 10-year-old granddaughter—let’s call her Val—had a robust swim season. Of the two girls, she was the one who most enjoyed the water. Val took swim lessons and completed a second-level diving course, improving steadily in technique and confidence. She and her group of friends would splash and play for hours. Together, she and I swam a few easy laps and did a fair amount of diving.

Val didn’t need to coax her then-71-year-old grandpa to join her in the water. I grew up in Hawaii, so swimming, diving, and surfing have been second nature to me.

But one thing I began to notice in the Madison area during those years—we started to have occasional cooler bouts of summer weather.  Previously, August could be hot and sticky up to and including the Labor Day weekend. But during the last decade, we’ve felt some cool, cloudy days in late summer—a weather anomaly now thought to be due to shifts in the jet stream. Not ideal when looking for warmth and sunshine before jumping in the water!

On August 30, the last day that Val and I would swim together before the next school year, I was thrilled as the temperature rose to 79 degrees under mostly sunny skies. Perfect! She and I swam a few leisurely laps in the main pool, then moved to a separate pool, the so-called “diving well.” There, two diving boards lead an endless stream of kids to try out their latest flips and twists, plunging into twelve feet of water.

Val suggested “let’s do the same dive together.” Luckily, not many kids were lining up so we could each take one of the diving boards, side by side. We chose a simple forward dive and tried to synchronize our approach. Not so easy. We made a couple of initial attempts and our coordination got better. We agreed to a walking countdown of “1-2-3” at which point we would each take our bounce off the end of the board.

On the fourth try, it came together. We counted down in unison, made the approach, bounced skyward and hit the water at about the same moment. When diving, with gravity and a lot of momentum, I like to go down and touch the pool bottom before surfacing. Val had pined to do the same thing, and often asked me “Did you touch?”  

But it’s a long way down for a ten-year old.

That day, we dove and as my hand hit bottom, I opened my eyes and looked toward her. Through the sparkling blue water, I caught a glimpse of her pumping arms and legs to get deeper. She’s way down! Turning up, we both shoot to the surface, break through, and she hollers “I did it!”

Could there be a more perfect way for a water-loving grandpa to cap off the summer with his granddaughter? Nothing compares! Val and I had a great time in the water all season, and gained a good measure of fitness. Together we had that one last well-synchronized dive, with her meeting her goal to reach the pool bottom.

The only downside? “My ears hurt,” she said on surfacing. Yup, that’s the pressure change in deeper water. “Don’t worry, honey, next year you’ll learn how to equalize that.” 

Up on the pool deck, we’re both grinning. Great summer!

Afterword: As of this writing, Val is 16 years old and in the early stages of a transgender process. He’s trying out new names—currently it’s Nick—and seems to be going forward calmly and with confidence. I like to think that this journey will work out as well as did his diving challenge! 

© 2024 Jeremiah Cahill

Jeremiah Cahill, Madison Wisconsin, writes an occasional memoir to help him make sense of his past.

By Pat LaPointe

I am not a camper. However, there was one occasion that I came close to it.

My mother had passed away in September — her children and, even more so, her great-grandchildren were consumed with grief. Many were crying themselves to sleep at night. We needed to try giving the kids some relief.

In mid-October, we rented a five-bedroom house one hundred and fifty miles from home for the entire family. The home was on a lake and surrounded by a forest.

The kids enjoyed the hot tub and trips to the lake. The adults competed for the best meals they cooked from scratch.

Then there was the night of the bonfire, complete with S’mores.

The sky was clear. My grandson Eddie had been unusually quiet while we snacked.

I asked him if he was OK.

“Grandma. You said Great Grandma is now part of the whole universe. I was thinking she might be one of the stars,” he replied.

I asked which one he thought might be her.

The rest of the grandkids heard this and began choosing her star.

I could see that, one by one, they were beginning to relax.

“You guys did a great job finding the stars. But you know what’s really great? The stars are always there, even if it’s cloudy. So you know Great Grandma is always shining on you,” I said.

We only heard the sound of gentle, soft breathing from the kids as they slept that night.

