Anne Heinrich

August 4, 2010

Wed, 4 Aug 2010 18:44:11 -0500

This will be my last Small Talk column. After much prayer and careful consideration, Bret and I have decided that the time has come for our family to make a major move. As excited as we are about the opportunities that are ahead of us, it’s not without heavy hearts that we leave this community. Life here has been good and very full, and we’ll always look back on our time here as blessed.
During the six years we’ve called Dwight home, so many life-changing events have occurred for us. As I sit down to list them all, I’m overwhelmed and humbled, and ever-aware that we won’t likely be able to recreate our time here somewhere else.
Living here, in the town where my husband was raised, has given me a better understanding and appreciation of the person he is. He would agree that being here as an adult has been good for him, and it’s given him the chance to give something back to the place that has given him such a good foundation. During his time here, Bret was able to serve on the school board and to coach football. He also was finally ordained as a practicing minister and had the privilege of performing two beautiful wedding ceremonies. He will tell you the best part was being here for the last days of his mother’s life and getting to watch football with his dad and son every Sunday afternoon.
With the help of some sneaky friends and family, I was able to throw my husband a surprise 40th birthday party that blew him away. Our house was packed with family and friends. Everybody had such a good time, laughing and celebrating. Nobody wanted to leave that night, and we didn’t want them to.
God was watching out for me when I stumbled into a Bible study the first few weeks we were here. Thanks to some amazing and faithful women who know a whole lot more than I do, I’ve learned more about the Bible, myself and Christ than I could have imagined. That’s the funny thing about spiritual growth. Once you start on that kind of journey, you realize how long the trip is going to be, but you don’t mind, especially if you are discovering alongside dear friends.
My time here in Dwight has been very productive with writing. I’ve had essays published in two books. I’ve gone to the book stores with my family and just looked at the books right there on the shelves to make sure it was real! For one of the books, I was able to share the fun with a courageous young woman, Taylor Gettinger, who was also published. Her essay about living with a brain tumor is a moving piece. We had a book-signing event to raise money for Relay for Life at the library. That morning, as I saw people lined up all the way out of the library to buy books and have them signed, I was overwhelmed. I wrote my first novel while living in this town, and have a healthy start on two others. If these babies ever make it to print (fingers crossed), you can bet I’ll be calling my friends in Dwight to share the good news.
Having the opportunity to write this column has proven such a blessing to me. I’m not sure what I hoped to accomplish when we started, but the experience has far surpassed anything I could have imagined. Mark and Mary Boma have been so supportive, and generous, making Small Talk donations each month to various causes around town. The best part has been the connecting with people. So many have stopped me to talk about the latest column and share their own experiences. Almost every time I’m in the grocery store, or at an event, people I don’t know will introduce themselves and we’ll become immersed in a meaningful conversation about marriage, family, parenting, about just being human. It’s as if the column has melted away barriers and the need for talking about the weather. We can have meaningful exchanges right away. Small Talk has confirmed for me something I’ve believed all along: people are basically good, and we all crave connection.
We have just a few weeks left. I’m going to miss hearing the football games from my front porch on Friday nights. I’m going to miss listening to the train whistle stop each night as it drops off and picks up travelers. I’m going to miss the way people wave at each other here.
This is a good place, a very good place.

Anne Shaw Heinrich is a freelance writer living in Dwight. Every time Small Talk is published, The Paper donates $100 to an area non-profit organization or effort. Proceeds from this month’s Small Talk will benefit Dwight Grade School’s School Supply Fund. To read past Small Talk columns, visit The Paper’s website at: www.thepaper1901.com. For more information about Heinrich and her writing, visit:
www.anneshawheinrich.com.

