A blog on life, love and lots of lessons learned.
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“Hold on tight, Michelle. Here we go!”
It was Fourth of July weekend and I was at the Oeltjen family reunion at my Uncle Anton's campground by the river. Sitting on the back of a jet ski, I wrapped my arms tightly around cousin Freddie's waist, nearly squeezing him to death. I was petrified of what was to come…I'd seen Freddie dump less suspecting, younger versions of myself into the murky water below.
I agreed to let him take me on a ride anyway.
Freddie’s laughter drowned in the wind that whipped at us as he tore back and forth across what would be considered a pond anywhere but in Nebraska. I giggled in excitement and trepidation. At any moment I anticipated a spill, done purposely on his part, of course.
Ten short but thrilling minutes later, Freddie pulled us safely up to the shore and asked me if I wanted to drive.
“Me?” I asked nervously.
“Yeah, you. I’ll show you the ropes, cousin.”
What the heck? I thought. I’d driven tractors, four-wheelers and four-wheel drive pick-ups; I might as well add jet ski to my list.
And just like that, I was on the front of the jet ski, Freddie behind me directing me when to punch the gas and when to throttle down. Before I knew it, I was zipping around the little lake all by myself. I had learned to drive a jet ski, thanks to my fun-loving cousin, Freddie.
That was many years ago.
Today, August 1st, 2011, marks the ten-year anniversary of Freddie’s death. He would have turned 50 this month had God let him live long enough to see a half-century. But Freddie was taken from us so unexpectedly and under such crazy circumstances that even ten years later, it is hard to believe he is gone.
In the summer of 2001, my Uncle Anton (Freddie’s father) was diagnosed with cancer. In late July, Anton was admitted to the hospital and the doctors told us his chances of survival were grim. I had recently moved to Arizona and was dreadfully expecting a call any day from my family telling me Anton had passed.
Instead, the call I got that night on August 2, 2001, sent me into a completely unexpected tailspin.
“Michelle, are you sitting down?” My father asked from the other end of the phone.
“Yes, why?” I gritted my teeth, expecting to hear news of Anton’s demise or worse, his death.
“Michelle, Fred Oeltjen has died.”
Confusion set in. Fred Oeltjen? Fred was my Grandpa and he had died nearly a decade ago. Was my dad confused himself?
“Dad, what are you talking about? Do you mean Anton?”
“No,” he responded somberly. “Freddie died. He was found this morning at his house.”
Freddie. Oh my god. My heart caught in my throat and tears pooled in my eyes. “What? But how?” He was so young, so healthy, so vibrant, so….fun.
“We really aren’t sure what happened…but it appears he slipped down his basement stairs last night and hit his head. There had been a tornado warning in St. Paul, so he may have been rushing down the stairs for shelter after he heard the siren.”
My heart sank to the bottom of my chest as I wept openly and listened to my father fill me in on the details of the funeral.
I didn’t think twice about boarding a plane to go home to pay Freddie his last respects. I hated that I didn’t know him as well as I knew many of my other cousins. Freddie was nearly fifteen years my senior and spent a lot of time doing what he loved most: farming. I did know that when it came to Oeltjen family events, Freddie was the life of the party; always cracking jokes and making silly faces when he had his picture taken.Everyone loved Freddie. Freddie loved life.
Why hadn’t I taken more time to get to know him?
I’ve never cried so much at a funeral as I did at Freddie’s. It wasn’t fair. He was 39 and had so much life left in him. After the funeral, friends and family paid tribute to Freddie by going to his favorite local bar; recounting all sorts of tales about him and listening to his favorite song, “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” over and over and over again on the jukebox. I felt I grew to know Freddie better than ever that day. It made me miss him even more.
Uncle Anton was too sick to attend his son’s own funeral. I couldn't imagine what that must have been like for him - not being able to say good-bye to your son; a prisoner of your own hospital bed instead. I wept as much that day for Uncle Anton as I did for losing Freddie.
It’s ten years later and I still miss Freddie.
