Take Me Out to the Ball Game, Baby!

I admit a fondness for listening to baseball on the radio. There's something soothing in that. Reminds me of childhood journeys riding in our Country Squire wagon with my dad at the wheel listening to the Tigers. Or better yet, those isolated evenings when my bedtime came before a game wrapped up and I resorted to sneaking my brother Steven's transistor radio into bed to listen to the crackle of a few innings before I drifted off to sleep.

In my 20s I discovered the incredible combination of baseball, ice cold beer, and a sun-filled afternoon at Wrigley Field. I was astonished that so many wonderful things could be combined in one place. If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still hear Harry Caray's singsong voice meander through "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." 

I'll never forget the sensation of butterflies cavorting in my stomach as I stepped out onto that hallowed ball field on Opening Day 2008. I got to high five the team as they cruised past! I stood at attention during the National Anthem (I might have snuck a peak at Mark Grace's backside, but good grief, who wouldn't have?!) right along with the team. And, I got to chat with a living baseball legend, Ernie Banks (aka Mr. Cub) who signed a dugout baseball for me, noting on it, "Keep Smilin' Maureen!" That was a baseball dream day come true (of course I don't have photos because I was there with a vendor and never thought all this magic would take place)!

Now, I've got my own little slugger stepping up to the plate and lasering in on every motion the pitcher (especially when that pitcher is his daddy!) makes, waiting for that moment of pure joy when all breathing stops and you can hear "CRACK!" for miles. Connor made the transition from tee ball to coach pitch this summer and you'd think he was playing for the Cubs and had just won the World Series to hear him talk about playing "real baseball!"

Midsummer we were fortunate enough to share in the ultimate backyard baseball experience with our neighbors, John and Kara Doyle. Together with John's brother, Dave, and his wife Michele, they hosted a Wiffleball Tournament on their own field of dreams. Kids between the ages of 8-11 came from all over the west side of Grand Rapids to send wiffleballs sailing over the home run fence that had been painstakingly constructed to exact specifications. While Connor didn't meet the age requirements for the tournament, he was asked to join a neighborhood team as their bat boy.

At the end of a long day, Connor's team emerged winners. There were trophies and tee shirts and lots of high fives and back slaps. These boys had just earned the biggest honor in the neighborhood and it came without $100 shoes or fancy digital games. Their credential was earned in the backyard with a bat and ball and a lot of tenacity.

I promise you, 20 years from now, my son (and the five wonderful young men from our neighborhood who invited him to share their glory) will recount this experience with pride. He'll probably still posses the tee shirt in a back corner of his dresser. And, the swagger he earned on that ball field will carry him through countless curve balls thrown by life.

Tune in your radio, dust off your sneakers, whatever it takes. Just get out there and play ball, baby!

Family Ties are a Matter of Course

It started as a selfish way to drag my far-flung family to visit Rick and I in our new home. Sixteen years ago we invited all of my siblings and their children and my parents to the northern suburbs of Chicago for the inaugural Fitzgerald Family Golf Outing. This past weekend we gathered again, this time at my sister's home north of Grand Rapids. We rotate hosting duties throughout the family, thus forcing a visit to everyone's current hometown once every nine years! Traditions come from strange places, huh?

It's a simple concept, we meet once a year on the last weekend of June (typically) and those who feel compelled, golf for the ego-boosting claim to hold the traveling Fitzgerald Cup for a year. Later, everyone is invited (well, we do sort of expect the kids to be out of diapers before they join the fray, but otherwise its an open door!) to play in a four-person scramble. The prize? Family honor, bragging rights for one year, and a "Scramble Champs" tee shirt.

When my parents were alive they joined us on the golf course even though neither was a golfer. My mom used to borrow Aunt Elaine's golf clubs, but she was often referred to as a secret weapon because of her gifted putting ability! 

My dad loved that he could smoke cigars the entire time on the course! After a series of strokes left him with limited use of his right arm, he would either meet us at the final hole to celebrate or ride along with one team and tackle a putt here or there.

We're a boisterous group on the golf course. Especially when someone unexpected hits a great shot. But, that is the most wonderful part of the gathering. We challenge each other and we cheer our successes. Trust me, there is a lot of taunting and good-natured teasing, but ultimately it ends up feeling pretty good. Sort of like family life in general.

Generation gaps are celebrated as the youngest of the family group are partnered with the oldest and we all work together to become the Scramble Champs for the next 12 months. I love learning about the life of whichever niece or nephew I play with as we cruise the golf course. We connect one-on-one. With a family our size that doesn't happen often, so I treasure these opportunities.

