Category Archives: Being greek

aging, Being greek, humor, Uncategorized

Happy Camper?

This past summer, I revisited the Metropolis of Detroit Summer Camp (MDSC) for Orthodox youth that I had attended as a child and young adult. Starting at age seven, I would stay each summer for two weeks at this camp located in northern Michigan. I started sending my own kids there when they were in grade school, and for several years Teddy has been a lifeguard there. My sister, Melissa, and I have a deep love for MDSC. We had often spoken in recent years of going back as cooks so we could relive our youth (minus the swimming lessons and hiking through tick-infested forests). This year, the camp was severely short-staffed and was considering for the first time in their 75-year history of cancelling a couple of weeks of camp. As a result, Melissa and I decided to take the opportunity and go back as kitchen staff. Both our daughters were also going to be there as staff members. How fun would it be to go back to summer camp as an adult? 

Not too fun it turns out. 

The day we arrived at camp I was excited, but also a little nervous. As I arrived at check in, the director looked at me and said, “So you and your sister can decide which one of you is going to be a cook and which one is going to be a counselor.” 

I’m sorry, what?

Apparently, they were so short-staffed that one of us was going to have to move to the junior girls (ages 7-10) cabin to be a counselor all week. There I was at a church camp, volunteering in an environment that helps to spread the word of God with selflessness and sacrifice, and all I wanted to say was, “I’m sorry, I came up here to hang out with my sister and bond over hamburgers and french fries, not watch a bunch of 8 year olds.” I went to find Melissa to discuss what we should do.

“I don’t care either way,” she said.  “You decide.” 

Being a counselor would mean going to swim lessons, doing arts and crafts, playing athletic games, and generally being a mom for a week. Cooking for 80 people would mean getting up at 6am, spending the day in a hot kitchen on my feet, and preparing food and doing the dishes. So, generally being a mom for a week. I chose counselor.

 I chose poorly. 

They placed me in a cabin built in the 1950’s with no ventilation or air. There were three sections: The left side was large, airy, and had real beds and mattresses. This is where Melissa and my daughter, Franny, were. The 10 junior girl campers were on the right side of the cabin in a similar room, but with bunk beds made of metal with thin mattresses.

My co-counselor, Emily (20 years old), and I were in a tiny, cramped, windowless, dark room between the two larger rooms, separated from the campers by a curtain. (Her name has been changed, not for privacy, but because we were at a Greek camp and if I use real names I am going to have to differentiate between Maria One, Maria Two and Maria Three and George the camper and George the counselor.) I was on a bottom bunk so low I couldn’t sit up without getting my hair caught in the metal spokes from the top bunk. The mattress was a three inch piece of foam I assume is similar to what they use in prisons. Oh, and did I mention the camp doesn’t have cell service? Everyone is supposed to give up their phone upon arrival, but I don’t think they dared ask me for mine after the bait and switch they pulled on me. But it didn’t matter anyway. The only way you could use your phone is if you could find out the secret wifi password, sneak to the top of the flagpole hill, stand in a certain spot, and make sure no one saw you doing it.

The embarrassment of being three decades older than the rest of the counselors happened almost immediately with the staff introductions. As your name is called, you are supposed to do a cute choreographed dance or chant with your co-counselor. This is adorable and fun if you are 20, not so great when you are 56. Emily and I decided to do a Disney channel spoof where we take the pretend wand and outline the Disney ear…and end in a crossed-arm-white-girls-trying-to-be-hip-hop stars pose. As you can see from the picture I was way off with my timing. 

As if things couldn’t get worse, modern days have afforded the camp a Media Director. This position was filled by an adorable young man who spent his days going from activity to activity taking photos and uploading them to the camp website. Suddenly I felt sorry for celebrities who are constantly dodging the paparazzi. It is impossible to be “on” all day. You never knew when you were going to be in the background of a snapshot. I found out quickly that my “resting face” leaves me with little to no neck, and a chin that blends right into my sternum. I believe the clinical term for this ailment is referred to as “jowls.” (See pictures below.) By the way, when you look up the word “jowls” to make sure you are using it correctly, it directs you to pictures of Mastiffs and Great Danes. 

