Chris Loehmer Kincaid's Blog, page 83

Such is Life

On June 5, I began sharing the story of my sister Pat’s battle with cancer. Those seventeen blog posts took me up until a little over a week ago, when – as luck would have it (or did I plan that well?) – Hubby and I left for a week’s vacation camping in Michigan’s UP. Our first full day up there, Monday, the 15th, would have been Pat’s 60th birthday. Once, she and I were also camping there on her birthday and I remember buying her an ice cream cone in celebration.
But enough about her. As I mentioned on my last post, when I am struggling with things, I ask myself “What would Pat do?” And I know she wouldn’t dwell on events which might bring her down.
Before I move on, however, I noticed that one of my last blog posts before beginning that series, I had told you that I had just broken a bone in my foot. I should give you an update on that. 
My feet on June15Eleven days after I fell on my last basement step and ten days after my family practice doctor confirmed there was an avulsion fracture, and told me to keep wearing my boot and try to stay non-weight bearing, I saw the orthopedic surgeon. He re-x-rayed it and prognosed that I could start treating it like a bad sprain. Slowly start putting some weight on it, ditch the boot after a few more weeks, start some easy exercises as tolerated. It could take up to twelve weeks to be good as new, but there was nothing I could do at that point which would make things worse. Unless, of course, I fell down another step.
That appointment was six weeks ago already. I would say my right foot is as good as it’s going to get. It surely isn’t any more painful or less mobile than my left foot, which has been an issue for over six years now. I think I have gotten to the age where I just won’t bounce back like I used to.
I think that’s all to bring you up to speed. In addition to the camping trip we just returned from, I have to still tell you about an overnight to my son’s in the southern part of the state. And looking at my calendar until the end of the year, I will have no shortage of stories waiting to be told.
Tree over the power line just beyond my yardBut here’s the great irony. After camping in our pop-up camper in a Michigan State Park with electricity at our site and hot showers and flush toilets a half-mile away, I come home to no power. A bad storm blew through town Friday night and took out a lot of trees and electricity for most residents. Being as we have well water, in addition to no lights, we have no running water, only the several gallons I keep stored in the basement for such calamities. I’m praising God, though, that we bought that generator back in May; at least the frig and freezer are running.  
Such is my life. Keep following along!

Crossing the Finish Line - Entry 17 in the story of my sister and me

Dear GodIf I die tomorrowOr a thousand tomorrows from now,Will it matter?Will I be changedOr have changed the world?Will another moment from eternity of existenceCause the moon to fallThe oceans to weepThe trees to walk?But if an extra heartbeatBrings one smile to a teary eyeIf all my heartbeatsCan make another soul singAnother life less dullThen my entire being has purposeAnd eternity becomes an instant of joy.
            My sister, Patricia Ann Loehmer, wrote the above poem over a decade before she received the diagnosis of cancer, the cancer which claimed her life one month before her fortieth birthday. If she were still with us, she would be celebrating her sixtieth birthday next week on the 15th. I’ve been sharing her words and her story here over the last few weeks in her memory as we have stumbled over the twenty-year anniversary of her passing into the next life. On a regular basis, people still come up to me and say, “Pat was your sister, wasn’t she? She was so good-hearted. She was the smartest person I knew. She was the toughest person I knew.”              I nod and agree with these people. Her wonderful combination of grim determination and childish wonder was an inspiration to so many, her spirit touching the lives of everyone she met. Reading over the many letters she wrote to me while either she was at college, I was at college, or I was living 1200 miles away in Colorado, it’s almost as if she knew, somehow, what was coming, what her fate in life would be. The wisdom of her words held me up during the rough spots in my life and today those words simply stun me. Mostly, she is my constant inspiration. There is that saying “What would Jesus do?” That motto inspires me to do good, of course. But when I need to make the pedal hit the metal, I ask myself, “What would Pat do?” When we meet again, I can only pray that I have done her proud.             “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” 
I hope you’ve enjoyed reading her story over the last month. My intention was not to bring you down but to lift you up, to give you strength and hope.  I’ve been planning on posting this series for over a year, wanting to share it with you in celebration of my sister’s life, marking the milestones of the 60 year anniversary of her arrival on this earth and the 20 year anniversary of her passing. It seems like she has been gone so long, but when I look at those numbers, I realize that she blessed many of us for forty years. And what more can anyone ask for?