July 14, 2010 SOMETIMES IT’S SIMPLE

Wed, 14 Jul 2010 22:04:53 -0500

Every once in a while, I get in the mood to simplify. I start surveying all of the stuff that we have accumulated over the years and the urge to pitch comes over me like a tidal wave. I feel weighted down by the stuff, like it’s holding me back, demanding to be dusted, sorted, moved from one pile to the other.
Most of our belongings aren’t worth much to anybody else. I’ve attended enough estate sales to know that one day, all of my precious belongings will very likely be picked over by strangers who won’t know who the heck I was, or how I came to own one knick-knack or the other. I’ve got hopes that my children will want my wedding rings, and some other family jewelry, and that they’ll take an interest in family photos, maybe a few books and handmade quilts, maybe some artwork or old letters. But the rest of it really means nothing. The old saying, “You can’t take it with you,” really does ring true.
The only things any of us really have in this world that have lasting value are the intangibles that must be earned and diligently maintained: our honor, our integrity, our sense of common decency and drive to do the right thing, even when we’re dying to stray. These are the only things you have to hold all the way to the grave and beyond.
I’ve long believed that sometimes a person’s greatest strength can also serve as his or her greatest weakness. One of my own long-standing character traits is that I’m almost always willing to give people the benefit of the doubt. I’m a peacemaker, someone who wants everyone to just get along. A former friend once told me that this was a huge problem, something that needed to be worked on because it was unrealistic. I hate to admit this, but she was right.
On the surface, looking at this world through rose-tinted glass can be quite a nice way to view life. It sounds like a pretty swell problem to have. I suspect that a fair number of very deserving people have been on the receiving end of this problem of mine, and I’m glad for it. But here’s the problem: not everyone has deserved my trust, and in the end, I’ve paid the price for not being willing to acknowledge a serious flaw, even when it was blaring like a trumpet blast in my ear.
For the longest time, I’ve been willing to dwell in the gray area, especially when it comes to interacting with others. I guess I’ve done this because it’s easier, because I hope others will look upon me with less exacting eyes and hearts and because the truth isn’t always attractive. But gray area can be dangerous territory, especially when we’re talking about matters of character. People who lie once will lie twice. People who demonstrate reckless and volatile behavior once will do it again and again and again. People who navigate with a self-serving compass will always take care of themselves first. And if you stay even in the perimeter of these people for too long, something ugly will crop up. It’s only a matter of time.
In life that’s really worth living, we’ve got to pick a team. It’s really simple. You either have character, or you don’t. You either care about your reputation and how you handle yourself, or you don’t. You either take responsibility for the messes you’ve made, or you don’t. You either have class, or you don’t. There’s no gray area here. We can’t control how others behave, but we can control our own response, and we can distance ourselves from situations that scream disaster. A train wreck is indeed a train wreck.
What troubles me most about this newfound, but necessary, life lesson is that it’s taken away a bit of my own good stuff, my own joy. The real me still wants to like everyone and to be liked by everyone, but I know it’s just not possible. We’ve got to pick a team. We’ve got to take out the trash sometimes, clean house, remove the stuff that’s in our way.
I’m still willing to grant that people are entitled to have a bad day once in a while. God knows I’ve had plenty. We all flub up now and then. We miss a cue, or get our wires crossed. I’m famous for this. I’m still willing to blame an ill-fitting bra or a toothache, bad luck, or even an unhappy childhood for a lot of mistakes, but nothing adequately explains lack of integrity or consistently reckless behavior.
Every once in awhile, I get in the mood to simplify.
Anne Shaw Heinrich is a freelance writer living in Dwight. Every time Small Talk is published, The Paper donates $100 to an area non-profit organization or effort. Proceeds from this month’s Small Talk will benefit the Dwight Tornado Relief Fund. To read past Small Talk columns, visit The Paper’s website at: www.thepaper1901.com. For more information about Heinrich and her writing, visit:
www.anneshawheinrich.com.

June 9, 2010 The Meaning of “NO”.

Wed, 9 Jun 2010 21:15:18 -0500

We live in a broken world.
Our children must face dilemmas that we never even imagined. Television programs celebrate and glorify being mean and vindictive. In the name of reality television, we’re given a voyeuristic peek into the dysfunctional home lives of people who have sold their integrity and their privacy to the highest bidder.
Even prime time programs cover topics that no young person should have on radar, at least not in a responsible world. Programs that are marginally family friendly are punctuated with commercials selling what should be adults-only concerns: convenient birth control and erectile dysfunction. As convenient as the Internet can be, it’s also ushered dangerous predators right into our homes and introduced them to our children as if they’re old family friends. We have video games that allow the player to pretend they are stealing a car and encourage kids to simulate physical activity instead of really getting out in the fresh air and moving for real.
Children should have no concept of deviant sex or drug abuse or alcohol, but unfortunately, they do. And I’ll tell you exactly why they do.
The adults have allowed it. We’ve been asleep at the wheel. We’ve given the benefit of our doubt to people who don’t deserve it. Our kids have paid and will continue to pay a hefty, life-draining price until we say enough is enough. I know I can’t protect my children from the harsh realities of the world forever, but you can bet I will remain on call until they are out on their own and able to process the complexities of this world with exacting, discerning eyes.
Especially in the summer time, when the kids are home and constantly requesting play dates and more personal freedoms, I’m guilty of saying yes because I’m human. If my child is occupied, there’s more time for me. Mothering and fathering takes a toll some days. It requires an ongoing emotional and physical push and pull that will test even the strongest marriages and the most amicable divorces. But we can’t let up because we’re tired. When I was a child, we could be gone from the home for long periods of time, trailing back in only for supper or when it got dark. We could ride our bikes all over town, causing our parents not a moment of panic or concern. But that was a different time. We can’t allow children to do that any more.
I’ve encountered too many children who are genuinely on their own for hours at a time. Their parents don’t seem to know or care where they are or with whom they keep company. We can’t do this anymore. It’s dangerous. It’s irresponsible. We can’t let cell phones or the fact that we live in a small town give a false sense of security.
Today’s parents need to take back their roles as the protector and keeper of their children, at all costs. We need to be able to say “no” and mean it. Our job description does not include serving as friend to our kids. We need to know what they read on the Internet, what they are watching on television, who their friends are and what kind of home lives their friends have. We need to take the time to meet the other parents and make wise, sometimes uncomfortable judgment calls to keep our children safe. We must monitor all social media outlets our kids use and determine whether or not they are mature enough to engage with their virtual friends in a safe, responsible way.
In short, we need to be perfectly comfortable with saying “because I said so.” It IS our business.
Protecting our children is most certainly our business. Nobody else is going to do it.