Anyone that knew him does. Thankfully, Uncle Anton made a miraculous recovery from his cancer diagnosis and was released from the hospital a few weeks after the funeral. He, along with Freddie’s siblings, were able to hold a very special, private vigil, burying Freddie’s ashes in a fitting spot: near Anton’s little lake.
I’m going back to the Oeltjen reunion this year, back to pay tribute to my fun-loving cousin Freddie. I can’t wait to catch up with all my cousins and other relatives I haven’t seen in many years. Still, it won’t be the same without Freddie there, wisecracking and pulling pranks to keep us all on our toes.
I just hope someone brings a jet ski.
Editor's note: As I was writing and editing this piece over the weekend, I found out that a dear friend of mine, Shannon Foltz, lost her cousin this past week. Todd was only 41. My thoughts and prayers go out to Shannon and Todd's family.
We are never promised tomorrow, only today. Make the days you do have count and be sure to let those special people in your life know exactly how much they mean to you.
Oh, the blank page, the blank page. I start things in my journal just to avoid it. I can pretend I'm not really starting anything, I'm just doodling in my journal. Sometimes I just write the word "The" in hopes some other words will feel sorry for that one lonely word and attach themselves to it.
3. As a previous Intel employee and an aspiring writer in a women's writing group I really connected with The Wednesday Sisters. Where do you find your inspiration for your books?
I'm reluctant to use the term "inspiration." What I do is sit down in the chair every day and hope something comes. If you don't show up, nothing is ever going to happen. That having been said, I tend to write stories about friends, and I definitely draw on the spirit of my closest friends for that. So to the extent I am "inspired" I definitely owe it to them.
4. With the current state of the economy and the closing of major retailers such as Borders, what is your take on the future of traditional publishing vs e-publishing?
I applaud reading in any form folks will read, but I'm concerned as more bookselling goes online that new voices will have a hard time finding audiences. Independent booksellers are often where new voices first get noticed, and authors often grow from the comfortable cocoon of their local independents. I fear the rise of e-books will give more writers outlets to publish, but I think the end result will be even more sales of the top few book, and fewer sales of books that aren't by well-known writers.
Then there is the ease of piracy, of course, which jeopardizes the living of even the successful writers. So much of the world thinks free books are a wonderful thing, and don't stop to think that they are taking something that really belongs to someone else.
And I'm not sure the current pricing structure is sustainable, especially given the very small slice of the e-book pie the writer now gets. But I do think that will all sort itself out. Or I hope it will!
5. If you could give 2-3 pieces of advice to new writers looking to become published, what would it be?
On writing, the best advice I've ever gotten came from Tim O'Brien firsthand at the Sewanee Writer's Conference, but it was nicely set in print in the Atlantic not long after I heard it: “Above all, a well-imagined story is organized around extraordinary human behaviors and unexpected and startling events, which help illuminate the commonplace and the ordinary."
My advice on publishing: Continue to believe in yourself long after any reasonable person would have ceased to do so. There are too many wonderful stories about important and popular writers facing more rejection than you can imagine before finding their ways into print for anyone to ever let go of the possibility that might be them as well.
6. You've just released The Four Ms. Bradwells in addition to the paperback release of your first novel, The Language of Light. Tell us about your next upcoming project.
I'm working on a new novel to be published by Ballantine that is a sequel of sorts to The Wednesday Sisters, in which three of the Sister's now-grown daughters travel to the English Lake District (home of Beatrix Potter) to scatter the ashes of one of the Wednesday Sisters and to clear out the cottage where she's been writing. I'm quite enjoying writing it. I hope my readers will enjoy it too!
Freshman year.
For me, those two words illicit several strong memories. I was finally free from my boring small town farm life. I could do what I wanted, when I wanted and with whom I wanted. Free at last, free at last. Thank God almighty; I was free from the farm at last. And I was finally going off to college.
It was also the year I became a prisoner of my self-image.
In high school I never watched what I ate. In fact, I ate whatever I saw. Post-volleyball / basketball / track practice refueling snacks consisted of a Snickers, a small bag of Doritos and a 16 oz Mountain Dew. This was merely an appetizer I inhaled while making the nine-mile drive home where I would be greeted by the divine waft of my mother’s tasty roast beef and oh-so-buttery mashed potatoes, fresh farm corn and of course, more carbs in the form of dinner rolls. “Supper”, as it was called on the farm, was nothing short of what would be considered a celebratory meal these days…in my household anyway.
