Chris Loehmer Kincaid's Blog, page 81

Life, Love and Laughs - Entry 14 in the story of my sister and me

There’s a lot of in-between when you’re not a kid and not an adult. That in-between has been named a dangerous phenomenon – a teen-ager. I think it contributed a lot to the generation canyon. Teen-agers are the most crazy bunch of people alive. Pat Loehmer
On Wednesday, I blogged about my memories of past Fourth of Julys with my sister Pat. To keep that celebratory feeling going, here are more pictures of life, love and laughs. In November of 1959, four months old. Notice a creepy hand in the lower right hand corner? Looks like they are holding onto the blanket, but why?  Sleeping on the living room floor, age 3 1/2  First-grade portrait, 1965 Christmas 1967School portrait  Another school portrait  Reading instructions on Christmas morning, 1971Confirmation, 1973 School portrait 1974  Birthday, 1975 Bridesmaids for a friend's wedding, 1977 Wedding, 1983 My son's second birthday, 1988My second wedding, 1997

Endless Summer - Entry 13 in the story of my sister and me

Pat getting a bath in the kitchen sink.

“I think that a guy’s finger is just too big to fit on the little white knob on the aerosol can. Maybe a pump with a trigger. You know, like a gun. Or a spray bottle in the shape of a semi-automatic weapon. More appealing to their sense of machoism. Talk about germ warfare.”  Pat Loehmer, trying to discover a way to get her husband to fumigate the bathroom, obviously written years ago before they came up with trigger-action Febreze.  
The above quote was the best one I could find to go along with the Fourth of July. Guess I was thinking about men shooting off fireworks.It’s easy to think of a story of my sister Pat and me that ties into this holiday.Most years, we would go into the parade in town. We always parked in the parking lot of Hanke’s grocery store (that building was most recently home to Family Dollar which just went out of business). Sometimes I think Mom came along too, but it was mostly Dad. One year, our older sister Judy was on the float for Bradley Bank. Judy on the Bradley Bank float that year.
Pat and I with Judy after the parade, feeling like she was a celebrity. Sorry for the color on these two, they were pulled from an old home movie.

But what I really remember about the Fourth of July is that after we came home from the parade, Pat and I would do an Indian rain dance. I don’t know why and I’m sorry if anyone thinks I’m disrespecting our Native Americans. But every year, we would get out our Indian headdresses and whoop and dance around in a circle, chanting and patting our hands to our mouths while making noises. You can picture that can’t you? I’m sure my generation can, while you younger kids are just staring at your screen wondering what I’m talking about.The good thing is that we never conjured up any rain. Then we had a picnic lunch and as it was getting dark, Dad would take us back to town for the fireworks. Those were good times.Wish I had more pictures of those days. These are the best I could find.  Pat's second birthday, July 1961
Pat's birthday in 1965
Her birthday in 1967 Just the two of us on Dad's truck in the summer of 1968 This was the fall of 1969 - holy cow, 50 years ago! How old am I?
So that's me in the striped jacket with my hair stuck in the gate of the pontoon boat. Pat seems to be just laughing at me, while our friend Nancy looks like she's trying to help. That's a distant cousin on the right, looking totally innocent. I guess that's why Pat got to have long hair and Mom always cut my short. 