©  2024 Patricia LaPointe

Pat LaPointe, creator of Share Your Voice, an online interactive community for all women. She is editor of the anthology; The Woman I’ve Become: 37 Women Share Their Journeys from Toxic Relationships to Self-Empowerment. In addition, she has conducted writing workshops for women — both online and onsite. Pat’s essays and short stories have been published widely in anthologies, literary journals and on Medium.com @patromitolapointe. Currently, Pat is completing her first novel.

This post concludes my series on True Stories Well Told featuring essays by writers in my “Start Writing Your Life Story” workshop at the Art Lit Lab in Madison in Fall 2023. See my upcoming workshops here.

By Jane Koenig

In the early 1980s, I was a solo traveler in Asia and Europe. I fell in love with Greece and visited there twice, by myself.

I was outgoing and seemed to be fearless, but I was just plain dumb. I had no idea what could happen to me as a young woman with blonde hair and a darling figure. I was guileless and oh-so-trusting.

On one trip from Italy to Greece, I was on a ferry from Brindisi to Piraeus, the port city eight kilometers from Athens. I was very excited to be going to Greece for the first time. I was standing outside on the deck of the ferry, watching the star-speckled sea go by, when a Russian sailor approached me and struck up a conversation. He wore a uniform and a jaunty sailor hat. We discovered that we both loved Joni Mitchell.

 “I have a Joni Mitchell tape in my cabin down below. Do you want to listen to it?” he asked in his Russian-tinted English. So attractive and exotic!

Here you may be thinking—wait a minute! Surely, she won’t agree to this offer?

I knew about sex, of course, despite 12 years of Catholic schooling, and an ambiguous sex ed film strip that my mom had to give permission for me to watch in junior high, of Spanish dancers lying on a bed in their Flamenco finery.

But I had learned from my mom, that people can be trusted—that people were good and kind.

So, yes, I did go to this young sailor’s cabin and sat on his bunk, and we listened to Joni Mitchell songs on his tape recorder. He didn’t try a thing. He gave me some cheap Soviet pins to remember him by.

So, my trusting nature remained unwaveringly intact.

A few years later, I was on another ferry in Greece, this time sailing to Santorini. There was folk dancing and food sharing on the upper deck of the boat. It was a joyful party. I met an older, fatherly-type fellow, who was wearing a Greek fisherman’s cap. We chatted and discovered that we were both getting off in Santorini.

When we arrived, we hiked up the 588 serpentine stairs that led from the harbor up, up, up to the village of Thira (Fira) on the edge of what had been a volcano and found a family that was renting out rooms in their home. Their house was perched on the edge of the caldera high above the glittering Aegean. They only had one room left. It was summer and the height of tourist season—the island was packed.

You may be thinking—surely, she won’t put herself in harm’s way again?

But I did. The older man and I agreed to share a whitewashed domed room with two twin beds.

The next morning, in the early dawn light, I woke to see the not-so-fatherly figure of a man leaning over me, one knee on my bed and his hands on either side of my shoulders. I was wearing pale pink baby-doll pajamas. Why didn’t someone tell me—no, no, no! these are not appropriate when traveling and staying with strange men!

I shrieked incredulously, “What are you doing?”

He quickly got up and went back to his bed on the other side of the room.

Another escape! This one a little closer to disaster. How, how could I have been so stupid?

There are many more times that I brushed the underbelly of the male libido, but somehow in all my years of travel in Asia and Europe, I stayed out of trouble.

What was it that protected me? A guardian angel? A magic cloak of naivete? My thick veneer of innocence that may have protected me somehow? Or just plain dumb luck? I certainly wasn’t brave, or courageous. I do, though, miss that bold, exuberant, and confident young woman who would ask complete strangers in a taverna if she could join them for dinner! Which could have got me into hot water, but it was worth the risk.

© 2024 Jane Koenig

Jane Koenig is a recently retired English as a Second Language teacher. She still loves to travel. She introduced her husband to Greece, and happily, he loves it too! She loves to hang out with her kids, take long walks, and take wonderful classes, such as watercolor, drawing, and Sarah’s writing class!

For the next few weeks, True Stories Well Told is featuring essays by writers in my “Start Writing Your Life Story” workshop at the Art Lit Lab in Madison in Fall 2023. My next workshop there starts in April 2024.

