Earl

Much of the time, a place is just that: a hometown, a favorite spot in the woods, a single building. Often times, a sense of place is found in that single building–our home–our space where we live our daily existence, find comfort, and retreat and renew. The power of home is undeniable, as it often defines and intensifies who we believe we are.

But sometimes, a place is a person–where we discover ourselves, where we send our roots, where we find our stability, comfort, and the warmth of love. Only once in a great while, if we are very fortunate, do we find such a person in our lives. My father-in-law Earl Wallace Hickerson was such a person, and I was one of the very fortunate ones to have shared some of life with him.

An astute, successful businessman, Earl never let anything slip by him. He was keenly aware of all that life had to offer, and he embraced it fully. Though he saw things in black and white, carrying facts in his head and figures in the small spiral notebook he always kept in his shirt pocket, he possessed an affirmative spirit of perseverance and grace. When faced with what might have been viewed as a disappointing or difficult result, he would always respond with, “How do you know it’s bad?” He used every life event to learn, to try again, and to teach. His family and friends, his peers, and especially, his grandchildren benefited from this powerful point of view.

His genuine interest in and adoration for his grandchildren were some of his finest qualities. He and his wife, Emma Lou, possessed an appreciation for their grandchildren– because they so fully realized the potential of their young lives. Never complacent, Earl kept completely abreast of news, sports, current events, and pop culture, and loved to discuss them at length, especially with those grandchildren. He loved being able to understand what they currently found compelling; he might not pronounce the band’s name correctly, but he knew who they were and what they were “about”. When one of his grandchildren was the first to move away from our hometown, he called her every Saturday morning to discuss her week’s events, and could recite her friends’ names as easily as she could. Aside from the adoration felt, she also learned to cherish her week’s joys and sorrows in anticipation of sharing them with her grandpa.

When his grown children were faced with their own joys and sorrows, the first thing they would do was pick up the phone to tell Earl. They knew that he would listen intently, give sage advice (only if asked), and remind them “How do you know it’s bad?”, if necessary.

When his health began to fail him, Earl unintentionally provided me with another gift. To me, he was “the one”: the one that we all turned to, laughed with, and leaned on. Never the best at showing my deepest emotions and affections, I was faced with the prospect of losing him, one of my best friends. His final illness lasted several months, and his wife and children endured the worst aspects of witnessing his discomfort. I would drive home when I could and did not have to experience the pain that they did, but every time we came to visit, I was struck by the profound beauty of knowing our time with him was limited. I felt truly graced with the gift of knowing: how important it is to show someone know how much you love them and let them know how they have impacted your life. I would stroke his head, try to make jokes, and call him sweetheart. I felt truly compelled to be in the moment, to appreciate, and to show gratitude. As sad as we were to know we were losing him, I truly felt blessed to be in his presence.

One of the last times my daughter and I were able to visit Earl was shortly before her junior prom. Even through his illness, he knew how excited she would be about her dress, so Earl insisted she bring it along to show him. As she proudly displayed it on the hanger, he said, “Well, go put it on! Make sure you put on your lipstick too, so I can get see what you’re really going to look like!” She obeyed, he admired, and once again, he created a memory for her. He insisted on having a photo taken with her (though he was a bit concerned that he wasn’t “freshly shaved”), bending forward to kiss her lightly on the nose. It was as if Earl guessed we might need an image to hold onto, and once again, he was right. In the days and months since he passed, we often look to that day and the photo to remind ourselves of the unconditional love, the enthusiastic interest, and solid comfort his place provided us.

Today is the 79th anniversary of his birth.

For me, my father-in-law Earl was: all that is home.

New York Places

The first thing you need to know is that I have dreamt of going to New York City my whole life: to the point that the city had assumed somewhat epic proportions to me. I know; it doesn’t take that long to get there (from my home in the Midwest), it is pretty accessible to many travelers, and though expensive, is not completely out-of-reach. Well, since I didn’t realize how “easy” it was, it took me far too long to get there. When I was finally able to visit last summer, it would have been easy to be disappointed by my dream destination. I am happy to say that it lived up to and exceeded all of my expectations of the people, sights, and sounds. I can’t wait to go back again some day and explore more of this amazing city.