I remember clearly when one of my nephews commented about the Fitzgerald Cup at that first outing, he said, "Someday I will have my name on that Cup and when I have kids they will too."

Yep. In fact, the Cup was won this year for the first time by a player from the next generation - my niece's fiance, Todd. Sort of a momentous occasion. We took it in stride. An amber ale was poured into the Cup and it was shared by past winners. At the time we were all cheering and laughing, but now that I think about it, that was a big deal.

That's life, the big moments get mixed in with the mundane. Thank goodness we periodically step back and ponder...even if it is on a golf course. We've created something special and we didn't even realize it was happening. Nice job family!

PS - Watch your backs Fitz's, Aunt Mo isn't going to let her golf game get rusty this year -- I'll be back next June and my team will once again reign as Scramble Champs!

The Gift of Grace

If you talk to me for more than five minutes you'll know that I'm a mom. That I have the best son in the world. That I am giddy with joy about the awesomeness that is being a parent to my child.

I rarely talk about the road traveled to that ultimate joy. It was littered with many stumbling blocks and dead ends. It was long. It was not a part of my master plan for my life.

And, so it goes. Crap happens to everyone. The difference is what you do with your pile when you stumble upon it.

But, because of my experience during the journey toward parenthood, I have willingly joined a dear friend on another journey that can be all encompassing at times. Ultimately, this road leads to a place filled with light and in a weird twist of humor, a bunch of goofy ladies playing golf!

Yep. You read right. This year there will also be jello shots involved. See what I mean - every bag of crap can be dressed up if you've got a bedazzler on your side!

My friends, Katherine and Mike Schoenborn, experienced the tragic end to many of their dreams when their triplet sons were stillborn. Not the chaotic life they expected on the day they learned they were pregnant. A very silent, somber conclusion that left them bereft . . . and planning a memorial rather than three baptisms.

In order to help tell their story, I listened to Kat and guided her in the creation of a video (we also had the technical skills and creative eye of another friend, Sam Ramos, to bring this video to life). I'm linking here so you can view it and hear their tale firsthand. Dig out a tissue . . .

After the loss of the Schoenborn boys, I offered to help Kat and Mike establish a lasting memorial to their sons. They've since created the Sleeping Angels Endowment at Spectrum Health Foundation.  And, each year we throw a party to raise funds for this worthy cause (hence the jello shooting lady golfers!).

We invite women to golf and have a good time. They come. They golf. They have a good time. And, we have netted more than $30,000 for the endowment in two years. Rock on, sisters!

I didn't suffer the loss that Kat did. But, I understand how it feels to want something so badly and then to be left with the dark loneliness of just that desire . . . and nothing more. Not even the hope you once felt. 

I think a lot of women share that same understanding. And, because of that, they come together one day a year and drop the cash they've been squirreling away for a summer pedicure or sassy highlights. They gamble that money on the hope and the wish that when someone else experiences the desperate saddness of a stillborn child in our community - they will feel our support. We don't fix the problem. We can't restore the joy those families felt when their baby first kicked or they saw the heart beating in an ultrasound. But, we do supply a giant group hug and a soft whisper that says "You are not alone."

And, really, who doesn't want a group of more than 100 women in golf shoes and visors on their side?!

Can you help? Yep.  Golf.  Sponsor.  Remember.

I'll be at the Ladies Tee Party (It's not your Grandma's tea party, honey! But, Grandma is welcome to golf too!) on Friday, June 18 in Grand Rapids, MI at Gracewil Golf Club for a 9 am shotgun start. Join me.

Hope on, people. It's a feeling that really doesn't get old. Ever.

I Am Next In Line

We all do it. I'm sure. I don't travel in the type of circles where you could ignore this chore. We all grocery shop. Right?

For some this is a fun outing. For others its a necessary evil. Ultimately though, we've all got to hit the supermarket and stock up on toilet paper and toothpaste, wine and popcorn, and periodically milk and bread.

So, we have the common experience of cruising the aisles and making our selections. Also, we have the common experience of unloading our carts in increasingly more narrow lanes (seriously, what happens if you are not super model thin? It's getting silly!). Then we get to check ourselves out, although at least two or three times in each of my self checkout experiences I must alert someone to come and help me, while waiting patiently for that support. THEN we get to bag our own groceries in our own bags!

I'm not a wimp. I am really not a cry baby. But, lately I'm a little snarky towards all grocery retailers. It seems I'm paying more and more for my groceries, but getting less and less out of the relationship!

I've got your frequent flyer card, heck I think I have six of them, conveniently sized for whatever my needs! I'm just a little unclear what you are doing for me? You want my loyalty but when I provide it there doesn't seem to be much in return.  Lately I don't even get a coherent and polite person to assist me in the checkout process (and really, when I do use the staffed lanes, I don't want the 20-something person to complain about how they have another hour to work when I've just put in a 12-hour workday and still have to manage to drag all these groceries home and put them away . . . ).

