By Todd Fettig
24-Minute Bikewitness Action News
GRAND RAPIDS — Todd reached a pinnacle of his editing career.
Did he climb the corporate ladder at The Press? Not exactly.
Check out this link to the Mother Site, mlive.com/grand-rapids, for a full explanation.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Memories, love woven into sweater from grandmother
The following essay first appeared in The Grand Rapids Press on Jan. 21, 2007. Joan Mercer, of London, died Dec. 26, 2009, at age 89.
By Erin Fettig
A child's sweater arrived in the mail today. It's hand-knitted with small buttons and loopy yarn. It's adorable.
I hold the sweater close and smell it. What I'm looking for isn't there. It smells only of a recent ride through the wash. I never knew it was mine, and yet I'm happy it's home. As soon as I hold it, I feel close to her, and it takes me back to my childhood.
I walk upstairs and slowly open the door to the spare bedroom. It's empty. The bed is neatly made. I open the dresser drawers, hoping I might find one little item accidentally left behind. Nothing. The vanity is bare. Gone are all the little bottles of perfumes, powders, nail polish and makeup. The well-worn hair curlers knotted in a scarf are missing, too. I carefully open the closet door. The empty hangers clink lightly together. All is gone. My nose is stuffed and my face feels hot and swollen. We're just back from the airport, and I've quietly wept in the back seat of my parents' Chevrolet Caprice Classic. I wished my grandmother didn't have to board the plane that would take her back to her home in London. I wished she could stay with us. I sit on the little vanity stool and look into the oval antique mirror. I close my eyes and breathe in. The table is empty, but I still can smell the scents of my grandmother's lotions. It's a scent that's a part of her. It lives in her home in England, too. I've always known it. It's a comfortable scent that gives me peace.
The summertimes of my childhood were filled with my grandmother. After my grandfather died in 1984, she made the trip to our home every summer. Usually, she stayed for six weeks. It was what I looked forward to all year.
She was proper. She was modest. She was slim and always dressed flatteringly. She knew the rules of being a lady. And she shared them with me, a tomboy who liked to climb trees. She showed me how to put on nail polish and encouraged me not to bite my nails.
Erin visits her grandmother,
Joan Mercer, in England in 2000.
When she put on her makeup, I would watch. She would tell me makeup shouldn't be seen. It should only enhance your natural beauty. She told me I was a natural beauty. Me, a tomboy, who climbed trees and wore tennis shoes.
We played Scrabble late into the night when she was with us. She was good. Real good. She played to win, and I was in awe of her vocabulary.
And when she was back in her London home, we continued our Scrabble games. We labeled our game boards with numbers horizontally and with letters vertically. We sent each other letters naming our moves from our coded boards. We added each other's words to our own Scrabble board. It was a trick I learned from my father and my half-sister, Sharon. They played chess through letters when Sharon was a child. Our long-distance Scrabble games weren't ideal, but they kept us close.
My grandmother tried several times to teach me how to knit. It seemed hopeless. I made a few things, but I never quite got it. She always was patient, even if I didn't have much natural talent. Not like her. Most of her life she made beautiful blankets, caps, scarves, slippers and sweaters.
On two consecutive trips to the United States, she gave me two important pieces of her jewelry. One year, she gave me a ruby and diamond anniversary ring given to her by my grandfather. I was 15 and probably didn't deserve such a lovely gift. But she thought I did, and I am grateful.
The next year, she gave me another ring. It was a ring adorned with three diamonds. Two of the diamonds were from another setting by my great- grandmother. The third diamond, my grandfather added.
I'll always remember what she told me when she gave it to me: She said she wanted me to have it, even though she was sure I would get plenty of diamonds in my life. Me, a tomboy who wanted to race the boys at the bus stop.
Much has changed. I'm 32 now and a mother of two. I'm no longer a little girl. No longer a tomboy.
It's been several years since my grandmother has been able to make the trip to the United States. She's 86 now and, with dementia crowding her brain, she probably doesn't even remember me.
I send her letters with photos now and then, but there's no response. She's not able to write anymore. I've talked to her over the phone; she responds kindly, but I know she's unsure.
My children are lucky; they are loved by many people. But there's a part of me that always will be sad they'll never know their great-grandma in England.
Photo courtesy of The Grand Rapids Press
A gift through time
A few weeks ago, my mother told me to expect a package. My aunt was sending me a cardigan sweater that had been mine years ago. My cousins had worn it when they were little. It has lived in my aunt's attic for years.
It's the perfect size for my 2-year-old daughter, Tatum. I show it to her and ask her to wear it. She turns up her lip and says, "No, I don't like it!"
My heart breaks a little.
She doesn't know the history of the sweater and why it's important. She doesn't know that long ago, when I first put that sweater on, it was full of love sent from England. It probably had that familiar smell of my grandmother clinging to it. The scent is long gone from the sweater.