Love Rode By -- Entry 12 in the story of my sister and me

Pat with my son on her horse Barney, in 1988

Love Rode Byby Pat Loehmer
The trees were caught in nets of mist, The grass the dew had kissed.In some small ray of June’s first lightLife sparkled and shone bright.
Alone I walked in fields of hayAnd clover sown in MayThe birds had sung their melodiesTo no one – only me.
Alone I saw him riding there, Wind ruffled in his hair. Strong and free, his head thrown back, His eyes lay on the track.
Worlds away he could not seeThat sad and lonely meThat from miles away had watchedAnd only understanding sought.
Of other things he thought And knew not that I longed to talkOf Beauty, of Truth, of Greatness, Of Life gone by too fast.
Of other things he knew and dreamedOf riches that from coffers streamed.Power that would make him kingAnd give him almost anything.
But what else lies in hearts of men? What will they do when towers fall, whenNothing else for them is leftOf a life too quickly spent?
If only he could learn to waitBefore it is too lateTo listen to the birds that singThe soon-to-be memory of Spring.
But ever forward and ride he mustBefore his life is turned to dust. Too soon we shall be dead.
Love rode by,           And did not turn His head.
My sister Pat wrote the above poem and mailed it to me, I believe, when she was in college. It’s a piece which couldn’t quite compete with the likes of Robert Frost, but it does contain a few poignant passages. Almost prophetic, actually. When she was in college, she started writing a fantasy novel, “Journey of the Shadow”. The main character was a feisty female called Skatus, which means shadow in the language of her people. Speaking of languages, Pat made up an entire language for her characters, along with a map of their world and a detailed history. She was taken with Tolkien and wanted to create her own land as complete as Middle Earth. She worked on her novel up until her cancer forced her into the nursing home. As much as she wanted to see it published, she never liked the ending, having written three different versions of it. In some ways, I think she was a much better writer than I am. My goal is to some day find the way to publish her novel. In the meantime, all I got is more pictures for you.   Pat on our cousin's horse Shawn around 1974 My very favorite picture. This was taken along Hwy 107 in 1981.
We were driving down the road and saw this cow alone in her little pasture, and Pat wanted to stop to say "hello". In our parents' garden around 1973 More sunflowers! Mom with Pat at Pat's house in 1997

Out with the Bad, In with the Good – Entry 11 in the story of my sister and me

Sometimes you just have to go for it and sometimes you have to wait and it sure is hard trying to decide which it is. But no matter what you do, you have to tell yourself that it’s the best decision you could make at the time. And then you go on. Pat Loehmer Pat, around 18 months old, in the kitchen, participating in her favorite activity - eating. 1999As the winter of 1999 turned into spring, we received more bad news. The many rounds of chemo had shut down my sister’s kidneys. Pat would have to go on dialysis three days a week, and her current chemo regimen would end with no chance of more treatment. The nearest dialysis center was 40 miles from her home. By this time, she was confined to a wheelchair, so she and her husband decided to move her into a nursing home several miles from the dialysis center. I would spend several afternoons a week with her, taking her for walks outside pushing her in her wheelchair on sunny days or watching TV with her on dreary days. Occasionally I would sit with her through dialysis. She would marvel watching the fluid drain from her body. Smiling, she would instruct me to watch her feet. Her slippers which were snug in the beginning would fall off by the end of the treatment, her feet having shrunk in size that much.One night, just as I got home from work, her husband called.“The port for her dialysis didn’t work today. Before she can get dialysis, they have to take her to surgery to put in a new port.”“Do you want me to come down?” Of course, I wanted to jump right in the car and go, but maybe he wanted to spend time alone with her when she came out of surgery. “You’re her power of attorney after me. I think you should be in on these decisions too.”His words stabbed my heart. What was he saying? Wasn’t Pat able to make her own decisions? I had seen her just a few days before and she had been fine. “If she doesn’t get the port, she can’t get dialysis, and well – “ my words faltered. “She needs to keep getting dialysis.”“That’s what I thought.” His normally strong deep voice was reedy, soft. “So, then I’ll tell them to take her to surgery.”“I’ll be down as soon as I can.” A few hours later, I sat at her side as she woke up from the minor procedure. They had already started a round of dialysis through the new port. “What are you doing here?” she asked, looking around the brightly lit room. “I just happened to be in town and thought I’d stop by.”“Jerk.”I bit my lip, thinking of something witty to say, not sure who the jerk really was. She watched her blood pump through the machine at her side, watched the miracle of toxins being sucked from her blood, watched her clean blood flow back into her body. I was always equally amazed by the process, amazed that anyone had figured out this crazy system. And saddened that they hadn’t figured out how to suck out all the bad stuff.    Still in the kitchen. This time for Pat's birthday in 1971Flashback             I rolled out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen. The forecast predicted another warm July day, and as a pre-teen girl living in the country with only my sister for companionship, I expected this day would be as dull as the rest of the summer days.            I was surprised to see Dad at the kitchen table, still eating his breakfast. The smell of his oatmeal mixed with the aroma of his toast, done too dark for me. Pat sat at the other end of the table. From the sound of her metal spoon against the sides of the Corelle Ware bowl, I guessed that she was almost done eating her Lucky Charms.             From behind Dad’s back, I pointed to him, the unasked question on my face. Why wasn’t Dad at work? Pat just grinned in reply, her mouth full, a trace of milk dribbling down her chin.            “Your dad took the day off,” Mom announced as she streamed through the kitchen. “But I have to go to work, so the three of you better behave while I’m gone.”            Before the car was out of the driveway, my sister and I were standing on either side of Dad’s chair.             “Does this mean what we think it means?” Pat finally asked.            “Yep,” Dad answered, running a hand through his greying hair. He never was one to use many words. “Go get dressed.”            Within minutes, Pat and I were back in the kitchen, wearing our t-shirts and shorts. I’d even forgotten about my breakfast. Dad struggled up the basement stairs with the ten-gallon crock, but we were too excited to come to his aid.             We made a mess of the kitchen that day, as we did for one day every summer throughout my childhood. Sugar was spilled on the floor. Root beer extract stained the counter top. We cleaned up as best we could. We didn’t want to incur Mom’s wrath.            With the metal antique bottle capper, a crazy contraption two feet high, Dad forced the caps onto the soda pop bottles, locking the metal caps into place. Over the years, Dad learned to move the production outside at this point. One or two of the glass bottles always broke during this process.             Over the next few weeks, as the filled bottles laid on their sides on an old quilt under our beds, several more bottles exploded from the pressure as the soda began to effervesce. In the same manner, Mom exploded. Dad shrugged though. He knew, as Pat and I knew, that in the end it would be worth it for a bottle of homemade Root Beer. Ok, Dad was never a sharp dresser, but he usually did dress better than this. We were making root beer, though, and it did get messy. The little munchkin is our niece Paula. 