Great candids of me
Example of “jowls”

The evening activity that day was a game of Gaga ball at the field. I am familiar enough with Gaga to know that I was not going to be able to match the energy and speed of the campers. I decided I would wait until they had a Wordle tournament or bird-identification test to show my real talents. I climbed into the pit, which I’m sure wasn’t a pretty sight. (Thank goodness the media director wasn’t around for that one.) Suddenly I had an idea.

“Hey,” I said to the closest kid to me, a boy around 10 years old. “If you cover me during this game I’ll get you an extra dessert tonight.”

God bless this child who spent the next ten minutes protecting me like I was a tribute in the Hunger Games. Every time the ball came near me, there he was, expertly deflecting it in another direction. This lasted the whole game until eventually it came down to him, me cowering behind him, and another counselor. Suddenly, my protector was out, and it was just me staring at a young man about 20 years old and the size of a tank. He gently rolled the ball toward me and hit my leg. That’s all it took.

I didn’t matter though, because at dinner that night I excitedly bragged to everyone that I got second place in Gaga ball while I discreetly took an extra piece of cake from the kitchen and handed it to my savior for the day.

And that was just day one.

If I wrote every crazy thing that happened it would be the length of a book, so I have split this blog up into two parts. I hope I have set the scene for you, because it’s going to be a bumpy ride. I am going to make you relive everything I experienced. It will be long. It will be hot. You will want to stop reading by day two. You will count down the days until it is over. Stay tuned next week for more escapades.

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aging, Being greek, death, Family, grief

The Tapestry of her Life

When I think of her I think of teacups and cats.

And Boston. And England. And dainty little fingers. And coral lipstick.

She is my only female cousin on my mom’s side and she is 12 years older than me. Which makes her 65.

And about a month ago she asked me to write a tribute to her for her memorial service. Actually, what she really said was “I’m working on my memorial service (what, you think I wouldn’t try to control that?) and I’d like you to do one of your funny/spot on tributes and read it.”

So here we are.

Truthfully, I had already started writing it.

Two years ago she was diagnosed with ALS. And like the disease itself, her timeline is unpredictable. She is declining. I’m going to see her in a few weeks knowing this is probably the last time I will see her. And it’s another important person I am losing. Along with my mother, her mother, my sister, my father, and now her, my surrogate sister. And at this point, it’s beginning to feel as though while the branches of my tree of life might be growing, the roots are being yanked out of the ground one by one. With nothing to hold it stable, won’t the tree eventually just fall over?

If you know her well, you know she has had more tragedy and life shake-ups than most people. If you don’t know her, well, those stories are hers to tell, but to say she has moved through them and come to a place of grace and gratefulness is an understatement.

The truth is, I used to be scared of her. Let’s just say in her early years I don’t think you would have described her as easy going. She had a bit of an edge. Besides, twelve years is a wide age gap when you are growing up. By the time I was in Jr. High she was already living her adult life in Boston. She had moved there to be a journalist and had re-named herself “Cate” when NO ONE was Cate with a “C.” Especially not a Greek girl whose extended family could not understand why she would do this and did we have to call her Cate because she will always be Cathy to us and what the heck we will never get used to Cate.

Side Note: At this point she went rogue. Ok, not really. But as the memories start flooding back to me while I write this, I realize that she really tested the limits of our judgmental conservative, Midwestern, Greek-Orthodox family. First, she had a boyfriend that SHE WAS LIVING WITH. I mean, this was such a scandal at the time that I am nervous putting it in print right now 35 years later. I remember the phone calls between my mother and aunt discussing this unheard-of development. (NOBODY TELL YIAYIA!) Never mind she was in her 30’s with a full-time job half-way across the country. Thank goodness she married the guy. But then there was the non-denominational wedding (hand-wringing) with a lady minister (Kyrie Eleison) where no, they did not read about the Wedding at Cana but instead read from THE VELVETEEN RABBIT (“‘What is real?’ said the rabbit,” the poor bridesmaid choked out through tears).

But the joke was on them. No, it did not turn out to be the happily ever after my mom and aunt had apparently hoped for her, with the Greek husband who did not cook or clean or watch the kids but still made all the decisions. Instead, she found herself an ideal partner. And I mean that. I know very few marriages where the two people appreciate each other strengths and quirks as much as those two do. After 32 years of marriage they still not only love each other, but they like each other too.

But I digress.