My husband and I somewhat randomly chose to stay at the Roosevelt Hotel for practical reasons–its central location (close to Grand Central Station and the Chrysler Building) and its relatively reasonable cost. We did not know that it also has a storied history. With its close proximity (and an underground tunnel) to Grand Central, many newlywed military couples spent their honeymoons there before the husbands shipped out for duty. Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians performed Auld Lang Syne at the hotel for the New Year’s Eve radio broadcast, a tradition that lasted for many years. The lobby is grand and feels like an old school traditional hotel, like you have really traveled somewhere.



Grand Central Station’s importance is celebrated by the city’s faithful restoration of this landmark to its original classical state. You can almost hear the place speak as you view the history surrounding you. It has a powerful scale, like so many public spaces in New York, that creates a sense of awe due to the sheer size and engineering. This grand scale reinforces the building’s role as a gathering place for the larger community, while it also honors the significance and individuality of each person who enters. When you look at the original narrow wood doors with their worn brass handles, you cannot help but think about how many people have pushed through them over so many years. Since my husband and I are classic movie fans, we have watched many dramatic and melodramatic scenes played out in the lobby. They are so easy to imagine, surrounded by an immense public space with the intimacy of thousands of individual lives that have passed through it. The restoration of this incredible landmark underscores the importance the city of New York gives its important buildings.

If a person could fall in love with a building, I fell in love with Rockefeller Center, returning to it several times during our short stay. Though I already knew it was an icon, I have never seen a building with quite so much soul and spirit. The driving concept behind its design and construction emphasizes its spirit of purpose and function, and reinforces its classic beauty. The different mottoes integrated into the relief sculptures and decorative architectural details around the building create another inspirational design element. The WPA murals are incredibly beautiful, both as they stand today, and as a testament of the creative response to those tumultuous times. As a vibrant working building complex that houses NBC studios and many other institutions, it is amazing to me that it has kept its integrity all of these years.

These are just a few of the many places in New York that may give one pause, cause a chill, or even take one’s breath away. It is not too much to say that they embody the American spirit by honoring its history. Though completely in love with Rockefeller Center, I am still allowed a crush on Grand Central. I look forward to my many future relationships with other New York places.

A Visit to Beaver Camp

Those who have experienced the relaxed atmosphere at a cabin “up north” know that there is nothing quite like those perfect moments spent with family and friends those summer days and nights.

I am lucky enough to have a great friend who owns and generously shares such a place. Fondly referred to as “Beaver Camp” (due to its proximity to the home of the Bemidji State University Beavers), the cabin Deidre and her husband Mike Lubarski built is a true labor of love. Labor because: they did most of the work themselves, with the help of friends; love because: it incorporates both their combined interests as well as their wish for all who visit to have a completely fun-filled stay. Deidre would laugh loudly at such a lofty description, preferring “Party Place” to any other name.

Any visit to the cabin, no matter how short or long, whether holiday-laced or a mere midweek getaway, is a party; Deidre always sees to that. The cabin itself, its witty design enhanced by Deidre’s artistic talents, has personality that beckons and provides an inviting, cozy feeling. A saying painted on a valance in the cabin promises, “Big Fun in a Teeny Tiny Place”; it does indeed deliver, though the cabin never feels too small.

The anticipation begins long before our arrival, as my good friend (and former job share partner) Julie and I return to our on-the-way-to-the-cabin destinations. Our journey to the cabin has taken on some traditions of its own: coffee and a treat, a stop at the outlet mall, and the Royalton Dairy Queen all may find their way onto our agenda. We always forget to check when we left or our miles driven, always guessing at our arrival time, but no matter. Deidre is always there to greet us, often in costume, always with refreshments in hand. As we drive the last highway to the cabin, we hope that each sign is the one for the quaint local winery, the last landmark before our turn onto the cabin’s drive.

As we glimpse the cabin’s cheerful red shutters, the anticipation builds; what will she be wearing? Not just what she will be wearing, but what hint it will give of the visit’ activities. She may be wearing a Mrs. Cleaver 50s housewife dress, her hair pulled back and her lips painted bright red, her swimsuit (a two piece she maintains she is far too old to wear, but doesn’t care and wears it anyway), or in winter, maybe an elf costume? Let the party begin; the outfit usually gives a pretty good clue as to the weekend’s activities and of course, refreshments. With an energy level that inspires pure envy in Julie and me, Deidre provides delicious meals (which she insists on never repeating) and seasonal beverages, activities, and of course, crafts.

