live your life with purpose
Do you ever wonder about things? How far back can you remember actually wondering about things? Can you go back to single digits? I think I can. I remember always wondering how I was going to climb the next tree. I remember trying to figure …
There was this guy. He was in his early 40s. The classic cliche. Tall, dark and handsome. He was a hard worker. He had a wife. They were together over 20 years. Their lives were changed forever one night on their way home from …
Something compelled me to go to Dakotamart, instead of Walmart. I needed water for the studio and it’s 5 bucks more at Dakotamart. Why ya gotta be so expensive Dakotamart?
As I was walking in I saw a man walking towards me. Then I heard him. The voice I will never forget. The voice I will always recognize. The voice of a coach. The voice of a friend. I heard it, “Hey Fry Baby!” Then I recognized him. Obviously a huge smile came over my face. It was Mr. Ellwanger. I can’t call him anything else. His first name is Bill, but he will always be Mr. Ellwanger to me. You know how important people and influence people leave a mark on you and that’s just the way it is? That’s why I can’t call him anything other than Mr. Ellwanger.
Most of us had nicknames during gymnastics. My maiden name was Friman and Fry Baby became my nickname and just stuck. He can’t call me anything else. Similarly, anytime I see him around, that is how he always addresses me.
Mr. Ellwanger was one of my junior high gymnastics coaches. I didn’t like him very much at first. Obviously this is an issue for me. It was the same time as the beginning of my friendship with Mary. I didn’t like her much at first either. If you missed that one, you can read it here: https://peggielarsen.com/my-first-best-friend/
I first came in contact with Mr. Ellwanger during gymnastics. Typical coach attire he wore. You know, the stretchy down to mid thigh polyester shorts, usually light gray or tan in color. Then the topper, the polo shirt with the school name or something similar. Always green. Always Pierre colors. The finishing touch, the crew socks and tennis shoes. I believe Adidas were pretty popular back then. I just recently purchased a pair of those Adidas originals. Awesome shoes.
Something about him just ticked me off and rubbed me the wrong way. I don’t know what it was about him. He was just trying to be a good coach and I feel like an ass, because I was kind of a dick to him. I’m not sure what or when it changed, but he became one of my most favorite people. I truly treasure knowing him. I truly treasure the influence of Mr. Ellwanger.
It seems so strange to see a teacher that when you were in school seemed like they had to be so much older than you. But, in fact, we were closer in age than we were far apart in age. How weird. I pondered that on my way home. He said he is retiring after this year. He has been teaching and coaching forever. Lucky kids. As I was pondering this revelation, I came to the conclusion that he can’t be THAT much older than I am. WTF? How could that be possible? No wonder we got along so great. See, Mr. Ellwanger was the kind of person that totally befriended Mary and me. He let us go to his house when we needed to get away from things. When we were stressed with the teenage angst that so often happens to teens, he let us go and just hang out with his cat. Ellwanger was a huge Yankees fan. His cat was named Thurman, after Thuman Munson, the great catcher for the Yankees. I’m not a Yankees fan. I was a fan of his cat though. He was a cool cat and he liked to hang out with us.
He lived in a trailer house behind Jake’s. We were lucky back then. We were lucky that he cared enough to keep track of us. We were lucky that he cared enough about what we were going through. We were lucky that he cared enough to give us a place to think things through and to work out our problems. We were lucky we had Mr. Ellwanger.
In our lives, if we are lucky, we get the privilege of having the influence of great coaches and teachers. They help mold us. They help define us. They help nurture us. They help us.
As we chatted for a few minutes and I was heading in to get that damn expensive water, I noticed that Mr. Ellwanger had on the coolest glasses. They were stylish and sharp looking. I wish I would have told him.
Photo Credit: South Dakota Historical Society
I put a post up on Instagram the other day about doing something uncomfortable in order to grow. I think so many times we get caught up in our comfort zones and we end up doing the same thing over and over and over. We …
You know how you have “best” friends when you are in grade school and junior high, but then you move into the high school age and friends start meaning more. That’s when you have a BEST friend. They start becoming more important. The more we …
It’s that time of year. Fall is getting closer. There is a morning chill in the air. The kids are heading to college. I see the posts on social media and the mixed emotions of the parents. It is a huge life step for these kids. It’s a huge life step for these parents.
I don’t know if I am going to be ready next year when Tayler goes to college. I have mixed emotions. I wonder how quiet it will be around the house without her meowing all the time. That’s her thing. Her annoying little thing that she does when she wants attention. She will say meow. And then she will keep saying meow until we acknowledge. I wonder if I will miss that. I wonder if we will be okay without her. I wonder how she will do without us. She’s not a normal kid. She has actually been raised pretty much as an adult. She has been around adults and around us always. People comment all the time about how mature she is. She’s the kid, that even though it is her senior year, she still wants to hang out with us and do stuff with us. We usually go out to supper on Fridays and she usually comes along. If she doesn’t, it always, “Hey mom, will you get me a salad with a chicken breast please.”