We saw her maybe once a year. As far as I was concerned she was not my peer, she was an ADULT. I mean, she called our Aunt Susan “Susan.” By her first name! She didn’t seem to share the family silliness the rest of us shared. (In truth, she has a GREAT sense of humor and when I have the occasional oddball observation or catty comment I know she will laugh without judgement.) It was just hard for me to recognize this as a 12-year-old. I could not relate to this sophisticated cousin I barely knew.

Side Note: We are actually similar in many ways, but I didn’t figure that out until much later. She is smart and sarcastic, and sensitive and funny and a great writer (ok, fine, maybe that one is a stretch for me). She is opinionated and isn’t afraid to go against the grain and say what she believes, regardless of how popular her viewpoint is. She excels at sarcasm and wit. I realize now that I am an adult that she gets me in a way few people do. She was around when I was a very difficult child for my mother. And I think she was there to maybe even give some advice to my mom. Former pain-in-the-ass kids understand current ones better than most.

But then I moved to Boston for grad school. I was 24 and she was 36. We were finally at a point in our lives where age was not a deterrent to friendship. Yes, she was married with a toddler, but we were both adults. I would visit her downtown at her job when I was on campus, and then on the weekends at her house in the suburbs to either babysit or do my laundry, usually both.

My two years in Boston were both the darkest and happiest time of my life. It was a significant period for me and was crucial to who I am today. There were lots of stressors and little support and I was far from home. The fact that Cate and my sister Melissa and I were all living on the East Coast created a forever bond between us.

She is the one I call when I’m not sure if I’m using a semi-colon right (I’m not; like, ever). She is the one who texted me after I wrote a blog on grammar to tell me my grammar is ok but my punctuation could use some help. She is the one who when I was going through a bit of a depression informed me of the not-so-uplifting news that studies say happiness is a bell curve and we are happiest in our 20’s and 60’s (Gee, thanks. That’s promising.)

She is the one known for her creative and thoughtful, often handmade gifts. She is also known for starting said creative and thoughtful, often handmade gifts, and getting them to you one, two, three months (or years) after the event. (This is actually a genetic family trait so I’m not going to fault her on this one.)

She is the one who fan-girled with me at Copley Place in 1994 when Olympic speed skater Dan Jansen was there signing autographs. We waited in a long line so we could have him sign our newly purchased Olympic-themed Swatch watches. She was cool as a cucumber while I said something ridiculous and then bolted.

She is the one who drove over an hour in a snowstorm when I called my sister desperate with grief after my mom died. It was the Nor’easter of 1994 but Cate showed up at my door to take care of me.

She is the one who I think of when I hear Billy Joel, James Taylor, Carole King and Carly Simon.

I have watched more family members nearing the end of their life than I care to remember. This one feels different. There is not a desperate struggle through the next treatment. A blind hope for a miracle. A positive attitude to fight the good fight. I only see an even-keeled acceptance. A serenity that I admire. A gradual decline coupled with increasing support from family and friends. Adjustments have been made to keep her mobile, communicative, and comfortable. I am sure she has her days, but I sure don’t see them. I asked her the other day if she was scared. “No,” she said. “Sad.”

Me too.

***This essay was written before my dear cousin passed away on August 4th, 2022, hence the use of present tense. When she asked me to write this tribute to her, she shared that she hoped she would be able to read it someday. I did, in fact, sent it to her several weeks before she died. I read an edited version for the actual memorial service, but this is the original version. I will miss her terribly. ***

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Being greek, exercise, Family, humor, Marriage, Motherhood, Uncategorized

Climb Every Mountain

The Pictured Rocks are spectacular but can be dangerous to the careless hiker. Fifteen miles of the North Country Trail are atop 50-200 foot high cliffs. Cliff tops are covered with loose sand and gravel–National Park Service website

Recently my family and I took a road trip around Lake Michigan. We love road trips and I had always wanted to visit Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore and Tahquamenon Falls. The plan was to drive up through Wisconsin with an overnight in Marquette and spend the next day touring the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

Now, we have a long-running joke in our family. Ted and my kids think it’s hilarious that I consider myself “outdoorsy.” This irritates me to no end, as I’d venture that I’m much more outdoorsy than they’d like to believe. I could spend a paragraph detailing the many activities that I like to do outdoors but that would be boring. I could also list all the ways Ted is indoorsy, which I could make very funny and not boring, but that isn’t the point of the story. The point I am trying to make is just because I like air conditioning and I prefer hotels to camping does not mean I don’t like nature.