Anne Shaw Heinrich is a freelance writer living in Dwight. Every time Small Talk is published, The Paper donates $100 to an area non-profit organization or effort. Proceeds from this month’s Small Talk will benefit Dwight June 5 Tornado Victims. To read past Small Talk columns, visit The Paper’s website at: www.thepaper1901.com. For more information about Heinrich and her writing, visit: www.anneshawheinrich.com.

May 12, 2010 “CLASS” Reunion

Wed, 12 May 2010 19:15:01 -0500

A few weeks ago, I had the chance to go back to my Alma Mater, Eureka College, for the 100th anniversary of my sorority, Delta Delta Pi.
As the time for the event approached, I juggled feelings of excitement and dread. I’ve always loved the opportunity to go back to that tiny campus where I learned so much about myself and about what mattered to me. I used to scoot around the campus in my noisy, sputtering, green VW bug like I owned the place, but this time, I was turning toward campus in a silver mini-van-- a new, and definitely settled set of wheels. My once naturally- blond hair needs all kinds of chemical encouragement, my forehead could use some botox and frankly, my body isn’t what it used to be. During the last twenty years, I’ve morphed into one of those older alumni who used to come poking around the campus for no good reason.
What worried me most about running into some of my old sorority buddies sounds vain, but I can’t imagine that I was the only one thinking it. Would my old friends still recognize me? Would they understand that the homecoming queen had, after all, given birth to three children? Would I need to explain that sometimes I’ve failed to put sunscreen on my face and that every once in awhile, I go to bed with my makeup on, which might explain some of the creases that have appeared on my face? Would they recognize me on the inside? Would the twenty years that had passed somehow have driven a wedge between me and my old roomies? Would we still have anything to discuss or laugh about, or would we be staring at one another across a buffet lunch with nothing to say?
Silly me. We hugged and greeted one another as if no time had passed at all, as if far too much time had passed, as if time had indeed been suspended. The afternoon flew by. Nobody really wanted to go home. We lingered at the house, looking at composite photos of our younger selves, and wondering out loud whatever happened to some of us. The truth is, we all looked pretty darn amazing. And we’ve all grown up into real women. Many of us have children who are practically grown themselves. We’re working inside and outside our homes with some very defined ideas of right and wrong. We’re smarter and more confident. We’re better listeners, and our hearts have softened right along with our midriffs.
We used to do crazy things as college girls. We stayed up half the night on most nights. We didn’t even start getting ready for an evening until well after nine or ten o’clock. One night I remember eight or nine of us decided to give ourselves home perms. We started this project well after midnight and awoke the next morning with frizzy heads and smelling like a beauty parlor. We’d go on midnight runs for pizza, and drag ourselves across campus for class. We traipsed across graveyards with flashlights and did just about everything with the spirit of fun. We were the first to arrive at the parties, and often the last to leave. Many of us were in each other’s weddings. We were wise enough to cry upon graduation, knowing that we would scatter, that things would never, ever be the same for all of us as right then, right there in that place again.
Until twenty or so years later, at an afternoon luncheon, we were suspended in time, and I think many of us were reminded how special our friendships had been. We left promising to stay in touch, and hoping that we would.
We left realizing how much had changed, and how much had really stayed the same.
Anne Shaw Heinrich is a freelance writer living in Dwight. Each time Small Talk is published, The Paper donates $100 to an area organization or non-profit effort. Proceeds from this month’s Small Talk will benefit the Dwight Senior Center.