So, here's my last gift to you, my favorite supermarket of all time (you know who you are), establish a special lane for me, your card carrying frequent flyer who spends 50% of her income at your shop. Staff it with your best employees, make it a treat to get to work in this lane in fact. And, make me feel like you really give a %$#@ that I'm shopping at your store.

Thank me for bringing my own bags, tell your staffers not to sigh when I hand all 10 of my bags over (I have a lot of bags because I buy a lot of groceries, not because I want to be a pain in your kiester!). And, spring for the extra few bucks to have a few teens working to put my bags in my stinking cart. I'm tired of sweating bullets in the checkout lane because I have to race to place all of my selections on the conveyor, then help bag them, then quickly get the bags into my cart so I don't hold up anyone behind me. It's just ridiculous!

I do still love you.  And, that's why I'm sharing my thoughts now, before I freak out in the ultra-skinny lane while checking out and bagging my own soup and crackers in my own bags that conveniently carry your brand name all over them. 

Really, isn't it enough that I shop at your establishment? Must I also perform the duties of one of your parttime workers for the priviledge?

I'd like to be next in line somewhere that really gives a darn whether I shop there.  Let me know when you're ready for me . . .

April Foolishness

I grew up with a jokester for a role model. April 1 was like a national holiday to him.  When I think of my Father, I picture his face cracking into a giant grin as he says, "April Fool's!"

Ahhhhh, memories.  Thanks, Dad.

Ask any of my siblings and they will recount their own version of my Dad's infamous "There's a Pink Elephant in the Backyard" April Fool's Joke.  No elaborate props needed.  No projection imagery.  No sound effects, other than a deep voice rolling with laughter and the squeal of a child protesting the fib.

To this day I have no idea what he really meant by the Pink Elephant ploy.  Other than offering us a glimpse at the fantastical.  What could be more absurd than a Pink Elephant in our backyard?  Nothing.  Really.  And, I promise you, I tried time and time again to top it.

My Dad never set foot on Irish soil, but he certainly inherited more than his fair share of Irish wisecracking ability!  I truly believe that the silliness of this day was a welcome respite from his daily grind as a corporate accountant and father to nine.  Who doesn't need a few Pink Elephants in their life?  Am I right?!

I encourage you to join the Fitzgerald Family this April 1.  We'll all be weaving tales of spotted stegosaurs and dancing whales to whomever will listen (I mean that, we aren't that fussy!).  And, I promise you this, I surely won't be the only one testing out the Pink Elephant in the Backyard exclamation.  I do wonder if some day there will be another generation of Fitzgerald's teasing their children . . . or random neighbors . . . with this one.  I sure hope so.

Happy April Fool's Day, Dad!  Hey, did you happen to notice that spotted orangutan in the window behind you?  Gee whiz, that's crazy!  (tee hee!) April Fool's!  Gotcha . . .

These Are Some Historical (not Hysterical!) Gals

March is Women's History Month. Can I get a woot woot?!!

Over the past year, I've been fortunate to work with a group of women here in Grand Rapids who really dig history. They collaborate as the Greater Grand Rapids Women's History Council and sponsor a month-long celebration of women and their inspiring history. I've been helping this group tell their story and engage people to attend the activities and programs taking place all month. It's been fun . . . and educational!
Even though I'm more of a history-class-dropout-type-of-girl, I've really enjoyed learning about the women from West Michigan and how they left their heel prints on our city and community!
It got me thinking about my own world. To start with, I have loads of incredible female role models! Sure, the gentlemen in my family tree are wonderful too, but a girl has to learn about becoming a smart woman by watching guts and grace in action -- enter these terrific ladies.
1. Jacqueline Marie Welch Fitzgerald. My mom. She was all of 4' 11" tall, yet the shadow she cast was enormous!

My mom taught me that a fresh coat of lipstick can hide many flaws - and instill a sense of confidence that translates into charisma (Jackie never wore makeup, but you rarely saw her without lipstick!). And, more importantly, that a well thought-out phrase or two can mean more than lots of blustering. She never accepted "good enough" from anyone . . . how many times did she correct my grammar, right there in front of my friends? Gracious!
Jackie was historical because she took chances, she listened well, and she acted without fear. She worked to support her Korean War Veteran husband while he finished college, and often returned to the workforce while raising nine children with love and humor. She taught me to set goals and then achieve them . . . without making excuses or passing off blame when things didn't go perfectly. Nicely done, mom!
2. Nina Narcissa Belle Wood Welch. My maternal grandmother. I love the stories from my mom's sisters (oh, and Uncle Bert too, it must have been tough to be the baby in that family of gals!) about growing up on a farm in Concord, Michigan in the 30s and 40s. Grandma really could get blood from a turnip. I swear! 