Growing up in a small rural town in the middle of the middle of nowhere, I was partially protected from the harsh messages the rest of the world was sending to women across the universe. The message that thin was in and if you were fat, you weren’t all that. And perhaps because I was toothpick-thin for as long as I could remember, I never gave much thought to my body appearance or weight. Often teased by my father for my string bean legs, the only time I stepped on a scale was during the yearly physical all high school athletes were required to take.
The only issue I had with my then 105 lb frame? My small breasts. Now I consider them one of my greatest features as nearly 20 years later, they are still relatively in the same place as they were back then. Small, but stationary, nonetheless. Gravity has been more kind to the less-endowed ladies such as myself.
I lifeguarded every summer in high school. Nary once did I hesitate to don a swimsuit and parade around the pristine, rectangular pool, blowing my whistle and scolding the little boys who never heeded the “Walk, Don’t Run” rule. Towards the end of the summer, I would gaze appreciatively at the deep, warm brown color my legs had turned. I loved my legs. They were slim, long and lean.
And then my freshman year of college approached and without warning, I was sporting a gut.
I remember the day it happened, just as painfully as if it were yesterday. It was a warm summer morning in early August and I was in the bathroom with my mom, getting ready for another lazy day at the pool and yelling at ornery kids. I had on my pair of favorite faded cut-off jean shorts and a bikini top and as I sat, slouching on the lip of the porcelain tub waiting for my turn at the mirror, it painfully dawned on me that I could pinch way more than an inch of my midsection. “Where in the world did that come?” I thought aloud. Unfortunately, this thought escaped my lips before I had a chance to realize my mother could hear me.
My mom whipped her head around so fast I thought it might fly off. In her oh-so-annoying-motherly-I-told-you-so voice accompanied with her signature surly scowl, she gave me my answer. “BEER! It’s all the BEER you’ve been drinking this summer!”
“Pfft”, I retorted, neither confirming nor denying her accusations but bowing my head in embarrassment nonetheless. She was right of course. It was my last summer before I would flee the nest, before friends I had known my entire life would all part our separate ways, never knowing when our paths might cross again. Our lives were in transition. We were determined to make the most of those last few months we had left together. And in a small town, that usually meant hanging out at the river or someone’s house and drinking our cares away.
So I had an extra inch or so of insulation around my midsection. It was barely enough to register on Michelle’s Richter Scale of Pure Panic. No, that wouldn’t come until half way through my first semester of college.
My college roommate and I were vigilant about working out. Mandy and I had been top athletes at our respective high schools. While we were grateful to no longer have Nazi-like coaches demoralizing us daily - shouting at us to run harder, faster, longer as we sweated blood for the opportunity to be on the starting team - we also feared the Freshman 15 our older sisters had warned us about. We targeted our oblique’s specifically because we lusted after the six pack abs like the models in the fashion magazines (see Victoria's Secret photo above) so beautifully sported.
Our workouts were great…when we did them. We were consistent at the irregularity of them, maybe going once, twice a week, if we felt so inclined. There were just so many other things to occupy our time in the big city rather than studying for what we sure would be a repeat of the successes we’d both had in high school as straight A students.
Then one day I looked into the full-length mirror hanging on the back of our door.
I was dressed in my sports bra and shorts and what I saw staring back at me caused me to shriek loud enough that I scared myself. I watched as a girl with the same dark blond curly hair and long, thin nose peered back at me suspiciously. This couldn’t be me. In the mirror was a girl who had not just a flabby tummy, but a cellulite-covered tummy. Definitely NOT the six-pack I was working* so hard for. (Years later I would proudly brag of my post-high-school acquired Pillsbury dough boy tummy (PDBT) as a 6 pack…of bud light.)