Down the Home Stretch - Entry 16 in the story of my sister and me

Shoveling snow out of the road in 1961, just about the time I was born. 
Have you heard what cross-country coaches say? 
The first miles you run on your legs, the last mile you run on your guts. 
Pat Loehmer Outside our parents' house in 1986. I don't remember seeing this picture before until I found it in Mom's old pictures a month ago. June 18, 1999              “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want,” I read from her Bible at the side of her bed. My sister Pat had become unresponsive, her breathing labored but steady.             “Keep reading,” Mom instructed me. “They say that your hearing is the last thing to go.” We were keeping a night-time vigil, something I never in a million years thought I would be doing, there at Pat’s bedside in the nursing home. Just being in the nursing home was beyond anything I could fathom. My sister Pat? Bubbly, full of life, a pistol who never stopped shooting, never stopped working. How could she be lying in that nursing home bed, pale and gaunt, no longer able to speak or barely move.            “He makes me to lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul; He leads me in the paths of righteousness For His name’s sake."            Why would God do this to my sister, my best friend? Why did she have to suffer so much, fighting for so long? If He wanted her in heaven, why didn’t He take her suddenly, painlessly? And why can’t He send a miracle? Right here and right now?            The doctors said that it was a miracle that she had lived for six years with this kind of an aggressive cancer. Really? Because I didn’t see it as a miracle, I saw it as six years of my sister dying, when she should have been living.             “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; For You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.”            But she had lived those six years. She and I had gone on camping trips, sometimes with Judy, sometimes with my kids. She had stood up at the wedding of her best friend from college. She had been the photographer for my second wedding. She and her husband along with me and mine had flown to Las Vegas for a long weekend. She had continued working as long as she could. “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; My cup runs over.”            I looked up at Mom and she gestured that I should keep reading. I was out of ideas though. Sure there were many more chapters in the book of Psalms, David’s outpouring of his faith in God and that all things would turn out right through Him. But I just couldn’t do it.             The next morning, my sister Judy joined the vigil. When her nurse checked on Pat, she nodded towards her bed as she left the room. I don’t remember if she actually said it or not, but the words that came into my head were, “it’s time.” Nurses who have seen enough know when it is time.            We gathered around Pat and watched her lungs fill with air for the last time. The air slowly ebbed from her, as if the oxygen was leaving not only her lungs but her fingers and toes and even her pores.             A sob escaped from Mom, and Judy probably reacted as well. All I did was watch that frail chest, waiting for it to rise again, willing it to rise. Not taking my eyes from that slight lump under the sheet.            “Come on, Pat, come on, you can do it. Take another breath.”            It never happened. My kids with their Aunt Patti, in April of 1993, four months before her diagnosis(Don’t despair! The story’s not over. Be sure to check back in on Friday for the remarkable ending to a life well-lived.)

Around the Far Turn - Entry 15 in the story of my sister and me

Pat in our parents' back yard in 1987I don’t believe you should regret any decision you make. But that’s the way I am. Maybe I can’t admit that I’ve made a mistake. But whatever happens, it’ll work out or you make it work out. And there’s no such thing as luck. 
You make your own luck. Pat Loehmer 
Flashback            “I won’t let her go.”            “You’ve only had her a couple weeks,” was a pretty lame response but I didn’t know what else to say.             My sister Pat sighed on the other end of the phone.             She had picked up the German Shepard mix at the humane society a few weeks before. Mandy was an adorable puppy, but what puppy is not ridiculously cute.             Then just a few days later, Mandy became lethargic and stopped eating. Pat encouraged her to eat and drink, but finally had to take her to the vet. The puppy was diagnosed with Parvovirus. Nursing Mandy back to health, Pat was reminded of why she dropped out of vet school. She knew she would have given her heart to every sick animal that came in the door.             The vet told her to check with where the dog had come from to see if there were any other sick dogs. Turns out that the rest of the pups from the litter as well as her mom had all succumbed to Parvo. It was only Pat’s tenacity and shear will power that cured Mandy. She remained Pat’s loyal companion, her shadow for many years. Probably 12 or 14 years later, the shepherd was full of arthritis and lacked any energy, her eyes clouded with cataracts, when one day she could no longer get up the steps into the house. Pat called me a few hours later to tell me that Mandy had obediently, though slowly, followed Jeff into the woods when he called her, a rifle over his shoulder. Pat didn’t know what she would do.“She’s not suffering anymore.” Yet another lame answer from me. “I know,” was all she could say in return. Mandy in Pat's yard in 1987Spring 1999            “So what do you think?” I laid the paper on her lap. “How can we configure the bathroom?”Even though Pat was lying in a hospital bed, life had to go on. My husband and I were working on remodeling our house, adding a third bedroom and second full bath. We were trying to figure out how to fit all the fixtures into the cramped bathroom space. “Here,” I laid more paper on her lap. “I measured everything and cut out models. So it will be like putting together a puzzle.”She looked at the small cut-outs of a toilet, shower and vanity and the space they needed to fit into. “Are you mocking me?”“What? Of course not.” The last thing I wanted to do was hurt her feelings. “If we are going to keep both doors coming into the bathroom, I don’t know where everything should go.” One door led to our bedroom, the other to the laundry. I really hated the thought of shutting off the one to the laundry room and the back door beyond. She pushed the pieces around for a while. We came up with a plan we thought would work and I assured her I would tell the contractor on Monday. A few hours later, shortly after Mom came to visit, Pat’s skin went suddenly grey. Her body convulsed in the small bed and her eyes rolled back in her head. “Pat, Pat!” Mom called to her. I pushed the “code blue” button on the wall and ran out into the hall to flag down the nearest nurse.     A flurry of activity ensued and I pulled Mom out into the hall so that we wouldn’t be in the way.
 By the first of June, we were all noticing that she wasn’t nearly as mentally sharp as she used to be. When she first was admitted to the nursing home, her husband set up her laptop and paid for WiFi to her room so that she could stay in touch and even work on projects for her employer. After a month or so, she wasn’t able to focus. She was the smartest person I knew, and it seemed cruel after losing everything else, that she would lose her intellect.            An MRI confirmed that the cancer had spread to her brain. The doctor told Pat, Mom, and me that they could try radiation. It wouldn’t destroy the tumor, but could control its growth for a little while, buy her some time.            Her chin went out again. Her determination never wavered, but this time she was determined to let go. She was tired and if she knew anything else, she knew when enough was enough.
Pat at our parents' house in 1987, playing a peg game by herself. 

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.