But it's not gone from my memory.
It's true my children will never know my grandmother. But they will know her love.
I'll share it with them.
By Erin Fettig
A child's sweater arrived in the mail today. It's hand-knitted with small buttons and loopy yarn. It's adorable.
I hold the sweater close and smell it. What I'm looking for isn't there. It smells only of a recent ride through the wash. I never knew it was mine, and yet I'm happy it's home. As soon as I hold it, I feel close to her, and it takes me back to my childhood.
I walk upstairs and slowly open the door to the spare bedroom. It's empty. The bed is neatly made. I open the dresser drawers, hoping I might find one little item accidentally left behind. Nothing. The vanity is bare. Gone are all the little bottles of perfumes, powders, nail polish and makeup. The well-worn hair curlers knotted in a scarf are missing, too. I carefully open the closet door. The empty hangers clink lightly together. All is gone. My nose is stuffed and my face feels hot and swollen. We're just back from the airport, and I've quietly wept in the back seat of my parents' Chevrolet Caprice Classic. I wished my grandmother didn't have to board the plane that would take her back to her home in London. I wished she could stay with us. I sit on the little vanity stool and look into the oval antique mirror. I close my eyes and breathe in. The table is empty, but I still can smell the scents of my grandmother's lotions. It's a scent that's a part of her. It lives in her home in England, too. I've always known it. It's a comfortable scent that gives me peace.
The summertimes of my childhood were filled with my grandmother. After my grandfather died in 1984, she made the trip to our home every summer. Usually, she stayed for six weeks. It was what I looked forward to all year.
She was proper. She was modest. She was slim and always dressed flatteringly. She knew the rules of being a lady. And she shared them with me, a tomboy who liked to climb trees. She showed me how to put on nail polish and encouraged me not to bite my nails.
Erin visits her grandmother,Joan Mercer, in England in 2000.
When she put on her makeup, I would watch. She would tell me makeup shouldn't be seen. It should only enhance your natural beauty. She told me I was a natural beauty. Me, a tomboy, who climbed trees and wore tennis shoes.
We played Scrabble late into the night when she was with us. She was good. Real good. She played to win, and I was in awe of her vocabulary.
And when she was back in her London home, we continued our Scrabble games. We labeled our game boards with numbers horizontally and with letters vertically. We sent each other letters naming our moves from our coded boards. We added each other's words to our own Scrabble board. It was a trick I learned from my father and my half-sister, Sharon. They played chess through letters when Sharon was a child. Our long-distance Scrabble games weren't ideal, but they kept us close.
My grandmother tried several times to teach me how to knit. It seemed hopeless. I made a few things, but I never quite got it. She always was patient, even if I didn't have much natural talent. Not like her. Most of her life she made beautiful blankets, caps, scarves, slippers and sweaters.
On two consecutive trips to the United States, she gave me two important pieces of her jewelry. One year, she gave me a ruby and diamond anniversary ring given to her by my grandfather. I was 15 and probably didn't deserve such a lovely gift. But she thought I did, and I am grateful.
The next year, she gave me another ring. It was a ring adorned with three diamonds. Two of the diamonds were from another setting by my great- grandmother. The third diamond, my grandfather added.
I'll always remember what she told me when she gave it to me: She said she wanted me to have it, even though she was sure I would get plenty of diamonds in my life. Me, a tomboy who wanted to race the boys at the bus stop.
Much has changed. I'm 32 now and a mother of two. I'm no longer a little girl. No longer a tomboy.
It's been several years since my grandmother has been able to make the trip to the United States. She's 86 now and, with dementia crowding her brain, she probably doesn't even remember me.
I send her letters with photos now and then, but there's no response. She's not able to write anymore. I've talked to her over the phone; she responds kindly, but I know she's unsure.
My children are lucky; they are loved by many people. But there's a part of me that always will be sad they'll never know their great-grandma in England.
Photo courtesy of The Grand Rapids PressA gift through time
A few weeks ago, my mother told me to expect a package. My aunt was sending me a cardigan sweater that had been mine years ago. My cousins had worn it when they were little. It has lived in my aunt's attic for years.
It's the perfect size for my 2-year-old daughter, Tatum. I show it to her and ask her to wear it. She turns up her lip and says, "No, I don't like it!"
My heart breaks a little.
She doesn't know the history of the sweater and why it's important. She doesn't know that long ago, when I first put that sweater on, it was full of love sent from England. It probably had that familiar smell of my grandmother clinging to it. The scent is long gone from the sweater.
But it's not gone from my memory.
It's true my children will never know my grandmother. But they will know her love.
I'll share it with them.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
GR Needs ... IDEAS!
By Todd Fettig
24-Minute Bikewitness Action News
GRAND RAPIDS — Grand Rapidians live and work in a pretty good place. But could that place be even better?
