Tag Archives: wilmette

29 going on 9

7 Aug

“Whoever stays up the longest, wins!” shouts Nate over his shoulder as he jumps into the long “ski” down the permanent snow fields that cover the back basins of Kneeknocker Pass.

Giggling, I watch him slide all the way down, gracefully making turns as though his boots were a pair of short skis strapped to his feet.

I wait for him to come to a complete stop, just short of a large boulder field, before squealing and angling my own booted feet down the slope. I stay upright for about three seconds before crashing to the ground and sliding the rest of the way down the hill, the palms of my hands on fire from cold and friction as I grasp at the snow frantically try to slow my speeding body down.

As I reach the bottom of the pitch, I come to a stop, my stomach aching from the peals of laughter that came bursting out of me as I hurled myself down the snow as though I were on a steep, wet water slide.

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It’s funny.

As a kid, I couldn’t wait to grow up; to run my own household and to dictate my own daily adventures. I spent inordinate amounts of time playing imaginary games about saving the day from all the bad guys that plagued Wilmette and wrangling wild mustangs out on the ranch. I always imagined that the freedoms of adulthood would be far better than being a kid constrained by household rules and responsibilities.

Little did I know that as an adult some of my most memorable experiences would revolve around the carefree feeling of games in my own outdoor playground and quenching a thirst of curiosity that is prevalent in a naive child exploring the hidden secrets of their front yard.

As I have aged, I have come to the realization that some of the things that are viewed as childish are sometimes the very things that help me cope with the pressures of adulthood; the ugly side of responsibility.

Sometimes you can’t help but be a kid.

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petrichor.

23 Jun

A soft breeze blows gently.

It caresses my hot skin as though it were silk, whispering through the quaking Aspens that stand sentinel off of my front porch. My skin erupts in a cascade of goose bumps as the cool air rushes to catch up with the heady barbecue smoke drifting from the grill next door.

Rain is coming.

Perhaps it will bring with it booming claps of thunder and bright shards of lightning, baring off of their clouds as though running from the rain itself.

Perhaps it will blow south to Breckenridge, or perhaps north to Steamboat, Lake Dillon and our Rocky Mountains doing their best to redirect the wind, the rain, the lighning, the thunder, and the clouds that are shrouding Red and Buffalo in a fog of a brooding Aegean blue.

I recently learned that the smell of the rain hitting the dry ground has a name, an identity of its own.

Petrichor.

Somehow, the word, Petrichor, takes away from the scent that punctuates so much of the summers of my childhood in the Midwest.

Summer has a mythical quality that, at least in my case, stems from childhood.

The excitement of long days on beach, the sand, dusty and hot, between my toes and the chilling waters of Lake Michigan making my feet, my hands, and my spine ache with cold.

The shrieks and cheers of summer nights spent playing “Kick the Can” with neighborhood kids of all ages, our own little block party situated in the midst of our neighbors’ bushes and trees, all within 50 steps of the can, itself situated in the middle of the street.

The chorus of halyards as the lines sing their song against the mast; the gentle rocking of the waves as the harbor softly recites a lullaby and lulls you off to sleep.

Ice cream, Chocolate Chocolate Chip, dripping down your cone, down your hand and up your arm; a secret salty, sweet smack as you discreetly lick the drip clean from your appendage.

Petrichor.

Though the word is bit scientific for me, the smell, the identity of the rain?

It means everything.

mountain time…

10 Sep

It’s been a crazy few weeks up in the high country. Between attending weddings, working weddings, managing a restaurant, managing a hotel, “recruiting” in the Tetons (ok…you caught me…adventuring in the Tetons 🙂 ), moving to a new ‘hood and dodging rainy days to bask in the sunshine of beautiful days, I feel like I blinked and it was September 10th.

It seems that the older I get, the faster time flies.

It’s like I am starring in my own movie and someone hit fast forward.

Anyway, albeit a bit busier than I’d like to admit, it’s been a good few weeks.

Here, catch a glimpse.

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Lenawee Trail, Montezuma, CO

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Lenawee Trail, Montezuma, CO

 

 

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Lenawee Trail, Montezuma, CO

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Lenawee Trail, Montezuma, CO

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Celebrating Mr. and Mrs. Brockhoff, Ivanhoe Country Club

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Celebrating Mr. and Mrs. Brockhoff, Ivanhoe Country Club

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The Tetons from Leeks Pizza, Teton National Park

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Old Faithful, Yellowstone National Park

 

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Grand Prismatic Spring, Yellowstone National Park

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The Tetons from Jackson Lake Lodge, Teton National Park

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Gillson Dog Beach, Wilmette, IL

snow

Snow on Red Mountain, September 10, 2014

on the cusp.

15 Aug
The wind blows through my sun-drenched hair, tickling my scalp and sending chills spidering down my spine. 
 
Unlike the hot summer wind, full of water and the chirps of birds, this wind is crisp, cool. Full of the heady scents of grass and dirt and leaves. 
 
I shiver, thankful for the oversized Slapshot sweatshirt and black leggings that have become my after work, before bed, uniform as of late. 
 
The wind blows again, sending the freshly fallen leaves swirling around me as though I was stuck in a snow globe, and I am transported back in time. 
 
Back to high school as I dash down the turf, skirt flying and sticks clashing, at a field hockey game against Lake Forest, our biggest rival.
 
Cool evening walks to The Noodle, under a canopy of leaves tinged with the briefest hint of yellow.
 
Reclined and wrapped up in a blanket watching the city lights twinkle and sway to the motion of the boat as the last fireworks of the season thunder and sparkle off of Navy Pier.
 
Bobbing for apples, carving pumpkins and drinking spiced rum and hot apple cider at “Fall fest” with the people that shaped my adult life.
 
And Saturday morning marathon training runs on the lake with the strongest girl I’ve ever known, the dreamsicle orange sunrise illuminating the skyscrapers so they mimic the yellows and ruby reds of the oak leaves.
  
And for a second I’m there.
 
Home. 
 
Chicago.
 
Fall. 
 
fall
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