The Different Sides of My Sister – Entry 10 in the story of my sister and me

Right now you’re probably ultra-confused. Well, people spend 60% of their life being confused. The rest of the time is spent asleep, stoned or making love. If it’s not one big confusion, it’s a thousand small ones.How many decisions do you make in a single day? What should I wear? Should I have Wheaties or Rice Krispies? Should I shop then study, or study and then party? Do I go to the bathroom or read this paragraph? Will I write my sister a letter or hire a hitman? Pat Loehmer (during her college years no doubt) My mom and Pat getting along in 1985. Flashback“I don’t care!” One door slammed.             “We brought you up better than that!” Another door slammed.             Dad and I remained frozen on the couch, pretending to watch TV as if nothing was going on in the house. I stole a glance at him. He shrugged and half-grinned. It wasn’t like my mom and my sister Pat didn’t get into an argument at least once a week.             I was still in junior high, while Pat was a hot-headed, hormonal high schooler. She and I were still best friends. She and Mom? Not so much.              I don’t remember what many of their fights were about. In general, I believe, that Pat just wanted to always have her way. Mom would dig in her heels and my sister would dig hers in deeper. I think they were too much alike – strong-willed and bull-headed. But I’m sure that’s what got them through life.         Pat and Val at Lake of the Clouds  1998 into 1999            The last trip that I made up north with Pat was to the Porcupine Mountains in June of 1998. It was another one of those trips-on-a-whim. This time we took my then eight-year-old daughter Val along, Pat wearing the body brace she inherited following her last surgery, the one to get the cancer out of her back. We spent the night in a motel; camping was out of the question. Both my kids loved their Aunt Patti. I can hear their little-kid voices ringing through the house whenever she drove into the yard. “Aunt Patti’s here,” they’d both sing out. I think the last time she was at my house was for Christmas that year. Shortly after that, I started going to her house at least once a week, usually on my afternoon off. We would sit for hours, not saying too much, mostly just watching old movies.             One day when I was there, she gave me two wooden carvings she had done years before, one of a horse head and one of a complete horse. I was touched and didn’t know what to say. Another day, as she lay on the couch with an assortment of stuffed penguins, she made a confession.             “You know I don’t really like penguins that much.”            “What?” I asked. “Then why do you have like twelve of them?”            “I don’t remember where I got this,” she held up a six-inch fluffy tuxedoed bird. “But I liked him right away. When people found out about him, they thought I liked all penguins and they just started giving them to me. I wish they wouldn’t.”            “Guilty,” was the only answer I had for her as perhaps three of the penguins had been gifts from me. And guilty also because I was able to go on with my life. What would happen to her life?            “I don’t mean to be a crab about it. It’s just, what am I going to do with them?”            Maybe she was just being practical. Her house was so tiny, a hunting shack actually that had been added onto. Or maybe she didn’t want them left behind.             “Do you want me to take mine home with me? The ones I gave you?”            She shrugged and looked out the window.            Even though I visited that one day a week and saw her at the clinic or hospital when she was in for her frequent visits, we still called each other on the phone every night. Always right before or after our mom had checked in with both of us. It was on one of those nights, that Mom called me in tears. I don’t know what they had argued about, probably Pat had spouted off to Mom about something. Mom hung up on her, then dialed my number. There wasn’t anything I could say, anything I could do. It wasn’t as if Mom and Pat never fought before. But what if this was their last fight ever?   Pat with the nieces and nephews in 1996. Maybe at times, Pat just related better to kids than to grown-ups.