Perhaps. But what does Grand Rapids need to turn up the awesomeness a notch?
That was the thrust of a recent #GRneeds discussion on Twitter. Below, you will find the tweet that started it all. Below that, you will find my suggestion. And below that, you'll find a link to the the mother site, mlive.com/grand-rapids, where readers voted and commented on some of the ideas. (My idea: not last, but far from first in the voting tally.)
And here is where you can check, compare and, maybe, rock the vote.
24-Minute Bikewitness Action News
GRAND RAPIDS — Grand Rapidians live and work in a pretty good place. But could that place be even better?
Perhaps. But what does Grand Rapids need to turn up the awesomeness a notch?
That was the thrust of a recent #GRneeds discussion on Twitter. Below, you will find the tweet that started it all. Below that, you will find my suggestion. And below that, you'll find a link to the the mother site, mlive.com/grand-rapids, where readers voted and commented on some of the ideas. (My idea: not last, but far from first in the voting tally.)
The #GRneeds Tweet That (I Think) Started It All
My #GRneeds Suggestion
And here is where you can check, compare and, maybe, rock the vote.
Recitweet Update: Grand Rapids Press and mlive.com/grand-rapids Pick Up the Story You Read Here First
By Todd Fettig
24-Minute Bikewitness Action News
Check it out: My recitweet blog, edited and enhanced for mainstream consumption, got some serious play in The Grand Rapids Press Your Life section and at the mother site, mlive.com/grand-rapids.
Keep those recitweets coming. I'll need more recipes if I'm going to write a cookbook.
24-Minute Bikewitness Action News
Check it out: My recitweet blog, edited and enhanced for mainstream consumption, got some serious play in The Grand Rapids Press Your Life section and at the mother site, mlive.com/grand-rapids.
Keep those recitweets coming. I'll need more recipes if I'm going to write a cookbook.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Join Artist Todd on a guided tour of Grand Rapids Press front pages
By Todd Fettig
24-Minute Bikewitness Action News
GRAND RAPIDS, ART CAPITAL OF THE WORLD -- I never thought I'd say it, but this color-blind fella is an artist. I'm a bona fide artist!
Why, it wasn't so long ago that people called me a copy editor. Then they started calling me a page designer. Then someone called me a paginator -- but only once, because nobody, NOBODY calls me a paginator twice. I'll reboot that conversation RIGHT NOW!
("Reboot the conversation": Get it? If not, click here.)
The next step in my progression from copy editor status: Someone started calling me an artist. And that someone was me.
So what if I never leave the house without first asking my wife, "Does this match? Can I wear these shoes with these pants?" So what if I print when I write and my drawings haven't advanced much beyond stick figures?
I am an artist! I take found objects -- stories, photos, graphics -- left behind in the office, and I work late at night to create something tangible. It's realism, delivered to your mailbox or a nearby newsstand every day.
So won't you join me, in the spirit of ArtPrize, on this short guided tour of five front pages?
"IN YOUR FACE, WEST MICHIGAN"
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
This one, I hope, comes right at you. Its grittiness is intended. Think of the sand pelting the beach walkers IN THE FACE. Think of dining leisurely at a downtown establishment while art stares at you, looking right INTO YOUR FACE. Think of ungoggled volunteers swinging hammers with the claws perilously close TO THEIR FACES. Can you feel it?
"Voting, Sausage Making and Bacon"
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
"Design by Committee"
Thursday, October 1, 2009
"GO BOLD OR GO HOME"
Friday, October 2, 2009
24-Minute Bikewitness Action News
GRAND RAPIDS, ART CAPITAL OF THE WORLD -- I never thought I'd say it, but this color-blind fella is an artist. I'm a bona fide artist!
Why, it wasn't so long ago that people called me a copy editor. Then they started calling me a page designer. Then someone called me a paginator -- but only once, because nobody, NOBODY calls me a paginator twice. I'll reboot that conversation RIGHT NOW!
("Reboot the conversation": Get it? If not, click here.)
The next step in my progression from copy editor status: Someone started calling me an artist. And that someone was me.
So what if I never leave the house without first asking my wife, "Does this match? Can I wear these shoes with these pants?" So what if I print when I write and my drawings haven't advanced much beyond stick figures?
I am an artist! I take found objects -- stories, photos, graphics -- left behind in the office, and I work late at night to create something tangible. It's realism, delivered to your mailbox or a nearby newsstand every day.
So won't you join me, in the spirit of ArtPrize, on this short guided tour of five front pages?
"Lions and Tigers and Berries ... Oh My!"