Mandy and I could have passed as sisters – we were similar in height, physique and personality. And thankfully, she developed PDBT alongside me. We wallowed in our gluttony by doing what we know knew how to do best – drinking more beer and eating more late night fast food.
The battle of the bulge had just begun for me and my belly. Over the years I would try everything short of surgery to try and whittle away at the spare tire that was my mid-section. Workouts, crunches – and when I was feeling really ambitious, diets — just didn’t seem to make any indentation in my PDBT. Only when I was tan during the summer months did it seem to create the illusion that I had a somewhat flat, if not toned, belly. And only then because whether I was at the lake, pool or beach, I sucked in my gut until I could hold my breath no longer.
If you can’t tone it, tan it. And if you can’t tan it, suck it in.
It became obvious that like it or not, I would have to make peace with my bulging belly. That to have freedom once again from my self-image imprisonment, I would have to accept I had a less-than-perfect stomach. No, I would never grace the cover of Swimsuit Illustrated nor walk the sandy beaches of Miami with a strong sense of pride for a toned midsection but I guess there could be worse things. Like not being able to drink beer or eat late night fast food. Or have the experience of nearly flunking out of freshman year because Mandy and I were too busy having fun to be bothered with going to classes.
Yes, my beer gut was well worth it. I worked very hard for it after all. It will forever be a reminder of my price of freedom – freshman year.
* According to the Michelle Oeltjen dictionary, working = imagining.
Do you ever think to yourself, “Was that my life?”
I do. A lot. Especially lately. I’m not sure if it’s because I am 35 and I figure I have lived at least half of my life, one-third if I’m lucky, or if it’s because I quit my day job to become a writer and I have WAY too much time on my hands to sit and ponder these whimsical thoughts. Hmmm....
I recently posted a picture of myself and two of my nephews on Facebook. I was 18; they were 1. Now they are 18 and I? Well, I already told you I am 35 - but sometimes? I still feel like that 18-year-old girl. But at the same time I wonder just what the hell happened to her.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my life. Most days. As is normal (and I should know because I have a BA in psychology and took an “Abnormal Psych” class so don't go getting all "Freud-ian" on me), people have their good days and their bad days. On any given day, whether I may be in a good mood or a bad mood, I often think to myself, “Did all of my life already happen?" Or is the best to come? I hope and pray the best is to come because I have too many unfulfilled dreams left. Dreams of which I could make a living out of telling you about. (And someday soon, I hope to do just that. Stay tuned.)
With the two aforementioned nephews about to graduate high school and embark on their own adventures in life, I reflect about myself at that same age. Oh, if I’d only known then what I know now. Such a cliché - but damn if it isn’t the simplest of truths.
Just what would I tell that scrawny, 18-year-old girl? Don’t forget to do your sit-ups and god-damn-it girl, follow your dreams...no matter where they may lead you. We only get one go-round at this beautiful thing called life.
My petunia bloomed today. One single, beautiful flower that to me signifies so much more. You see, normally I can't grow a damn thing. Ask my boyfriend whose tree he planted months ago is already dead, but still standing in my yard as an evil reminder of my not-so-green thumb. Ask my Aunt Judy who helped me plant several desert hardy plants a few years ago. Today? There's not even a whisper of a reminder that they were ever here. I swear I try to take care of my plants - water, sun, Miracle Gro - all to no avail. (Except the cacti - oh yes - they survive if only to attack me every now and then!)
Get This Girlfriend (GTG) is designed to impart dating (and life in general) wisdom from those who have been there (and suffered the trials and tribulations, but nonetheless survived) to those who may not yet have been down that path (including our little sisters, cousins, nieces and perhaps even some gents) as well as to those who have been through similar situations and can painfully, humorously or, just simply, relate.
Email us your stories at getthisgirlfriend@ymail.com.
Get This Girlfriend (GTG) is designed to impart dating (and life in general) wisdom from those who have been there (and suffered the trials and tribulations, but nonetheless survived) to those who may not yet have been down that path (including our little sisters, cousins, nieces and perhaps even some gents) as well as to those who have been through similar situations and can painfully, humorously or, just simply, relate.
Email us your stories at getthisgirlfriend@ymail.com.
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