A Tale of Two Campers – Entry 9 in the story of my sister and me

 Most people keep searching for life when it’s really right in front of them. You just have to go out and live it. Just reach out and pull it around you. Wrap yourself in a blanket of stars. Pat Loehmer Flashback
I can’t remember a time, as a kid, that we weren’t planning a family camping trip. Every June, as soon as school was out, Mom and Dad would pack up the pickup camper, along with my sister Pat, me and the dog, and we would go somewhere. The Black Hills, the Badlands, the Gulf of Mexico, the Blue Ridge Mountains, historic Virginia, or the peaceful Upper Peninsula of Michigan.When Mom and Dad bought the pickup camper in 1967, the entire continental US seemed to suddenly be accessible. I have only vague memories of many of those earlier trips, and I think that some of those memories were fabricated in my head from the stories the family shared and the pictures I’ve studied. What I do know is that Pat and I would lay on the bed in the camper above the cab of the truck and watch miles of highway pass before us. Our imaginations knew no limits. When there was nothing of interest outside that picture window, we played with our plastic horses, allowing them to run the imaginary pasture on the bed.When we arrived at whatever campground where we were spending the night, our imaginations continued to make up adventures. Unless, of course, we were some place so fantastic that our minds could not top it. Lookout Mountain in Tennessee where we were certain we saw seven states. The deafening roar of Niagara Falls. Geysers spewing steam at Yellowstone. And nearly being left behind in Canada. I know why to this day I suffer from wanderlust. I can’t stay in one place for long. 
1997Shortly after we returned from the trip to Las Vegas in 1997, Pat spied a pop-up camper for sale in someone’s yard. She called me as soon as she got home. “What do you think about getting a camper, a pop-up trailer? It would be so nice, don’t you think?”I honestly don’t remember going to look at it; I think I may have said, “Go for it, and let me know what I owe you for my half.”It didn’t take us long to try it. Our first trip was to a rustic campground in the Nicolet National Forest just past Eagle River. Luna and White Deer are the names of the two lakes which border the campground, one on each side. The lakes are small, so small that they don’t allow motorboats, which is ideal for us. It meant peace and quiet. We chose a site along White Deer Lake. This site was also right next to the outhouse, but neither of those were reasons why we picked it. We settled on that site because Pat felt she could best back the camper into it.Almost right after we got the camper set up, it started to rain. We took cover inside and played cribbage. And said something like, “Ha, ha, ha! Let it rain, let it rain. No more getting wet in a tent. We are high and dry in a trailer. Ha, ha, ha!” We were pretty full of ourselves. We also had a full schedule of camping trips that year.  