By Renee Lajcak

[Midnight in my hometown of Oshkosh, Wisconsin. The phone rings. ]

“Hello?”

“Renee.  It’s Michelle.  Can you send me my birth certificate?”

“WHY do you need your birth certificate??”

“I’m getting married in a week!”

“To WHO?”

“Didn’t I send you a postcard?”

Michelle is my older sister and is known to be rather impulsive, so the conversation above shouldn’t have surprised me as much as it did.  I always admired her spontaneity and devil-may-care attitude.  It seems that Risk equals Reward for her, and life is lived to the fullest if she grabs the bull by the horns, grabs the brass ring, grabs life by the cohones.  Not surprisingly, her favorite poem underlines this same philosophy:

If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft,
And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left,
Sell one, and with the dole
Buy hyacinths to feed the soul.

I am the opposite.  I still regret not going to a Bruce Springsteen concert in 1982, instead convincing my then boyfriend that the money was better spent on rent.  In the 90s, Michelle told me how she admired the way I just picked up and moved to Indonesia.  In actuality, I had planned it for over 5 years, in order to get out of debt, learn to speak Indonesian and find a job there.  The move to Indonesia was a major step-by-step plan.  That’s how I roll.

Now Michelle is not flaky or haphazard.  She is also a planner and a list-maker, but her instinctive joie de vivre is a major driver.  This can be as exasperating as it is endearing. 

Her wedding was a good example.

Two weeks before that midnight phone call, she had met a man on the Amtrak train while heading out to Seattle and fell face-down in love.  The two of them skipped and leaped on the glaciers of Mount Rainier under once-in-a blue-moon, clear blue skies.  Michelle explained that on Mt. Rainier, cloudy days were typical and, thus, these rare sunny days made it clear that they had to get married.  I went to the County Clerk and sent her the birth certificate.  

Was she jumping the gun?  Or was it a daring, confident move on her part to marry someone she had just met 3 weeks before?  Whichever it was, her timing was off.

When I got the phone call, our parents were driving and taking trains straight north far into Canada.  That’s where they were. Brother Ken and his wife Mary were on their vacation driving straight south to New Orleans.  That’s where they were.  And I was leaving in a few days with my best friend to bus to the East Coast where my brother Bob and his girlfriend Sandy lived.  So where does Michelle decide to get married?  On the far west coast of the country.  On Mount Rainier.  

My mother was the only one to go from our family, and she wasn’t too happy about it.  When the pastor droned, “Should-anyone-present-know-of-any-reason-that-this-couple-should-not-be-joined-in-holy-matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace,” Mom spoke up.  She told the pastor, “Michelle should’ve gone to church more.”  What brought on that absurd comment? Maybe it was the fatigue talking.  Mom had just had a long trip into Canada, jumped on a plane to Seattle and climbed a mountain. Or maybe it was her roundabout way of saying that religion could have given Michelle the circumspection and maybe even the better judgement that this present situation seemed to require.  But Mom showed up at that wedding, showing her love and support, and I give her credit for that. Because I didn’t. My dear friend Deirdre offered to switch our East Coast plans to a trip westward, and go to the wedding instead, but I just couldn’t suddenly change my plans, proving that I lacked the spontaneity of my sister.  I also doubted the staying power of Michelle’s sudden engagement.  To me, jumping headlong into a wedding seemed more than likely to result in a short marriage.  I thanked Deirdre for the offer to go West, but with a sense of smug self-assurance,  I added, “I’ll catch the next one.”  

So was Michelle’s an unpredictable, yet intuitive decision? Was it daring and confident, or just the brash result of the explosive mix of passion, adventure and good weather?  As of 2023, Michelle has been married to Michael for over 40 years.  Decades of ups and downs, patience and joy.  They have two amazing daughters and two grandchildren.  Michelle and Michael have hung in there together, and are still in love.

35 years or so after they got married, I finally got ready to tie the knot myself.  When my brother-in-law Michael found out, he immediately announced, “I’ll catch the next one.”

©2023 Renee Lajcak

Renee is a newly retired English language teacher who has taught in several Asian countries but now enjoys her woodsy backyard the best.  She loves the connections made through storytelling and teaching conversational English, but writing about memories allows her to go inward to contemplate the good, the bad and the ugly.  But mostly the good. 