She turns 18 on Monday. She’s the last one. I am still trying to process that. I can still remember being pregnant with her. I can still remember what a great job Dr. Minder did delivering her. Every.single.time we see him out anywhere, he ALWAYS asks about her and wants to see pictures of her. He has a special bond with her. A lot of people have a special bond with her. She is an amazing kid. She has a heart of gold and would help anyone who needed it. She is very caring.
As a parent, you always wonder if you prepared your child well enough for the real world. You wonder if they will survive the real world. They always think they know everything, but we as parents, wonder if we taught them enough. If we showed them enough. If they will be okay. If they will even survive. Did we spoil them too much? Did we make them do enough? Did we prepare them enough for life? I hope so.
As I see all the social media posts, I saw one in particular that spurred this post. The post was from a friend of mine from long ago. Her name is Hattie. She has that quiet beauty, that natural beauty. She posted how it happened in the blink of an eye. How her baby is going off to college. The overwhelming feelings and how they say it will pass—-and she said it may pass like a kidney stone. Her nest is empty. Ours is almost empty.
I can’t believe the baby will be 18 on Monday.
Has this ever happened to you? You are bouncing along in life, not quite happy with how you look. You think if only I could lose ten pounds I would be good. Or, you’re not quite sure you like how your legs look. You think …
Today I needed a me day. I needed my time. I didn’t want to deal with anyone or anything. I came home from work and sat in the chair and watched country music videos. I drank coffee with cream and thought about things. I thought …
This is the cigarette story. This story is about sisters. Fourteen months apart sisters. Peggie and Sherry. Together constantly sisters. We had the run of a three block radius when our family lived on Euclid. We later moved to Prospect Avenue and Central Avenue was in between there at some point. I’m not swear-on-my-life sure, but I think this story takes place at the Prospect house, which adds a few blocks to the radius.
We still went to a babysitter, obviously because we could not be trusted left alone. I’m not sure exactly how old we were, but it was 14 months apart. Funny, I know.
Our babysitter’s name was Marge. I wonder where she is now. The house was really tiny. It’s still there. It’s on First Street, by the Cowboy Country Store. Marge was a really nice babysitter. We had some not so nice ones. We were rambunctious kids and I can’t imagine being the responsible party for us. We were busy and mischievous. Marge was an excellent cook! Two things I remember her making were cookie sheet pizza and some kind of sandwich that had tuna and cheese and then it was wrapped in wax paper and warmed up. Deliciousness. I can still picture those. But cookie sheet pizza, seriously, so good!! It was an amazing 9×13 pan of yummy crust, pepperoni, herbs and parmesan cheese. Now that I think about it, it may have been the Chef Boyardee pizza kit. It seemed homemade…
One day while at Marge’s, Sherry and I decided we needed to go to our house and get some games to bring back and play. That wasn’t true though. Marge believed us. We were liars. Our grand plan was cigarettes. Dad smoked Pall Mall reds, no filter. Mom smoked Benson & Hedges menthol 100s. The 100 meant that you got more cigarette for the price. More bang for your buck. More chance for cancer in your lungs. The non-filter ones may have been worse. When it comes to cigarettes is there a worse? I doubt it.
We begged Marge to let us go get games. As any good babysitter would do, she said no, but then she reluctantly agreed. Since I was the older, bossier sister, I got to choose which cigs I was going to smoke. I wonder why we thought we needed both kinds. Me, being the bossy sister, more than likely wanted Sherry to suffer with the Pall Mall filterless cigs. Stupid criminals. So, I made Sherry get the Pall Malls. The kind when you light it up you get pieces of tobacco all over your tongue and lips. I think there must be an art to smoking non-filtered cigarettes. We never achieved it.
We stole our cigarettes, got the games and headed back to Marge’s. I’m sure we were a sight. Two kids, probably 9 and 10, walking up Euclid, carrying games and smoking cigarettes. The picture in my mind makes me laugh out loud. I do remember being crouched down by the State Motel trying to light those babies. It must have been a little windy because the matches kept going out, which was kind of odd, because we were expert match lighters. We started our bed on fire. That’s another story for another time.
I keep thinking and wondering what made us want to smoke in the first place. Our parents? For sure. They both smoked. I also think the influence of movies and television in young brains is a real thing, along with the influence of parents. I remember thinking it was cool. We were cool. These weren’t candy cigarettes. These were the real deal, the real McCoy. We were 9 and 10, maybe, but for sure 14 months apart. We may have thought we were cool, but we were far from cool.
Later on when I got into sports and working out, I figured out that smoking was not cool. I absolutely despised it and was loud and proud about it.
It snuck back into my life in my early 20s. It was an addiction for me no doubt. I kicked that can down the street when I was about 35. For good. I have absolutely no desire to ever relive that part of my life.
Smoking contributed to the death of my dad. Quadruple bypass at the age of 48 and death at the age of 60.
When I think back about our childhood, I have to wonder how we survived. For sure, we were meant to gather some life lessons. We were meant to learn the value of being a kid. We were meant to be shackleless, free roaming kids. We were meant to exist and live life. We were and still are on the path of life. Every experience shaped us and we definitely experienced a lot of life.
It was winter. It was January. It was cold and windy, like most winter days in South Dakota. It was 2003. I was spending hours and hours at the hospital. St. Mary’s, in Pierre, to be exact. She was 50. She was an agent. I …