My Grandma Lois died when I was just 11 years old and my entire knowledge of her at that time was that she wore glasses that made her eyes look huge, and every time she came over, she brought lemon drops. That’s a pretty slim biography, but in the way of 11 year olds, my horizons were small and I was still at the center of the universe.

When I was 35 years old I gave birth to twins and to commemorate this grand event, my mom gave me Lois’s old watch, one that she received probably when she was 18, over 100 years ago now. With the watch, she also gave me a photo of Lois wearing it on her wrist.

She’s on the right, standing with two people whom she undoubtedly knew well, but are not labeled in the photo (although I suspect that the gentleman is my Grandpa Harry’s cousin Ben). I was given the original wrist strap that came with it and the watch itself still works, an old fashioned wind-up contraption of delicate beauty.

When I received the watch, my life was in a special era of delightful chaos and I didn’t have a lot of time to reflect on the woman who wore it first. More’s the pity.

Five years ago, my mom sold the house I grew up in and moved to a small apartment. I inherited all the family history documents and photos that she had collected during her years of genealogical zeal. Down the basement it went, a heap of treasure that went unappreciated and uninvestigated. I’m amazed at my appalling lack of curiosity.

Last year I was finally roused from my stupor and began sorting through and organizing the family data and discovered real people lurking in the pages, looking out from the photos. I have original letters written to and from Lois when she was in college. The shadowy lemon-drop lady began to take on more definition.

By far my favorite story about Grandma Lois was this one that my mother wrote down: “One story that Dad told me about Mom, he told with undisguised delight, I assume because it concerned a rival for Lois’s affections, a boy called ‘Dad’ M________. He was a football player and bragged to Mom of his fitness by encouraging her to punch him in the stomach. She didn’t want to but he insisted (never dare Lois!) so she did, and knocked him out cold.

Oh Lois, I hardly knew ye…

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

The adventure continues…or at least it did three weeks ago. I’ve been on a writing hiatus due to traveling halfway across the nation and back (this sounds way better than the truth: I had plenty of time to write whilst we were on vacation but didn’t feel like it). We went to Nerstrand Big Woods State Park this time and I’ve got great news for those of you who thought that we were never going to get this right: we arrived at the park in the cool of the morning, around 8:30 a.m. ‘Twas sunny and 63 degrees – very inviting.

On our way there, a doe and two fawns crossed the road in front of us, which would have made for a great “fauna” photo, wouldn’t it? Use your imagination – that’s all the picture you’re going to get.

My photographer brother-in-law worked his magic on the two photos I sent him and produced this photo which looks for all the world like we asked someone to take a picture of us together in front of the sign. This is how I solved my technological problems from last time: asking someone else to do it. Thanks, Rich!

At 2.2 miles, this was our shortest hike yet. The play area at the beginning brought out my husband’s inner child, as you can see below.

Mere seconds after taking that photo, his inner child fell off the log, but he sprang up with alacrity, wiped the dust off his clothes and was just like new. If I hadn’t mentioned it on a public blog, we could just pretend it never happened, but this was probably the most exciting part of the hike, so I had to include it.

Big Woods Park has what they call a “hidden falls,” which certainly adds to the mystique of the place. In actuality, the path leads you right to it and you’d have to be blind not to see it, but kudos to the PR team at Big Woods for coming up with that description. I suppose back in the early days, the falls (without handy paths leading to it) truly was hidden. At any rate, we came, we saw and we conquered those falls.

Along the way, we came up with a new form of selfie (like the world really needed one, right?). Behold, the shadow selfie, or “shadow-ie!”

I’ve challenged myself to get a Flora/Fauna photo on each hike, but man, the fauna stay well hidden at these parks. I suspect it has something to do with the amount of noise we make as we hike. Nevertheless, I persist.

By including this unassuming beetle as a legitimate representation of fauna, I submit that this one small step for a beetle, one giant leap for beetle-kind.

After we’d walked for quite a while, I figured we were close to the end and it was at that time that we saw a marker which indicated the halfway point. This seems to be a habit with me. One of my favorite signs, however, was this one:

This would be a fine addition to my relationships if I could just find a way to post a sign like this as a warning on those days when I’m feeling like a sensitive plant. It really says everything that needs to be said, doesn’t it? On the other hand, perhaps it would be better for me to remember these fine words from the pen of Solomon: “A man’s wisdom gives him patience; it is to his glory to overlook an offense.” That’s definitely better for my sanctification than making people stay on the boardwalk in my emotional landscape. I’m glad we got that settled.

I saw a glint of sunlight catching on something that seemed to be in midair and when we investigated, we saw a huge spiderweb that went between two trees, perhaps 15 feet long. This photo doesn’t tell the whole story but if you extrapolate in your mind, you might be able to see the whole thing (it’s an imagination IQ test):

We landed back at the beginning about an hour after we started and have now accumulated 7.2 miles. Further up and further in!

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

Next Hike: Sakatah Lake State Park