Viva Las Vegas – Entry 8 in the story of my sister and me

“Oh, well, never get yourself in a position where they can force your hand – unless you are holding all the aces, in which case, you should be calling the shots. That’s card-talk.” Pat Loehmer 1997The most uncharacteristic thing that my sister Pat ever proposed was that we go to Las Vegas. She hated big cities, hated commercialism, hated crowds, was not fond of shopping or gambling or watching people do stupid things. Where did she get the idea that we should go to Las Vegas? Because she had heard that Las Vegas has fantastic and inexpensive buffets, and her husband Jeff lived for a good cheap buffet. So we booked flights for May 1997. My husband Himey had been to Vegas many times before I met him, and he would be our travel-guide. In addition to us two couples, Jeff’s daughter from his first marriage, Amy, came along. We rented a car one day and drove to Hoover Dam, because, well, everyone goes to see the Dam their first time to Las Vegas. One night we all took the bus down to Fremont Street for the light display in the gigantic neon-light canopy. Another night, we went to King Arthur’s Tournament, which involved watching the joust while eating Cornish hen, at the Excalibur. The next day, Pat and I watched the World-Famous Lipizzaner Stallions in the same arena. I think while we were there, Himey took Amy on some death-defying ride that scared her silly. We had a good time. We wandered from one end of The Strip to the other. We ate at as many buffets as we could. We laughed until we made ourselves sick. Unfortunately, the good times were always overshadowed by the bad in Pat’s battle with cancer. That fall, more chemo, more radiation, and several more surgeries followed. Cancer cells wound their way into the bones of her back, causing excruciating pain. Back surgery didn’t offer much relief, and she would continue wearing a plastic body cast during her waking hours.  As her body fought the onslaught, it was easy to wonder which was worse – the cancer or the treatment. Nausea dogged her days and nights. She got to the point where she couldn’t tolerate even Jello. We didn’t talk about the future and what it might hold. She refused to give up so she refused to talk about the what-ifs. What if this chemo doesn’t work? What if the doctors down at the University can’t offer anything more than the oncologist back home? What if the experimental treatment makes you even sicker? The only concession she would offer was that if nothing else, maybe someone else would benefit from what the doctors learned from her. 

Beyond Cold – Entry 7 in the story of my sister and me

I think I’m ready for a change. This is how I felt in college. There’s something I want, but I don’t know what it is yet. I just feel restless. I’m not unhappy, it’s just getting to be about that time. Pat Loehmer  Flashback
            Knock. Knock. Knock.            I rolled over in bed and knocked on my bedroom wall twice in return. I lay there awake for a few minutes, listening. The house remained quiet, Mom and Dad fast asleep.             I eased out of my twin bed, slid my bedroom door open, crept through the living room and pushed open the first (and only) door on the right. I slipped into the room and noiselessly shut the door tight.             I think I was maybe in fifth grade, when our brother moved out of the third and smallest bedroom in the house and into the room above the garage. I was finally going to get my own bedroom!            When my sister Pat left for college, I thought about moving back into the larger bedroom, the one she and I had shared for years, but it just didn’t feel right. I couldn’t sleep there alone.             But when Pat came home on the weekends and tapped on my wall with the code knocks we’d made up years before, I would end up back in the spare bed. We’d whisper – and giggle - half the night.             She had wanted to be a veterinarian for as long as anyone could remember. She loved any and every animal she ever met, and graduating from high school with a 4.0, she could do anything she wanted to.             After a few years at UW-River Falls, majoring in pre-vet, while working in the electrical shop at the paper mill during the summer, she decided to take a totally different career path. She transferred to UW-Stevens Point, which was closer to home, but also so she could change her major to paper science. I think she only stayed a semester there. The mill offered her a position in the electrical department and she would go on to take classes to become a licensed electrician.              Few women worked at the paper mill at the time, and few women anywhere were electricians. Pat would never let something like being female slow her down or prevent her from doing what she wanted.   February 1997
            “Think you can call in sick tomorrow?”             “Of course.” I rarely called in sick because I was feeling ill. I would use some lame excuse, migraine seemed to usually work, but I think my manager realized what I was really doing those rare days I didn’t make it to work. “What’s up?”            “I’m feeling pretty good tonight and I think it’s time we took a ride.”            “It’s the middle of winter.”            “So.”             I picked her up early the next morning and we headed up north to some of our favorite waterfalls. What would they look like in the winter, would they be frozen or too buried in snow to be seen?             Our first stop was the county park on the Turtle Flowage, where we had camped with Judy the summer before. The flowage was covered in snow and ice thick enough to hold not only the two of us, but four-wheel drives and ice shacks. We struggled through the snow, me leading the way, cutting what path I could to make it easier for Pat to get through. We thought we were getting close to the falls but stopped when we heard the sound of rushing water. The water of the meager falls still had enough power to force through the snow. Hmm? we thought as we stood panting a mere foot from the open water, and then we wisely tromped back to solid ground.The falls at Black River Harbor were more of the same, except that our trek through the snow was much longer and followed a rabbit path instead of the boardwalk which led tourists to this spot in the summer. We were pretty much alone, not even any rabbits out that day. We continued our drive and came out on Lake Superior. Up until that point the air outside felt like the chill of any other winter day. The sun was shining, and it felt warm when we turned our faces to it. But we had been raised on Wisconsin winters and as long as the thermometer stayed above zero Fahrenheit, we were comfortable.  When we got to Lake Superior, however, it was as if all life had stopped. It wasn't just the cold and it wasn't even the wind because there was none. The air was still; there was no movement in the sky or the ground around us. No birds were flying and there was no noise whatsoever. It was like walking into a vacuum. I thought that Gitche Gumee was powerful in the summer, when the waves crash on the shore, unrelenting in their actions. The power to just withdraw heat, movement, the very air above was a power I could barely fathom. The Lake was covered in snow, with drifts like waves upon the beach, and as far as you could see it was one solid whiteness, the sky blending into the horizon. It reminded me of a lunar landscape.             "Wow," Pat said, "not quite what I expected."             "I know. It’s like being on another planet. It’s beyond cold.” I wondered, though, if that was what the cancer felt like to her or the chemo running through her veins. Both sucking away at her life. We took our pictures and fled back to the SUV. Then drove to a restaurant in Bessemer for hot chocolate.