April 7, 2010 Mother & Son Connection

Wed, 7 Apr 2010 18:31:57 -0500

Lately I’ve had the good fortune to chat with quite a few other women with whom I share a distinct honor and challenge: being the mother of a son. More than anything, the experience has proven a blessing punctuated with moments of just about every emotion one can muster.
Just when I thought I could never love a man more than my father or my husband, along came this little boy. He’s my son, and I wouldn’t trade him for the world. (Most days, at least.) On days when I’m trying to help him find something he’s lost, or convincing him that yes, he certainly does need a haircut, or shaking my head at his idea of a clean room, it seems like we’ll never reach the finish line. It seems like I’m cheering and cajoling and wringing my hands at a challenge that’s too big for me to handle.
It must be God’s design that the exasperating moments are outnumbered by my boy’s smiles, his funny sense of humor, his delicious hugs, his fierce loyalty. This kid has made me laugh so hard I can’t breathe. I don’t think I ever really chuckled to myself until this particular boy entered my world. I never stopped to find out how household items were put together until my Harry came along. He could take apart just about anything with his chubby, dirty little hands almost before he could talk. I’ve learned a lot about dinosaurs, football and rocks, and my appreciation for duct tape, string and pocketknives has definitely been awakened.
During the past several months, he’s become taller than I am. His change in stature has shifted the dynamics of our relationship. It’s a slight shift, but it’s there. I’m still the Mama, the Boss, his Alpha and Omega, but it is kind of weird to be looking up at this man child as I order him to get started on his homework. He’s evolving into a man right before my eyes, and as I consider this, I’m ready to put the brakes on. It’s times like these when it feels like his maturation might be happening too quickly. I can’t stop time, but I hope I there’s enough time left to make my imprint while he’s still in my grasp.
Already, I’m starting to get a vision of the kind of man he’s going to be. I’m pretty confident that the dreams I have for my son aren’t altogether different from most mothers of sons. My dreams for my son are at once simple and ambitious.
I want my son to do whatever he can to stay alive. I want him to use his brain and his heart and his body in the right combinations. If I could just inject him with some magic potion that would give him adult-strength wisdom to get him through his youth in one piece, I’d do it.
I want him to become a person of honor, a man who holds fast to his principles.
I want my son to be trustworthy and to be someone who treats other people with compassion.
It is my hope that he will get as much education as he can and that he finds a profession that allows him to support himself and makes him happy to be alive.
I want my son to be the kind of man who cries when it’s warranted, laughs at what’s funny and sees the world with hopeful, happy eyes.
I pray that my son will keep God in his life, and that when my husband and I are gone, he’ll know where to turn when he’s struggling. I want my son to be a praying man.
I suspect that my son will have several girlfriends before he settles down. I want him to be the kind of man who treats women with the respect they deserve. And when he does find his soul mate, I hope he can love her with unflinching generosity. I hope he finds a wife who has more love to give him than he can imagine.
I hope my son is blessed with children, and that he gives them his heart. And I hope that his children change him and help him grow even more.
It’s a lofty wish list, I know, and I pray that we’ll get there. For now, we’ll focus on his room. We mothers of sons have to start somewhere.

Anne Shaw Heinrich is a freelance writer living in Dwight. Every time Small Talk is published, The Paper donates $100 to an area non-profit organization or effort. Proceeds from this month’s Small Talk will benefit the Dwight Lions Club. To read past Small Talk columns, visit The Paper’s website at: www.thepaper1901.com. For more information about Heinrich and her writing, visit:
www.anneshawheinrich.com.