This leads me to our very ambitious National Park Adventure. Yes, this suburban Greek family who usually works their vacation spots around the nearest Starbucks and Culver’s was going to spend a few days in the forests and hills of the Upper Peninsula. Without Wi-Fi.

I had done a lot of research and found some short hikes we could enjoy during our trip across the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. Pictured Rocks is 42 miles long with 15 miles of cliffs. My plan was to make our way through the length of the park, stopping at a number of lookout points including waterfalls, cliff overlooks, sand dunes, and lighthouses. We only had a day to get through quite a few scenic spots while still assuring we could get to Sault Ste. Marie by nightfall. A big day was planned.

I noticed on the map that each stop had a short walk to the actual site. It seemed like a perfect day of exploring. We would “hike” to the photo spot, take our requisite pictures, and move on. This would certainly add up to several miles by the end of the day.

Except that wasn’t really the “hiking” trip I had sold to my family. By the time we got to the second stop, Teddy was asking when we were going to hike. Before I could answer, he noticed the signpost reading that the next scenic stop, Miners Castle, was only 4.9 miles away.

Now let me stop right here. Five miles is no easy trek. Most people who are not regular hikers who are in their 50s and possibly have a few extra pounds on them might balk at this. But also most people who have promised a hiking adventure and are a little bit scared of their kids and also have a little pride might NOT balk at this. So there we were.

I tried to warn them.

Teddy assured me he would be fine. After all, he reminded me, he could run about three miles in half an hour. Teddy, who is 17 and plays soccer and does CrossFit. I was not worried about Teddy. I was worried about Ted, who is 54 and does not play soccer or do CrossFit. I wasn’t sure he could make 4.9 miles on a moving walkway let alone on rugged terrain in the wilderness. Let me remind you of the description on the website: The Pictured Rocks are spectacular but can be dangerous to the careless hiker. Fifteen miles of the North Country Trail are atop 50-200 foot high cliffs. Cliff tops are covered with loose sand and gravel.

The idea of 4.9 miles didn’t scare me. The idea of 9.8 miles did. No one seemed to be considering that we had to get back as well. It was already 12:30 in the afternoon. Once we started hiking it would be at least three hours until we got back. Never mind the fact we wouldn’t be able to eat until we got back because we didn’t have a backpack big enough to carry four Jimmy Johns Number 4s and four bags of Salt and Vinegar chips and certainly nothing to keep the sandwiches cold and the chips unharmed.

Side note: This was actually my thought process as I was trying to decide if we should make the trek. Now that it’s over and I know the actual conditions and time it took, it’s all I can do to not laugh/cry with shock at our complete and utter naiveté in undertaking this excursion.

But even after discussing the complications that could arise, we were all game to try. I think I can say we had passed the point of “outdoorsy” by that point.

I cannot oversell the stupidity of this decision. Almost immediately, the path sloped upward and we began climbing the 200-foot high mountain in front of us. At certain parts there were steps made from wooden planks, however, even having stairs as a crutch, climbing 200 of them was no easy feat for out-of-shape suburbanites. The ground was covered in tree roots and underbrush and you had to keep your head down the entire time to make sure you wouldn’t fall or trip on anything. This quiet focus allowed for a lot of internal musings, the result being that soon into the journey I began to lose any rationale I had started with.

Is it possible there are bears in this forest? Of course there are. How could there not be? I don’t remember what to do when you encounter a bear. Do you back away from bears and avoid eye contact or are they the ones you run toward screaming and make yourself look bigger? Why have I been spending all this time watching TikTok videos of dogs doing adorable things when I could have been watching videos of how to repel bears? Wait. I actually think they make bear repellent. Is it a spray or a horn? How could I be so concerned about my Turkey Tom with cucumbers and not even think about bear repellant?

It went on and on.

Panic had set in. Honestly, I was not even sure that in this state I would save my children had we come across a bear right then. (There was that time I saw a mouse in the kitchen when my kids were toddlers and I ran screaming for my life into the next room and jumped on a desk leaving them to fend for themselves.) I could not guarantee any maternal instincts would kick in.