Another Waterfall – Entry 6 in the story of my sister and me

“Sometimes I wonder how come I turned out so weird, so different from everyone else. Maybe it’s because I’m left-handed and I think out of the other side of my brain. Or maybe I’m an alien and I think out of someone else’s brain. It’s probably from reading too many sci-fi books and eating ice cream and saltines for supper.” Pat Loehmer
FlashbackI graduated from high school on June 1, 1980. As my party was winding down that afternoon, Pat and I started packing. She had been working summers at the paper mill while going to college at River Falls and had managed to save enough money to buy herself a baby-blue Ford Courier and a tent. We had decided that we would take a week off work – I would be clerking at Tomahawk Drug for one more summer before leaving for college myself in the fall – to go camping in the UP. We were planning on camping in state parks at night, and even though the Upper Peninsula of Michigan wasn’t the final frontier, it was a big adventure. All we had was the truck, a dome tent, a cook stove, sleeping bags, and some maps. And of course, too much food and just barely enough cash. We camped in Porcupine Mountains State Park on Lake Superior for a couple nights, then moved to McLain State Park. We had camped at McLain with our parents when we were kids. It’s a beautiful park with breathtaking views of Lake Superior. Sunrises and sunsets.  Pat would look out over Lake Superior, and as close as we were, sometimes I still wondered where her mind was, what she thinking. Or was she just weird?That camping trip still remains one of the high points of my life. That whole week everything was so simple. We did what we wanted, when we wanted and how we wanted. I dreamed of living the rest of my life like that, young and carefree, foolish and full of life, happy and only concerned with being at peace. Clearly, not Lake Superior, but another body of water in the UP. 
1996 In June of 1996, Pat was feeling well enough that she decided it was time we went on another camping trip and that we should take our older sister Judy along. The first night we stayed just outside of Mercer at Lake of Falls, a small county park along the Turtle Flambeau Flowage. Pat and Judy went up in the middle of the afternoon to set up camp, and I joined them after work. They had found a site on a small peninsula, almost like being on an island. It was a gorgeous spot. The next day we packed up camp and set off to find more waterfalls. Our first goal was Spring Camp Falls. The Wisconsin Gazetteer showed a little red line, Camp 7 Road, heading west off of Highway 51. It connected to East Branch Road, which led right to Spring Camp Falls.  Camp 7 Road began as any other gravel road through the woods. But it quickly deteriorated. The track went straight through a swamp, so when the road was first laid it was a corduroy road, a road made by laying logs across the roadway, especially over wet, lowland terrain. The idea was that the road was dry, but it was also incredibly rough, and the roughness only got worse over time.In 1996, this particular road was simply heinous. By the time the logs were coming up under Pat’s Blazer, the lane had become a path, barely wide enough to fit through, branches hanging in front of us and tree trunks encroaching on both sides. Judy and I got out and started walking the track in order to help Pat drive through. We continually stopped to access the situation, but since it was obvious we couldn’t turn around and backing up was out of the question, we kept slowing crawling forward. We checked the cell phones. Surprisingly we still had coverage.“And if we called for someone to get us out of here, how exactly do you think they would do that?” Pat asked logically. She had a point. And we were at a point of no return.Finally the road, not even an ATV trail by this time, approached a slight incline, at the top of which was dry land and a grassy opening big enough to turn around. Now the question was, do we turn around?We knew what we had just slogged through, but was it better or worse up ahead? As tired and frustrated as we were, I thought we should leave the Blazer and at least walk the road for a little ways to see if it improved. Pat hated to be pessimistic, but she feared that the trail would get worse, or even suddenly dead end and then we couldn’t even turn around. Judy simply shrugged. We turned around and worked our way out of the swamp. Years later, I would find that waterfalls via another route. But someday, as God is my witness, I will get there along Camp 7 Road.