March 10, 2010

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 20:09:48 -0600

A friend of mine was in tears the other day. The time and the place were all wrong for me to inquire further right then and there, but I met up with him a few days later, and learned that the poor guy had some pretty heavy stuff on his mind. To make things even worse, he and his wife had been forced to put their family dog down. I could feel his pain.
Bret and I were married for quite a while before we had our first child. Instead, we practiced our parenting chops on a Golden Retriever pup we named Buck. We picked him out from his litter because he was the fattest one of the bunch. Buck was a rascal at first. It was a good thing he was cute, because otherwise, he would have been booted to the curb. As a puppy, he had an affinity for pillows, socks and underwear, and especially craved anything that could be unearthed from the trash can. We had two incomes and plenty of time on our hands, so we devoted ourselves to this dog in ways that bordered on the absurd.
Buck ate the best food that money could buy and was never thrown in a kennel. If forced to leave town together, we paid a sitter to come stay with this dog at our home, so he could be surrounded by all of his comforts: his yard, his special food dish, his toys, anything his canine heart desired. I think you probably get the picture. Once, we were convinced that Buck was clinically depressed, and actually consulted a dog psychologist to see if there was anything we could do for our furry friend. I think we might have paid a hundred bucks for that consult.
We talked about this dog as if he were a child and talked to him as if he had a master’s degree and a job. We photographed him and took him on vacations with us. We remain convinced this particular animal was a genius. He could understand English and seemed to enjoy classical music. He was a skilled, manipulative beggar and capable of premeditated crimes. He always appeared to be thinking complicated, sophisticated thoughts.
Naturally, Buck was nervous when we brought the first baby home. He kept grumbling in the corner and seemed annoyed when the screaming infant kept him from his beauty sleep. By the time our third baby arrived, Buck was getting gray around the edges, and moved slowly. There were plenty of times when I wanted to kill him. He was an escape artist and loved nothing better than to leap the fence in our St. Louis yard. I’d have to load the babies up in the minivan and drive around the neighborhood shouting out the window for him. A couple of times, I’d have to come get him on foot, in my pajamas and pregnant. Let’s just say Buck was in trouble, and I think that’s how my daughter learned her first cuss word.
He was spoiled, and sometimes a pain in the butt, but Buck was loyal. Whenever Bret was sick, he’d stay at the foot of the bed and keep watch. A couple of times, Bret had terrible poison ivy, and Buck would lick at the rash over and over, hoping he could give his master some relief.
One afternoon, I was busy with the kids, and Buck barked to go outside. I let him out the back door and went on about my business. When Bret came home from work, he noticed that our old buddy didn’t want to come inside and that he couldn’t move from his side. Bret loaded our friend into a wheelbarrow to get him out to the van. I figured the dirty rat had eaten something he shouldn’t have and just had the tummy ache he deserved.
But the phone rang. It was Bret calling from the vet’s office. I’d better come on down, he said. I made sure I had the checkbook with me. This was going to cost us a bundle, I could feel it.
Buck was lying on his fat old side, taking shallow breaths. Bret was tearful. Our old friend had an enormous tumor, one that couldn’t be removed, no matter how much money we paid. We didn’t have a choice. It was time to put him down.
The vet spent about 15 minutes assuring us that Buck wouldn’t feel a thing. He’d just drift off. We held on to him and rubbed his ears the way he’d always liked. He lifted up his paw and let it land on Bret’s hand. It was as if he knew we were saying goodbye.
The vet injected the medicine and our faithful, feisty dog drifted off. We stayed in the room with him for quite a long time, choked with sobs that surprised us both. We walked out into the night, stunned at what had just happened. We’d just lost a friend, a family member, one of the coolest dogs in the world. He’d been a fixture in our lives for 10 years. And now, we were faced with the dreaded task of telling the kids. There were more tears, and an eerie hollowness that made Bret and I weepy for the next several weeks. If I think too hard about it now, I can still feel a lump at the back of my throat.
The house seemed empty without him. We’d grown so accustomed to having him with us that we even thought we could still hear him clicking on his feet on the kitchen floor in the morning, and running into the kids’ rooms to check on them in the night, like he’d done every night for as long as we could remember.
We still talk about Buck on a regular basis. All other dogs we’ve had can never quite meet his gold standard. And they’ve all been idiots, completely clueless. But I suppose, when it’s time for them to go, we’ll miss them too.

Anne Shaw Heinrich is a freelance writer living in Dwight. Every time Small Talk is published, The Paper donates $100 to an area non-profit organization or effort. Proceeds from this month’s Small Talk will benefit the Livingston County Humane Society.

To read past Small Talk columns, visit The Paper’s website at: www.thepaper1901.com. For more information about Heinrich and her writing, visit:
www.anneshawheinrich.com.

