I spent the weekend camping with my family at Interstate Park, the Wisconsin side, in a brand new Coleman tent that kept us dry despite rampant thunderstorms throughout the area. I was born near there in St. Croix Falls, and Interstate Park features in some of my earliest memories. It’s still a great place to go to meet up with family around the area, and a reasonable distance from where I live now.

And it was hot. And it was wet. And because it was wet, it was dirty. And the mosquitoes were out in full force. I was in a full-fledged snit on Saturday because things were just not as fun as I remembered them being.

However, by Sunday morning, I remembered why I still do, actually, like camping.

My phone died on Saturday and I had no contact with the outside world until Sunday afternoon, because we had no electricity at the camp site. At first, this bothered me, and then I just went with it. We roasted hot dogs and marshmallows over the fire at my parents’ site, generally caught up on family stories, and listened to each other. Our little girls, ages 2 and 3, had never been camping before. Or slept in a tent before. So they were very, very excited at bedtime. And without electronics, we fell back on the old standby: telling a story. Everybody added to it until our youngest was snoring and her big sister sighed and curled up with her favorite pink plush pillow to sleep.

Thunderstorms raged in the middle of the night, and the rain pattered loudly on the fly over our tent, but we were dry. At 4 a.m., our preschooler woke up with the universal cry of “Gotta pee!” The family as a whole took a trip to the pit toilets (which were clean and dry, honestly; very well kept for pit toilets) across the street from our site in the dark, giggling with flashlights and lots of “Shh!” noises. It took no time at all to get back into our tent, under covers, cuddled up, and back to sleep.

The peace of birdsong on Sunday morning, cuddled up with my kids and my husband, made me smile. The world safely lay beyond the walls of our tent. Not five minutes after we all opened our eyes, we heard my father say quietly, walking his dog to our campsite: “Hello, Amy! Good morning!”

We chorused back, “Good morning, Grandpa!”

He said the magic words: “Bacon’s ready.”

With more giggles, the girls and I left my husband to sleep a little bit more, grabbed our bag of clothes and ran across to my parents’ camper in our pajamas to eat blueberry pancakes and bacon. Because it was still wet outside, and the mosquitoes were snacking on all of us, we ate in the camper. Matt joined us shortly after we arrived, and we feasted.

I remembered, then, many, many mornings like this growing up. The smell of wood smoke and frying bacon still in the air, the giggles and cheerfulness of a family that genuinely enjoys each of its members, the sheer love that fills that space.

My general irritation with the bugs, the dirt, the allergies, and the work of setting up and taking down a camp site faded when my three-year-old said, earnestly, “I go camp again. I like to sleep in the tent!”

Yeah, we’ll probably do this again. And again. Despite the dirt.

We wrapped up our trip with a lunch at one of my favorite childhood spots: The Drive-In in Taylors Falls. They make their own root beer, and a car hop will come right to your car, take your order, and bring it right back to you. I remember going there for root beer floats when I was very small, and later, as a teen, going back when I had my drivers’ license just for the experience of it.

The food–classic burgers and fries for Matt and I, chicken strips and fries for the girls–was fresh and homey and delicious, and the service was great for a Sunday lunch crowd. It nicely finished our trip before we headed back home.

At certain points in our lives, we meet people who are meant to be significant to us. Hazel Dicken-Garcia was one of these people for me.

It’s a little known fact that I never intended to go to the University of Minnesota. I was born in Wisconsin, and I was raised with the border rivalry that goes along with having half my large extended family living across the border in Minnesota. Aunts, uncles, and cousins on both sides of my family proudly touted their status as alumni of University of Wisconsin, and I learned the lyrics to “On Wisconsin” practically before I could walk. When I was looking at doctoral programs, I didn’t seriously consider going anywhere else to begin with. But when I took the GRE, I was given the opportunity to send my scores to three places for free. On a whim, I chose the University of Minnesota as my third place, behind UW-Madison and UW-Milwaukee.

To be clear, I hadn’t even looked at the programs the U of M offered at this point.

I almost didn’t send in an application.

But on the advice of my husband, who is a big fan of not relying on any one path too much, I went ahead and applied to all three schools, and I specifically applied to Communication Arts at UW-Madison, and the School of Journalism and Mass Communication at the U of M. I wasn’t yet sure what direction my doctoral research would take me. I thoroughly enjoyed and engaged with the cultural studies theory I was learning under Karen Riggs and Mia Consalvo at UW-Milwaukee, and they encouraged me to apply to Comm Arts at Madison to continue that work. Given its proximity to Milwaukee, it was easy for me to visit Madison, meet with faculty, attend a class, and find an apartment. We were ready to sign a lease when I got a phone call from someone introducing herself as Professor Hazel Dicken-Garcia.

