Such a mellow week; nothing too pressing or stressful. Haven’t experienced loads of motivation, either. Or excitement, but this is okay.  I used to feel that life had to be very dramatic, all the time.  And that if it wasn’t, something needed to be altered to make it so.  Now, I am learning to appreciate that these mellow spells are useful, too.  They let one crawl back inside oneself for a brief interlude to recharge and renew. Explore the value found in freedom from effort.

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One doesn’t stay here, of course–nothing would ever get done!  But neither should one despise the occasional dalliance. And, mellow as I was, a few things managed to occur:

For starters, we finished the Midcentury Modern White Dresser.

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B finished it.

When we first started refinishing furniture, we both plugged in with paint brushes, foam rollers and sand paper. Some things turned out, other things did not—but it was like cliff diving into Lake Superior. We clasped hands, gave a little victory holler and plunged into whatever awaited us below the surface.

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Recently, we discovered a new technique: spraying the furniture with a paint sprayer. This is definitely a one man job—but the results have been promising thus far. Smooth, hard, shiny finish. No drips, brush marks, weird flashy spots. B has been heading all of the furniture renovations lately so I can focus on my writing projects, and I’ve actually missed it, somewhat.  But he’s doing so amazing, my skills are becoming obsolete–fast.

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I do still take the pictures.  After recently learning my current camera is broken, (it only works part of the time–something I always believed was operator error), plans have been made for a new camera.  But until it arrives, I am wringing all I can out of this one-winged bird.

This week, I interviewed the owner of the Henry Ford Bungalow which sits just north of Pequaming, Michigan. He and his wife conferencing in from Madison, me in Minneapolis—it was lovely and we talked for well over an hour.  The conversation ended at this point only because I suddenly remembered reading about not trapping people in an endless interview.

Someday, I will tell my own story of Pequaming. Why a ghost town matters to me. Why I write so much about it.


For now, the story is the Henry Ford Bungalow, that white plantation-styled historical landmark, overlooking the Keweenaw Bay and a century of compelling sunsets. Available to the public, and yet practically unknown, which is why I am writing the article. Why, in a few weeks, my husband and I will drive up to that isolated world of water, forest and sky to visit and photograph the summer house Ford had escaped to nearly one hundred years ago.

I am dreaming all sorts of dreams about that upcoming trip. There will be a post, of course, a new camera and a fresh load of pictures (one hopes, anyway!).

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We ended the week by meeting some friends for bowling at Pinstripes and then dinner at Fogo de Chao. It was a first for B and I—that mecca of succulent meat. Full to nearly bursting when we left, I had to forbid myself, in the name of good manners, from curling up in the back of our friends’ SUV and drifting off into some sort of meat-induced coma. My husband sang the praises of the whole experience, and while I did enjoy it, I had a haunting hankering the day after for some sort of spinach or kale smoothie. Something not meat.

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