For the next few weeks, True Stories Well Told is featuring essays by writers in my “Start Writing Your Life Story” workshop at the Art Lit Lab in Madison in Fall 2023. My next workshop there starts in April 2024.

By Mary Gwen Schneider

At twelve years old, my first experience of downhill skiing left me madly in love with the sport. It was 1969 and alpine ski racer Jean- Claude Killy and I both owned Rossingnols. Skiing came naturally to me and I felt carefree as I schussed down various terrain with little effort. For thirty-eight years I mastered mountains. I earned level two ski instructor certification and it proved valuable in working with all abilities. I became the director of a national children’s program. When my husband and I started our family, our own two children were taught the motto, “If you can walk, you can ski.”

When I reached my mid-fifties, I faced some serious medical issues and was handed the news that my downhill skiing days were over. It was almost unbearable to process! When the first flakes of snow flew each season, and my crew left for our local ski hill, my heart hurt. That’s what we always did together, each season.

Finally after ten long years I was granted permission to return to my favorite activity. My doctors, family and I all agreed that with helmet improvement and my ability, the joy skiing brought to me outweighed the risks. Not wasting a moment, I hit the slopes. I glided and turned as though I had never left. Daily my legs got stronger and I stayed out longer. Winter mornings were spent traversing green runs with my grandchildren and in the afternoons we sipped hot chocolate. That tradition continued and my heart was full, the torch was being passed to the next generation!

Beaming in confidence and soaking up the beauty of the well groomed sunlit trail, I took my time and lagged behind a bit. About halfway down the familiar route we had skied at least four times that morning, my ski edge caught and I went down. Fortunately, my pride was the only glaring injury!  Looking around, I discovered no one had observed the wipe-out. It was almost noon, so most people had headed to the lodge for lunch. It’s quiet, I realized, “no spectators.” Embarrassment took hold, an avid skier like me wasn’t supposed to wipe out on such simple terrain. Moving quickly, dusting myself off, removing the evidence, I prepared to stand. Hurrying, not wanting any more time to pass, I tried to lift myself off the snow, but lacked core strength. My talented group was probably waiting at the chairlift for me, scanning, searching, wondering where I was. Numerous failed attempts to rise allowed panic to creep in. Years of demonstrating proper technique to classes on how to fall and get back upright was one thing I always prided myself on. Now all I felt was humiliation!

Plan B- I chose my tried and true, trusty second option. All you have to do is simply roll onto your stomach and push yourself up by walking backwards with your hands. Well a failed surgery on my now worthless right wrist, no longer allowed that! “What?”  I thought. “How was this happening? This can’t be that hard.” Irrational thoughts and fears I had only ever witnessed in my students were beginning to form. Slowly I began to comprehend what those I had previously coached experienced. This must be what being a beginner feels like! I reminded myself that I had encouraged every level and age to keep trying and I was fighting to stay focused. Scanning uphill yet again, I spotted not a soul. “Thank God!” I wanted to scream. I resorted to the final trick I had up my teaching sleeve. In the worst case scenario, when all else failed you popped off one ski and stood. No go!! Anger mounted at my dysfunctional right hand for not having the strength to push down and release the binding. Putting faith on my left wasn’t any help either. Deeply devastated and defeated I collapsed in a puddle of tears. But then, within moments my husband appeared, swiftly climbing back up the hill to my rescue.

My dignity had been restored.

I continue to exercise and do core strength. Since that day, I have been known to practice falling and rising again, in my living room, complete with skis and boots on.

I am ready to meet my love again!

© 2024 Mary Gwen Schneider

Mary Gwen Schneider has written poems and short stories since she was young. After over thirty years of working with children, she is now retired. She lives with her husband and enjoys spending time with her children, their spouses, and her two grandchildren. She looks forward to writing and sharing more of her life stories.

For the next month, True Stories Well Told is featuring essays by writers in my “Start Writing Your Life Story” workshop at the Art Lit Lab in Madison in Fall 2023. My next workshop there starts in April 2024.