We have been fortunate enough to visit during each season, each with its own character. Summer at a cabin on the lake in Minnesota is fairly obvious in its benefits, but each season has something wonderful to show and tell. In every season, our anticipation is always rewarded by the great time we have at Beaver Camp. The music is loud and the laughter is louder as we re-convene at the place that reminds us: to stay still (for a moment), to watch the sky (morning and night), and most importantly, to spend time with good friends in an inspired, beautiful place.




Deidre carefully prepares her traditional morning caramel latte and poses by the cabin with daughter Nina

The Coffee Table

The Quest for the Perfect Coffee Table

My coffee table taunts me. Sitting squarely in the space created by the “L” of my chaise sofa, its defiance is strong. One might think that this inanimate object, a distressed wooden trunk, could not hold such power over a person; for me, its force is captivating. Its power may lie in the promise it holds, the challenge it provides, or the ideal it presents.

It started out innocently enough, with that perfected ideal screaming to me from the glossy pages of magazines—the coffee table: all-encompassing, all-knowing, all-telling. The perfection of the exactly placed combination of books, magazines, and objets d’arte. The stuff that speaks volumes about your intellect, personality, and taste. You have seen those stacks of pretty books, the ones that balance their aesthetics and topics in a perfect blend of studied nuance.

A stranger visiting my home for the first time may wonder, Who is she, exactly?

“Well, let me just show you,” says my coffee table. “Just glance over at me, and you can tell at once that she embraces art, history, architecture, and philosophy. She is not a one-trick pony; she has books on various topics!”

It started out naively enough, with the bright hope of youth, as I fervently believed that things were what they seemed at first glance. The very presence of the coffee table books indicated a certain type of person! You know—a perfect one. Those people, the perfect ones: they know which books will show just how intriguing, cool, and intelligent they are. My artful placement of perpendicular stacks (with an occasional bold accessory) could define me.

It started out simply enough: an art history book from college, a coffee table book of my favorite artist, and a glossy black and white number with New York’s architecture. What about books I was actually reading? Well, they didn’t belong there. They were merely paperbacks, dog-eared, and the wrong proportion to lie with the glossy, dust-jacketed, luxuriously oversized coffee table books. The absence of inappropriate material, such as the lowly, pulpy paperback, could guarantee my lofty position as the designer: the lover of form over function.

It started out properly enough; I always left space for the occasional coaster and beverage; it is, indeed, named a coffee table. Not too much space was allowed, though, for beverages must be kept contained and restricted in this contrived landscape.

As I tried to achieve and maintain my ideal, it began to come undone. Remote controls, folded laundry, and sweating drink glasses consistently found their way to the tabletop as they searched for a home. So, maybe the ideal cannot be attained on an everyday living basis; perhaps the ideal is reserved for visitors. If so, then what is the point of the perfectly appointed coffee table? If one cannot look nonchalantly perfect at the drop of an unexpected visitor’s hat, then the purpose of the quest is simply defeated. How could sweating drink glasses and my husband’s rolled-up socks live amongst the skyscrapers of New York City? I began to question, as conflicting thoughts rolled back and forth in my head, the function of that studied coffee table form.

What began as an unattainable (to me, anyway) ideal, ended as a realization. It is more important that people have knowledge, heart, and appreciation in their own heads and souls than on display.

My coffee table silently admonishes me, “Isn’t it better to actually be cool and intriguing instead of having to prove it?”

It adds, “Form follows function”, as if to remind me of what I already knew. Damn stupid ass coffee table, always has to have the last word.

As a middle-aged (there is just no getting around the terminology) empty-nester, a "displaced" worker (or in my "fortunate early retirement", as my friend likes to refer to me), and a woman trying to find her place in this world, A Sense of Place will hold my space as I try to figure out what my ultimate path will be. There will be ruminations and lamentations, but hopefully some revelations as well, as I write. As a former visual merchandiser/stylist of home merchandise (read: bedmaker, tabletopper, trash-hauler) in department and specialty stores, my focus has often been on making the ideal of home look pretty. Pretty is as pretty does. As home and place nurture us, they can also confound us as constant reflections of ourselves. Join me here, I saved you a seat.