Waterfalls and Waysides – Entry 5 in the story of my sister and me

 The surprises in life make it interesting. Could you imagine being able to see the future? And knowing what was going to happen? You’d have no purpose for living. Ordinary, everyday happenings make life feel comfortable, but you live to be surprised. Never lose the capacity for being surprised. Never let life become ordinary. Learn to enjoy the littlest things. That’s why little kids and puppies are so neat. They think everything is new and exciting. Such enthusiasm. Pat Loehmer 1994 -When Autumn Turned into Fall
After her second surgery late in the summer of 1994, my sister Pat endured rounds of radiation, followed by rounds of chemotherapy. One October Saturday, she asked if I’d take her for a ride up north. Just a day trip, eight hours which are burned into my memory. Visions that haunt me still.Pat had been the one who always had the long hair. Even when it hung just above her shoulders, it was longer than mine ever was. For one year in high school, Pat had it cut in some kind of style of the time, but it didn’t take long before her tresses ran down her back again, often in a single thick braid. When she had started chemo, in an attempt to accept the reality that her hair would fall out, she had her long locks cut.When I picked her up that Saturday morning, she wore a bandana. It had only been a couple days since I had seen her, but her skin had turned sallow and thin.“Everything ok?” I asked.“Yup.” Her jaw was set; the same stubbornness would get her through a lot in the coming years. “I’m not eating much, yucky stomach, but other than that, I’m ok.”“All right.” I was skeptical. I didn’t ask if she was sure she was up to the ride. We headed to Lake Superior. We saw some waterfalls, and we had some laughs. I took the usual ton of pictures (looking them up now, I must have taken a whole roll just that day, hard to fathom life before digital cameras).
At one point, we stood at a wayside on a hill overlooking the orange and red leafed trees, she asked, “Do you mind if I take off the bandana? My head itches.”“Well, sure, why would I care?” It was only a head of hair, wasn’t it?If I would’ve wanted to, I probably could have counted the golden hairs left on her scalp. As she ran her hand over her head, more precious strands came out, and she released them to the wind. I wanted to catch them and save them; maybe somehow we could figure out a way to attach them to her head again. She couldn’t just let them go.But there they went, one foot-long strand after another, into the meadow, onto the dry stalks of straw that littered the field where we stood.“You should see what the shower drain looks like in the morning.” She laughed and described the wad of hair she took out of the drain every day.  Weeks later, having lost all of the hair on her head and her entire body, she found it hard to stay warm. Her eyes also dried out from the lack of eyelashes. She would jokingly say, who knew that we actually need our hair?Things had definitely changed; we had changed. And nothing was ever going to be the same again.