By Carrie Callahan

I was sitting at my desk the Monday after hosting a successful Red and Green Chili themed Christmas Party the afternoon before. I was feeling good. 2017 had been a good year and it was ending on a great note!

In the summer of 2015, I sold my big house on Larkin Street and half of my belongings. I moved into a two-bedroom condo and treated myself to a bucket list trip to Bali with a group of spiritual travelers. I wanted to be at peace with myself and my life.

I was coming home after three weeks to start fresh in a new house. Although one of my heart’s desires was to have a loving companion and partner, it was clear that it was time to step away from the dating scene for awhile. I made a clean and permanent break from an “on again, off again” relationship that was going nowhere and unsubscribed from all online dating sites. I was going to give myself until January 2018 to decide if I had the courage to give online dating one more try – or if I was going to be at peace being single for the rest of my life.

In the winter of 2017 I started ballroom dancing class – again. It was fun and something I looked forward to each week, Colin, one of the guys in the group classes, was a really good dancer. Why he was at these beginner classes was a mystery to me but dancing with somebody who knew what they were doing was great and it kept me coming back. In the fall, the studio announced that it was closing. I so enjoyed dancing with Colin and I didn’t want that to end so I used this as an opportunity to exchange phone numbers. There was conversation about attending a dance a few weeks later. I was hoping Colin would be there – and he was. We danced often that afternoon to Ladies Must Swing. I even picked up a vibe that he might be interested in finding ways to dance together in the future. What fun! A dance partner!

So it seemed that things had shifted for Colin and he was interested in more than just a dance partner. By the end of November Colin had asked me out – to a concert. Oh dear! I suggested maybe a coffee date would be be a better idea – to see if we even liked each other off the dance floor. We had a lovely evening talking and getting to know each other. It’s almost January right?! It wouldn’t hurt to entertain the idea of dating – would it?!

At that point I’d been single for 19 years. I had a good life. It wasn’t perfect but it was comfortable. Over the years I’d dated plenty and had a few relationships too. I wasn’t going to open my heart to just anyone but I sure liked the idea of getting to know Colin better and having a dance partner was great! We quickly set up what turned out to be a month of dates starting with his birthday on December 9, and ending with my birthday on December 29th. My plan was to put him in as many different experiences as I could, to assess…..

One of those “experiences” was my Green and Red Chili Christmas Party. Time for him to meet my friends! I had this idea that he’d just pop in for a polite hello but to my surprise he arrived a few minutes early, helped with the final set-up, respected my role as hostess, and then stayed and helped me clean up – even doing dishes! What?! Oh, and I forget to mention our first kiss in front of the fireplace. It was lovely.

So now here I am sitting at my desk on this freezing December morning. I look out and see the Felly’s truck pull into the guest parking and think, “Oh, isn’t that great! Somebody is getting flowers for Christmas.” I always loved it when the florist would arrive each Christmas with a huge poinsettia for my mom. Well, the next thing I know the Felly’s guy is walking towards my door. WOW! Who in the world would be sending me flowers? I accepted this mystery bouquet with more than a bit of excitement. As I took off the wrapping what appeared before me was the largest and most beautiful Christmas bouquet I’ve ever received with a card saying “Thinking of You – Colin.”

Holy smokes……I wasn’t really sure Colin was my type – but then I thought, “Here I am divorced and still single after 19 years. Maybe I need to reconsider my type!” Colin had made a grand gesture and my laissez-faire attitude needed to be reassessed. We spent Christmas Eve together and then my birthday. The tone of our conversations changed and we explored deeply what we hoped for the future.

On January 6th, I surrendered my heart. A year later we were married in Savanah, Georgia in a beautiful private ceremony and I haven’t looked back. We have a beautiful home and a beautiful life and we continue to dance – moving together, leading and following, using the skills we learned on the dance floor to dance through the great life we continue to create each day. And each December 18 since, the Felly’s truck pulls up with a huge bouquet marking the anniversary of our first kiss. So much for thinking I knew my “type”!

© 2024 Carrie Callahan

Carrie Callahan is a creative life-long learner. When she’s not writing, she’s reading, working in the garden, whipping something up in the kitchen for her hubby or making a mess in her studio.