Feb 10 For Better, For Worse

Wed, 10 Feb 2010 20:52:42 -0600

Marriage isn’t for the weak. It’s a tough gig, one that comes with all kinds of strings attached. It’s an endeavor that brings with it a set of expectations that sound almost impossible to meet. We start off making all kinds of vague and dreamy promises, and then many of us act all surprised and bewildered when the bill arrives in the mail.
My daughter and I love to watch this reality show on television that features brides-to-be from all walks of life shopping for their wedding dresses. It’s a guilty pleasure that we share. As fun as it is to see all of the dresses, there’s a part of me that’s sad every time I watch this show. The program and its brides seem so focused on the perfect dress, the wedding day, on themselves, that I can’t help but feel like their pending marriages are doomed.
I’m thrifty. I don’t like to part with my dollars. I’m a clearance rack kind of gal, so I’m deeply disturbed at the amounts of money these brides are willing to pay for a dress. Yes, I get it. It’s an important day and dress, but I can’t help but wonder if everyone wouldn’t be better off spending less money on the ceremony and more on some solid premarital counseling. Most couples need a reality check on what comes after the honeymoon, after that expensive dress has been packed away.
Don’t get me wrong. I love being married. I love my husband and the life we’re building together. He loves me, too. But we’d both be lying if we tried to convince someone that every day has been perfect, fun, exciting or free of conflict. Yeah, right.
I’m no picnic. My darling husband is way too smart to say this out loud, but we both know it’s true. I like a good argument and I don’t like to be bossed around. And frankly, I need my space. I think he knew this when he said “I do,” but I was about 25 pounds lighter then and not nearly as tired as I am today. Poor guy. Talk about a tricky round of bait-and-switch!
I had an interesting conversation once with a friend who had obviously pondered the complexities of marriage quite a bit. She’d come to the conclusion that marriage was simply a contract, an agreement that spells out pretty specifically what the two parties can expect to expect. To some degree, I suppose she’s right. There are some legal and certainly financial strings that bind two people entering into marriage. And yes, there’s plenty to consider regarding division of labor. Someone’s got to take out the trash and make sure the oil gets changed in the car. For those who decide to go the family route, bringing home the bacon and getting it on the table is a bit of a tag-team effort, managed somehow between bathing children and shuffling them from one location to another. Sounds romantic, doesn’t it?
What feeds my own understanding of marriage is a recognition that it’s a union like no other. It’s less about a contract and more about sacrament. A contract is legally binding, but a sacrament is spiritually binding. A contract can be captured with pen and paper and a few signatures, and can usually be undone with the same tools and some money. But thinking of marriage in terms of a sacrament elevates the agreement. A sacrament is a promise to one another and to God that we’re in this for the long haul. People break promises to one another all of the time. But in a marriage ceremony, we’re telling our maker that we’re going to share the one life we’ve been given – a precious, unpredictable gift – with one person.
Wow. Most of us married folks don’t get the chance to start making good on our promises until things get a little less dreamy. That better and worse stuff, the sickness and in health business – all that for richer and for poorer verbage that we’re willing to nod through so we can get to the wedding reception – is a profound and serious undertaking. Whoever wrote the traditional marriage vows had a pretty clear understanding of what might trip wedded bliss up: money problems, illness and infidelity. Perhaps boredom, indifference and the undying love of self should be added to the list of possible ailments that plague many marriages today.
The media celebrates husband- and wife-bashing. Television makes light of adultery. Countless celebrities and politicians and sports figures have made a mockery of an institution that doesn’t get the credit it deserves. And we allow it by continuing to tune into the latest drama. The truth is, not all marriages are good ones. But I believe that there are just as many blessed couples out there who are really quite happy. Do they squabble? Yes. Do they ever wonder about the mysteries and freedoms that single life could bring? Yep. But they came to the table with a clear understanding of what they were promising.
I’ve been married to a really awesome man for almost 20 years. Neither of us is perfect. We’re both flawed, but we still like and love each other an awful lot. We started this adventure together when we were very young and had no idea what we were really getting ourselves into. Essentially, we’ve grown up together. Sometimes, we still find ourselves surprised at how complex and intricately woven we are. We expect a lot of each other, and sometimes we’ve fallen into that fatal trap of giving our best to everyone else rather than one another.
But at the end of the day, we provide one another a soft place to land, an endless supply of fresh starts and shared memories and an unwavering belief that we are one another’s gift. I’ve said this before, but it’s worth saying again. When I go to weddings, I find myself not really watching the bride and groom, but drawn to their grandparents or other older married couples. They’re the ones with the love stories worth telling. They’ve got love that’s been banged up a bit, put through its paces, challenged and stretched behind closed doors, tested again and again, but it’s still standing.
They are still standing.

Anne Shaw Heinrich is a freelance writer living in Dwight. Every time Small Talk is published, The Paper donates $100 to an area non-profit organization or effort. Proceeds from this month’s Small Talk will benefit the Dwight Ministerial Association. To read past Small Talk columns, visit The Paper’s website at: www.thepaper1901.com. For more information about Heinrich and her writing, visit:
www.anneshawheinrich.com.