We spoke at length about the program at the SJMC and the kinds of things I could study there. She asked me about the research paper I’d submitted as my writing sample (“The Printing Press in London”) and whether I’d considered an appropriate conference venue for it. We had an interesting and engaging discussion, and before the phone call ended, I had agreed to at least visit the University of Minnesota before making a final decision.

So I made the arrangements to leave. I drove up from Milwaukee to the Twin Cities, picking up my mother from Chippewa Falls on the way, and submitted to a tour of campus, discussions with faculty, and exploration of the program.

I met Hazel in person, and within 15 minutes, I knew she was one of my significant people.

We talked more about the printing press paper, the kinds of research I had done to that point, my career as a reporter. We talked about my deep interest in history and how it might work into my budding interest in cultural studies and new media. And she encouraged me to submit my work, identifying several journals and conferences to which it might fit. She especially recommended the American Journalism Historians Association conference. By the end of our meeting, I knew I was meant to go to the Twin Cities and work with Hazel.

I called my husband from my mother’s home on my way back. As I was intending to pick up a lease for the Madison apartment we’d decided upon on my way back, too, he was understandably a bit blindsided by the decision. But one thing about my significant other? He’s always supported my career decisions. Always. And this time was no different.

I spent the night at my mother’s, and went to visit my ailing grandmother, Elsie, the next morning. I made her breakfast, and we visited a long while. She sort of rolled her eyes at the thought of me going to the University of Minnesota, but she appreciated that I’d be closer to my family. It was the last visit I shared with her. She passed away days later.

That grief is tied up with all those decisions that spring–the move to Minnesota, the research direction I took into the history of farm women–but it also ties into how I feel at Hazel’s passing. Hazel encouraged me. She supported my research. She offered critical suggestions and fostered my development as a scholar in ways I could never have imagined at the time I met her–when I knew she was a significant person.

I was one of her last dissertation advisees. The summer that I was writing up my research findings for my dissertation, I also started work on a quilt for Hazel.

Quilting is a tradition in my family. Elsie made us all quilts when we were small, and my mother and aunts picked up the habit, too. My mother helped me pick out the pattern for the quilt I wanted to make for Hazel as a thank you.

We chose an Underground Railroad quilt.

Much of Hazel’s work focuses on Civil War-era history, and the legend of the underground railroad quilt tied in quite nicely. It’s predicated on the notion that supportive families on the Underground Railroad used specific quilt patterns in specific ways to point slaves on their way to freedom. They’d hang a quilt out on the line, freshly washed, unobtrusive and innocuous, but the quilt pattern itself had meaning.

I bought the pattern book and worked my way through making each of the different samples. It drove me absolutely bonkers. It was, in fact, the last quilt I made. I made the patterns in flannels, so they were soft, and my mother quilted it with thick batting. The finished quilt was soft, warm, and perfect for wrapping around someone who was already struggling with her health.

When I gave it to Hazel, she cried. She drew it up around her shoulders and cuddled into it, and she told me she loved it.

Inside that quilt, in every stitch, I tried to show how I loved and appreciated her as a mentor, a friend, and a significant person in my life.

I would not be the scholar, or the person, I am today without her influence.

Underground Railroad quilts

My mentor and friend, Hazel Dicken-Garcia, died last night after a long health struggle.

I haven’t had the words today to fully articulate this loss. I miss her in the way I miss my grandmother; in many ways, Hazel filled that role in my life since Elsie’s passing in 2001. I haven’t been to see her in a few years, as life got in the way of my ability to just jump and go to the Cities. And while I knew she was unwell, the news itself was a bit of a shock.

I will need to spend some time thinking about what I want to say here. She was an amazing teacher, friend, mentor. She was the sort of person who truly invested in her students. Years after I finished my work under her tutelage, I knew I could email or call for advice, a sounding board, or simple reassurance.

And as is the case with all good teachers, her impact resonates not only through my work, but through the work of countless others who remember her teachings and honor her legacy.

I honored her today by doing my job. I submitted a paper today. And a research grant. And I taught a class. I carry on in her name.

But the hole in my heart cannot be filled by another. Goodbye, Hazel.

I watched fifty mass media majors cross the stage at graduation this morning, and I felt proud and happy. This is the first class to graduate substantially under my leadership as chair, and it gave me a bit of a jolt to see my name on the program above theirs.

It made me think about beginnings, and endings, and mentorship.

This ceremony was also the last to be officially attended by my good friend and colleague, Mavis Richardson. I left her with a selfie, a hug, and a promise to go and get coffee during her retirement. An ending? A beginning?

It made me think about the importance of ceremony to mark such things.