Once I started thinking about the bears there was no end to my imagination. What about snakes? Of course there would be snakes in a forest filled with trees and creeks. What about coyotes? Foxes? I was used to these back in Downers Grove, but usually in a neighborhood where I was close to other homes where I could scream for help. There was no one around here. And if I DID scream, wouldn’t that just help the bears locate me faster? This insanity elevated until I truly started thinking that I might run into a bobcat or mountain lion. Now I know I tend to exaggerate, but if you have ever been in a situation where fear takes hold of you and your imagination kicks in, you will understand where I was right then. At the time, all of these thoughts seemed very reasonable to me.

Suddenly a calm came over me as I realized that old joke, “You only have to run faster than the slowest person,” and I knew I would be safe. I would miss Ted, but we would manage on our own somehow.

Sometime around this point, Teddy announced we were about a third of the way there. We had been walking for about an hour and twenty minutes. ONE-THIRD OF THE WAY THERE. This hour and twenty minutes felt more like 3 hours in dog time or mountain lion time or 50-year-old-walking-over-tree-roots time.

Ted and I looked at each other with concern. Not only concern that we would not make it for two more hours, but concern that our kids would be mad at us if we made them turn around. This may sound ridiculous, but if you have teenagers you know they can be moody and change on a dime. As parents, there are times when you will play Rock/Paper/Scissors to avoid difficult conversations, or even non-difficult conversations, or let’s face it, sometimes even ANY conversations. Oh yeah, did I mention that Ted had already “twisted his knee,” “stubbed his toe,” and broken a shoe? So we were not in good shape.

This is when Ted suggested getting a Uber for the way back. Let me remind you that we were in the Upper Peninsula in the Hiawatha National Forest without Wi-Fi. But sure, calling an Uber was going to be our solution. The closest we were going to get to an Uber was hoping another tourist family had room in their car and would drive us back and not murder us on the way.

Suddenly, we came upon two women in their mid-30s coming from the opposite direction. Based on their hiking shoes and travel backpacks they were experienced hikers. (So far, you may have been imagining a bustling path filled with periodic mile-markers and tourists exchanging pleasantries. You would be wrong. For one and a half hours we did not see one sign or one person. They were the first.)

“People!” I shouted, as if I were Tom Hanks in Castaway and had been shipwrecked for years. “We haven’t seen anyone this whole time!” They said hello and stopped to get a drink of water from their earth-friendly water filtration bottles. (It is possible that this was when I slowly and inconspicuously shifted my plastic Venti Strawberry Refresher cup behind my back.)

“How far have you guys been walking?” I asked.

“Oh, for like 35 miles,” one said with a wave of her hand, graciously trying to downplay and not embarrass me.

“We are headed to Miners Castle, do you know how much farther that is?”

“Oh yeah, you’re about halfway there,” she answered. “But there isn’t water there. Or bathrooms. And I don’t know how hard the terrain has been so far, but it’s really bad the rest of the way. Lots of mud.”

I got the distinct impression these women did not think we could make it the rest of the way. I don’t know if it was my Starbucks cup, fashion backpack, or Burberry sunglasses that gave it away, but something screamed suburban mom to her. Dare I say, something screamed “indoorsy” about us.

Whatever. We could make this trip as easily as they could with their fancy camping gear and environmentally safe water bottles.

And then one of them mentioned they had seen a bear.

Yep, we were turning back. Those women were right about us after all.

I made some quick mental calculations: By the time we reached our destination, snapped a picture and returned, we would not get back to our car until close to 7 pm if we were lucky. (Providing we couldn’t find the line of Ubers Ted was counting on.) At least we would save time not being able to go to the bathroom or drink any water. Who knows what time it would get dark in these thick woods. Who knows how many creepy animals would come out then. Who knows how many twigs Ted would stumble over. We could NOT carry Ted through the woods if he became immobile. Our only other option would be to hitchhike and probably end up in the back of a local’s pick-up truck nestled among his deer carcasses.

After they moved on, Ted and I made the executive decision we needed to turn back. We broke the news to the kids. Not surprisingly, the kids were furious we were giving up on the promised hike. Teddy stomped off yelling, “I just once wanted to do something cool! We are not a hiking family! We are the LAZY FAMILY!!”.

Yes, yes we are. We are also the ALIVE family I’d like to mention.

It took us another hour and a half to get back, and by then we were all talking again. We ate our sandwiches and drove to Miners Castle. It was gorgeous and a great spot for pictures. We saw a waterfall, a sandy beach, and the beautiful rock formation jutting out into the lake.

You know what we didn’t see?

Ubers.

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