Dec 30 Happy New Year

Wed, 30 Dec 2009 19:33:59 -0600

These days, I prefer to ring in the New Year right in my living room, with a few trusted friends and a good bottle of wine. I want to laugh and listen and bask for a night in the promise of the year to come. I like to wear comfortable jeans, and I don’t even mind if the kids are hanging around just being kids.
I guess you could say my New Year’s Eve celebrations have evolved, and I like where they’ve settled. They’re less frantic and foolish. They’ve developed into a kinder, gentler, far more comfortable recognition that change is in the air.
There was a time in my life when the recipe for a New Year’s Eve done right called for sparkling clothes, lots of alcohol and a deadly hangover the next morning. I did this for several years whether I enjoyed it or not. To stay home and rock in the New Year with a bowl of popcorn and Dick Clark was a sure sign of being a social outcast or a poor planner. We wouldn’t have even considered it. New Year’s Eve required that we stand in a crowded, smoky club, getting bumped and jostled and having mixed drinks slopped down my front and all over my shoes. It was fun while it lasted, I think.
After we had kids, like everything else in our lives, New Year’s Eve changed. We tried to get out of Dodge, to reclaim the revelry, but were quickly reminded that our status had changed. For about six years solid, I was breastfeeding one child or another, and all we could manage was a quick dinner out before we had to rush home to get a little person fed. Once everybody was weaned and I could squeeze back into my sparkling clothes, we planned for a night on the town, fully prepared to pay a sitter time and a half so we could pretend for a few hours that we were our fun, crazy old selves. Just as we were headed out the door, one of the kids threw up all over the place. We looked at each other and told the sitter to go home.
After the kids caught wind that New Year’s Eve was kind of a big deal, they wanted in on the action. We’d get together with Bret’s sister and brother-in-law at their house. For little people, a good party means a few potato chips, some juice boxes and silly hats. We’d set the clocks ahead, so their midnight would come a little bit faster. We’d whoop it up with a countdown to nine o’clock and make all kinds of celebratory commotion. With the kids completely duped and tucked in bed, we could just relax and visit until midnight. For a couple of those years, none of the adults could even make it until midnight. We cashed it in before the real countdown, knowing full well that the youngsters would be ready to party it up before daybreak. This racket only lasted a few years. As soon as the oldest child figured out how to tell time, we were duly busted, and a little bit ashamed of ourselves.
One year, we tried having an adults-only New Year’s party at our house. We quarantined the children to a bedroom with a stack of movies, a lifetime supply of orange soda and cheese puffs and a stern warning to let the adults have their good time. I was trying desperately to recreate a great 40th birthday party I’d thrown for my husband just a few months before. I didn’t quite meet the mark. The party was fine, but most of the adults excused themselves to give their own kids an occasional call on their cell phones and ended up wanting to get home before the snow got too deep. That year, midnight came and went without any notice at all. Bret and I were too busy finding the right lids for the Tupperware containers that held all the party leftovers. And our little people were honked off because they’d been treated so shabbily all in the name of some good adults-only fun.
We’ve finally stopped trying so hard to recapture our youth and to get away from our kids on New Year’s Eve. I’ve got a sneaky suspicion that it won’t be long before they’ll prefer to leave the two of us at home with a bag of chips and Dick Clark, so they can take part in revelry of their own.
And I bet we’ll be able to stay up until midnight, and even later, at least until we know they’ve landed somewhere safe.

Anne Shaw Heinrich is a freelance writer living in Dwight. Every time Small Talk is published, The Paper donates $100 to an area non-profit organization or effort. Proceeds from this month’s Small Talk will benefit the Dwight Teen Center. To read past Small Talk columns, visit The Paper’s website at: www.thepaper1901.com.
For more information about Heinrich and her writing, visit:
www.anneshawheinrich.com.

Dec 2 The Perfect gift

Wed, 2 Dec 2009 09:57:50 -0600

Is it really the holiday season again? I’m not sure why this is, but I always catch myself feeling surprised that it’s time to deck the halls and start doing all of those other things that make Christmas special. One would think, that after 42 years of celebrating this holiday, I might have caught on that it comes around at the same time every year. I suppose I’m a slow-learner.
Encouraged by well-meaning aunts and uncles, and grandparents and good friends, my kids have no problem coming up with lists of things that they’d like to have under the tree, but I’m getting harder and harder to buy for. I guess age has seasoned me to understand something that I wasn’t able to grasp as a child, or even as a young adult: happiness just doesn’t come in a bag or a box and it’s as fleeting as a snowflake melting on the tongue.
To me, happiness is temporary. It comes blasting in, but never lasts for long. A bottle of my favorite perfume, or a new pair of boots certainly gives me momentary pleasure, but just like many of the toys children rip open on Christmas morning, the perfume and boots are quickly forgotten.
I guess I’m hard to buy for because I’m just not satisfied with mere happiness anymore. What I’m looking for is something deeper, something that’s not fleeting, something that won’t get thrown into the bottom of my closet.
I prefer joy.
Joy takes you by surprise, and you can pull the moments that bring it out again and again, like old, comforting friends. I’ll never forget one of the most joyful holiday seasons in my life. I still pull this one out of my heart and thank God for giving it to me.
It was Thanksgiving weekend, but Bret and I had been ordered by the doctor to stick close to home because our first baby was due any moment. In fact, our firstborn was two weeks late. Bret prepared the entire Thanksgiving feast in our tiny kitchen. I was too fat and miserable to move. After dinner, he insisted that we take a long walk, hoping to coax baby into making an appearance. I heaved myself off of the couch and grudgingly waddled around the block a few times with him. I was starting to get crabby and had myself convinced that I’d be pregnant for eternity.
After a long nap, we decided that it would be a good idea to put up our tree. Back then, we didn’t have that many ornaments, but we spent the early evening placing what we had on the branches, and getting the lights just right. Bret pulled the rocking chair that he’d bought in preparation for the baby over by the tree. We lit some candles and there was some Christmas music playing. While Bret hauled all of the boxes back down to the basement, I settled into the rocker, wrapped in a blanket, and just admired our pretty tree.
As I rocked there, with my hands resting on my swollen belly, I could feel our baby shift and kick there in the soft light. I kept rocking and drifting and every once in awhile, Bret would come in to ask if anything felt different. There was no change on the baby’s status, but I felt more content and at peace than I had in weeks.
I was overcome with joy that I harbored new life in my body.
I felt confident that the baby would come when it was meant to arrive. I felt thankful that our home, as tiny as it was, would be a warm, inviting place for a child who was long anticipated. I was thankful that Bret and I had enjoyed so many years as “just the two of us” before having a family. We were ready.
About midnight, something did change. Sixteen hours later, our daughter was born. We named her Eleanor, which in Arabic, means “God is my light.” We couldn’t stop looking at her and touching her pretty little face. Fourteen years later, the joy from this particular experience is still unblemished, unbroken and unforgotten. I can’t look at her, or begin a holiday season without recalling each and every detail of that miraculous time in our lives.
Once you’re blessed enough to experience even one gift like this, it’s hard to go back to boxes and bows.
For each and every soul this season, I wish peace, love and profound moments of joy that take you by surprise and stay with you for a lifetime.
Anne Shaw Heinrich is a freelance writer living in Dwight. Each time Small Talk is published, The Paper donates $100 to an area non-profit organization or community effort. Proceeds from this month’s Small Talk will benefit Livingston County Commission on Children.