I advise all of my students to take part in the graduation ceremonies to which they’re entitled. They’ve earned the right. But more than that, the ceremony marks the transition. It marks the end of one thing, and the beginning of another. It gives one time to reflect, a day to remember, and a specific moment to point to and say, “I did that. I achieved that. What’s next?”

It made me think about my own transitions.

Life has been challenging the last few years. I took over leadership of the department. I became a late-in-life parent to two tiny girls. I broke my leg. But I also achieved some things. I published a book and another book chapter. I achieved promotion to Professor. I was awarded a sabbatical. And this coming sabbatical year marks a transition for me, too. To what will I aspire as my career moves forward? What’s next? How can I help these little girls be their very best selves as they grow? What’s best?

And so, we commence. Through this transition, to the next, with ceremony, closure, and eyes on the horizon.

Well, winter finally got physical in its quest to get me to hate it: I broke my leg falling through a snow drift in January.

Oh, winter. Where did we go wrong?

Some of my favorite times as a child involved dressing in as many clothes as I could and heading out into snow drifts taller than me, tunneling through them, building snow people, and throwing snow balls at my sister and brother and cousins. We’d stay out until we were soaking wet and ice cold, then go into the house for hot chocolate with mini marshmallows, our socks steaming in the heat.

Snow meant the possibility of no school, and therefore, more playtime. Snow meant giggling and, as we got older, excuses to be outside to “shovel” with the adults. It meant things could be cosy, and isolated, with just my favorite people tucked up with me in our house. It might also mean another reading of The Long Winter, a reminder that we were safe and warm and had plenty to eat.

As I grew older, and learned to drive, I grew less fond of snow and ice. Adults, I discovered, can’t always use the snow as an excused to stay home and play. Adults have to learn how to drive on icy roads and keep themselves and their passengers safe. More than once, I drove home from a meeting in the dark on ice-covered roads with almost-bald tires, praying fervently under my breath (and sometimes shouting) to keep my car on the road. As a reporter, I often ended up out in weather that I didn’t want to be in, just  to keep other people posted on what was actually happening.

One of my favorite post-reporter moments was watching the news in Milwaukee during a major snow event, laughing at the shivering reporter doing a live stand-up in the snow storm at a location across the street from my downtown apartment building. I toasted the reporter, snuggled down under an afghan, and sipped my hot chocolate.

One of my joys in being a parent of a toddler and a preschooler is reclaiming playtime in the snow. And on that day in January, we were all bundled up outside. I taught them how to make snow angels, and we were moving on to snow people when the snow drift claimed my leg. Literally. I planted my right foot for stability and tried to move. My knee went the other direction when the snow wouldn’t give my foot up.

Ouch.

So now, I can’t drive at all. Silver lining, maybe? I have a fractured right tibia in an oddly placed spot and position.

Snow, I forgive you. Next winter, we’ll build snow people with the preschoolers.

I’m back in my office today, getting ready for spring classes to start on Monday. I’ve already  managed to combat the paper monsters on top of and under my desk, and they’re currently under my control. I hope to keep them leashed this term.

Over the break, I learned several things:

1. I make excellent gingerbread for gingerbread houses.
2. There can, indeed, be too much chocolate.
3. Two-year-olds will do exactly what you tell them NOT to do. (A lesson learned once, but it needed repeating, apparently.)
4. The people I love know me very well.
5. New coffeemakers are awesome presents. See number 4.
6. Murphy’s Law is a THING.
7. Being housebound in subzero temps for longer than two days is bad for my mental health.
8. Julie Andrews starred in Mary Poppins before she starred in The Sound of Music, but both movies still appeal to all audiences, including picky toddlers.
9. Supercalifragilisticexpiallidocious is STILL an awesome word to say when you don’t know what else to say.
10. My sabbatical has been approved for next year, AND I’ve been shortlisted for the Fulbright, now moving into the third round of competition.

Overall, I’m glad to be back at my desk. I have a pile of writing to complete this month, and my Fulbright interview on the 17th, so my short-term goals are to get cracking on preparation.

One comment from a Russian IP address asked about my writing process. In case it’s a real query and not just Russian spam, I’ll answer: Sit at keyboard. Write anything that comes to mind until it makes sense. Go back and cut out the crap. Repeat.

Amy

I received word yesterday that my application for a Fulbright Distinguished Chair of the Humanities position at the University of Manchester, England, has been recommended for funding!

The next step is for the folks in the U.K. to determine whether they have enough funding to provide grants to all applicants, and it gets more selective from there. If funded, I’ll be in England next spring, teaching in the American Studies department and interviewing Manchester residents about their media use.

The first round, which I passed, is a thorough peer review of my application and proposal for next year. I’m grateful my peers think my project is worthy of funding.

Now, on to the next!

Amy