My grandmother made every single person who ever crossed her path feel like they were the most important person she'd ever met. She communicated incessantly; letters from her were a regular occurrence when I was a college student. Nina was known for remembering everyone's birthday - with a card or note that was perfectly suited to that person. She lived through tough times, made difficult personal decisions along the way, and never gave up on those who mattered most - her family.
3. Mary Margaret Fitzgerald Reed. My Aunt Mary. When I close my eyes and think about her, I see her in my parent's basement in the 70s wearing a pair of white patent leather go-go boots, a plaid wool skirt that hit just above the knees, and a turtleneck (coincidentally it's an ensemble I love myself today!). She's drinking a Drewrys beer out of a can (that was light beer before light beer existed!) and she's smoking a Virginia Slim cigarette (yep, she was a poster child for the 1970's transformation of women, so funny to think back on now!). She rocked!

Aunt Mary was a professional woman in Mecosta County in the late 50s and early 60s, before she married and relocated. She took on the role of County Register of Deeds when the office was left vacant mid-term (she'd been the Assistant Register) and held the office until the next election. When needed, she jumped in and took care of business without seeking fanfare for the effort. Love that about her!
4. Dolores Welch Prue, Kathie Welch McDonald, Patricia Welch Clark, and Elaine Welch England. The formidable Welch family Aunts! My mom's sisters. Today, they are matrons of a sprawling family. A true package deal. When you need someone to have your back, look no further.

These gals held down jobs in all kinds of settings, from factories to school bus drivers (those are still some of my favorite stories to hear from Aunt Elaine and Aunt Pat, whether it was winning the bus rodeo or wrangling bratty kids - they did it all!), while raising kids and taking care of their communities. I keep wondering when Aunt Dee will slow down a bit and enjoy retirement, but she's far too busy taking meals to shut-in seniors while making time for bowling, too! Aunt Kathie is renowned for just doing what's right - she epitomizes gritty determination. These ladies don't back down from a fight. I can only hope to aspire to that level of passion for the many facets of my life. You go, girls!
Today, looking back, I feel overwhelmed with the task of following in these women's footsteps. They've all got such unique style, voice, and passion. But, I'm equally thrilled to have such incredible role models who led the way. These women wore heels, work boots, and sneakers. They pushed through stereotypes and knocked down barriers. For me. Happy Women's History Month, ladies!

Apparently now its my turn. Gulp. Wonder what the heck I can do to make the world a better place for my nieces and maybe even a granddaughter someday?

What Makes Something Zazzle?

I was taking my adorable niece, Reagan, to kindergarten the other morning.  My sister dropped her off at the crack of dawn (for me anyway) with the usual assortment of gear.  Included in the piles of snow boots, backpack, and snacks was a special bag that needed to be deliverd directly to the kindergarten teacher.

Reagan had the honor of selecting the plates, cups, and napkins for the Valentine's Day festivities in her class. 

As I wearily scrubbed my eyes to bring things into focus, my bubbly little charge dropped to the floor and unceremoniously dumped out the contents of her shopping bag.  "Wait until you see these, Aunt Mo," she enthused as only a 5-year-old can.

There, in the harsh light of my 100-watt foyer chandelier, she produced the goods.  Paper finery fit for a celebration of love.  The plates were covered in red and pink hearts.  Hearts swamped nearly every inch of the surface of each item.  Wow.

And, that's when the prolific words lept from her mouth.  She's a marketing sage.  A product development powerhouse.  The people at Dixie need this girl on their team.  She summarized what may have involved dozens of meetings by well-meaning executives; a graphic design team arguing over color and style; and research with target audiences that included a spectrum of demographics and psychographics.

Reagan nailed it all with one sentence.

"I picked these because they had the most hearts," she said in a serious, businesslike manner.  "Aren't they so pretty?"

Ahhhh, that's the secret to everything.  Don't over think it.  Just fill it up with more of the stuff that makes people smile.  Give 'em what they want.  And, add a little bit more -- sort of a dollop of whipped cream on the top -- just because you can.  And should.

So, get back to it, folks.  Whatever you do for a living.  Whatever your product or service.  Add some more hearts to the darn thing.  Why not?  It's bound to make your customers smile and sigh with joy.  Somebody listened to their desires.  Give it some more zazzle!

Besides, Reagan will be watching.  And, she's not gonna buy it if it doesn't have heart!