Nov 4 Small Town Values

Wed, 4 Nov 2009 13:13:48 -0600

The media catches a lot of flack for splashing bad, bloody news everywhere, but whether we want to admit it or not, it’s often the ugly stuff that gets our attention.
Conflict is interesting. It’s riveting. As a writer, I’d argue that without conflict, you don’t have much of a story. And you can find a tangle of one kind or another just about anywhere you look. It’s not difficult to find somebody grumbling about some perceived injustice, a personal slight, a missed cue, an outrage or something that’s just a doggone shame.
The longer you live in a small community, chances are quite high that you’ll eventually make a decision that will anger or irritate somebody else. Nine times out of ten, the injured party doesn’t know the whole story, or wants to handpick the facts. Or, they have an agenda that doesn’t jibe with our own. Sometimes, we deserve the ire that’s directed our way, and sometimes we don’t. Humans goof. We don’t always act with wisdom or charity. We’re an easily wounded bunch, quick to assume the worst, and often too proud to take a good, long look at the role we’ve played in our own messes.
It’s easy to get whipped and whirled up into a collective and negative state of mind about a lot of things: high water bills and property taxes, closing businesses, wagging tongues, inconveniences and inertia. All communities have plenty of fodder for the garden variety crabapple to sink his or her teeth into. Ours is no different.
With all of that said, I still maintain that most people are good at their cores. We want goodness. We crave happy endings and we’re willing to participate to make things better. There’s a deep inventory of things this community and the people who live here do very well:
• This town is pretty. On a recent walk toward Renfrew Park, I couldn’t help but notice the train depot, the Gothic Church against a blue sky with the changing fall leaves as a background. It took my breath away. I love the brick streets, the Windmill, the Country Mansion, the Keeley Building, many of the older homes that have been or are being restored. All are things that I point out to visitors with pride, and I’m not even a native.
• This town has a neat and interesting history. It’s simply everywhere you look. From the Keeley Cure to the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed First National Bank of Dwight building to the recently-restored Ambler-Becker station, it’s all very nostalgic and easily accessible. The Dwight Historical Society has oodles of fascinating information and artifacts from the past. If I had more time, I could camp out there for hours, just poring through the pieces of the past. I find it comforting. It reminds me that this community has weathered all kinds of storms, both economic and otherwise, and that it has sustained and survived. It will continue to do so.
• This town values families, children and friendships. We clap our kids in on the first day of school. Graduations pack the house, as do band concerts, spring musicals, home football games and other sporting events. Our newspaper prints announcements and photos for births, engagements, weddings, anniversaries, multiple generation family gatherings, class reunions and the honor roll. People come home for Harvest Days. We wave as we drive by, and we borrow sugar.
• This town honors our country. We still say the Pledge of Allegiance at the beginning of the school day. We stand and take off our hats for the American flag. We tie yellow ribbons around trees for our veterans.
• This town rallies. We comfort our grieving families, we celebrate heroes, we support causes large and small. We turn out for raffles and bake sales and fund-raising events to help out our own at a refreshing, steadfast pace. If you don’t believe me, take a look at the inside of the sanctuary of the Dwight United Methodist Church each year to see the presents piled high for Christmas For Kids and the Love Boxes that are loaded with food and delivered with love to families in need. The generosity you’ll see is humbling and hopeful.
All of this good stuff springs from a collective reserve of loyalty and determination to do the right thing. It’s what keeps propelling this little town, and other communities like us, forward.
It’s not all bad. Not at all.

Anne Shaw Heinrich is a freelance writer living in Dwight. Every time Small Talk is published, The Paper donates $100 to an area non-profit organization or effort. Proceeds from this month’s Small Talk will benefit the Dwight Community Chest. To read past Small Talk columns, visit The Paper’s website at: www.thepaper1901.com
For more information about Heinrich and her writing, visit: www.anneshawheinrich.com