Monday, September 28, 2009
In this piece, I explore raw feelings of hope, despair, worry and tranquility. Could better days lie ahead for the woeful Detroit "Lie-downs"? Will the Tigers transform themselves from the "Boys of Summer" to the "Boys of Bummer"? What could be more relaxing than a stroll through a sea of green and red? Is that a field of green and red? (I had to ask fellow page artist Scott Langford.)Monday, September 28, 2009
"IN YOUR FACE, WEST MICHIGAN"
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
"Voting, Sausage Making and Bacon"Wednesday, September 30, 2009
"To retain respect for sausages and laws, one must not watch them in the making."
— Otto von Bismarck (Can the same be said of ArtPrize voting? Some critics say so.)
"Bacon! BACON!" — Almost everyone who read the September 30 paper
Deep artistlike question: What baconlike distractions in your life are keeping you from making important sausagelike decisions?
— Otto von Bismarck (Can the same be said of ArtPrize voting? Some critics say so.)
"Bacon! BACON!" — Almost everyone who read the September 30 paper
Deep artistlike question: What baconlike distractions in your life are keeping you from making important sausagelike decisions?
"Design by Committee"Thursday, October 1, 2009
We have so much to tell you, West Michigan. So much to tell, and so little time. But, unlike our elected sausage makers in Lansing, I am not granted the authority to extend my deadline. I must create art on budget and on time, whether I'm inspired or not. Here, I offer a little something from everyone, for everyone.
"GO BOLD OR GO HOME"Friday, October 2, 2009
The people have spoken. Can you hear it? For they have not spoken in a whisper, dear art lover. They have shouted, SHOUTED! And they do not want art that is mild. They do not want to look far and wide, in nooks and crannies. In this cutthroat world, the timid artist goes home, unprized. The timid front page lines the bird cage or wraps the fish, unread. SHOUT, SHOUT, LET IT ALL OUT! Time to be heard. Time to be noticed. Hey, look at me!
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Work krewe transforms Grand Rapids yard
"I feel like I'm on that show 'Extreme Makeover.'"— Darla Alexander, happy homeowner
By Todd Fettig
24-Minute Bikewitness Action News
GRAND RAPIDS — The Fountain Street Church 2009 New Orelans Work Krewe sprang into action again — this time, closer to home.
Ten of the 18 original krewe members blitzed the Northwest G-Rap yard of Fountain Streeter Darla Alexander on Saturday, Sept. 26, for a four-hour morning "Yardi Gras" of trimming, pulling, digging, raking and clearing.
By noon, the team had transformed Alexander's yard, exposing a front porch, stairways and a driveway.
Earlier this year — yes, Mardi Gras week — these same workers helped restore two Hurricane Katrina-ravaged homes in New Orleans' Upper Ninth Ward.
On that trip, the team decided it would devote its energies and talents to West Michigan projects, too.
So under the name "Todd Fettig and the NOLA Work Krewe," they offered their services at Fountain Street Church's Secret Service Auction. Alexander placed the winning bid, which will benefit general operations at the church.
After the krewe finished its work, Alexander described herself as a "happy camper."
24-Minute Bikewitness Action News
GRAND RAPIDS — The Fountain Street Church 2009 New Orelans Work Krewe sprang into action again — this time, closer to home.
Ten of the 18 original krewe members blitzed the Northwest G-Rap yard of Fountain Streeter Darla Alexander on Saturday, Sept. 26, for a four-hour morning "Yardi Gras" of trimming, pulling, digging, raking and clearing.By noon, the team had transformed Alexander's yard, exposing a front porch, stairways and a driveway.
Earlier this year — yes, Mardi Gras week — these same workers helped restore two Hurricane Katrina-ravaged homes in New Orleans' Upper Ninth Ward.
On that trip, the team decided it would devote its energies and talents to West Michigan projects, too.
So under the name "Todd Fettig and the NOLA Work Krewe," they offered their services at Fountain Street Church's Secret Service Auction. Alexander placed the winning bid, which will benefit general operations at the church.
After the krewe finished its work, Alexander described herself as a "happy camper."
Darla Alexander's porch,
8 a.m. Saturday, Sept. 26
Darla Alexander's porch,
noon Saturday, Sept. 26
Darla Alexander's front door,
8 a.m. Saturday, Sept. 26
Darla Alexander's front door,
noon Saturday, Sept. 26
Monday, September 21, 2009
Recitweet Update: More Slow Cooker Recipes for Those Of Us Short on Time, Money, Attention, INGREDIENTS and/or Characters
By Todd Fettig
24-Minute Bikewitness Action News
UPDATE: Slow cooker (aka crock pot) recipes continue to twickle in via Twitter.
Check out these gems: a hearty beef stew offered by a colleague, and a turkey dish that just might be the easiest recipe ever.
Nice. I have stew meat that I didn't use in last week's slow-cooker sensation: a too-complicated-to-tweet Hungarian/Italian goulash. I've slotted @danhawkinsmlive's beef stew for this Friday. Looks like some good pregame grub before we head over to the homecoming game.
Yes, Dan, I will try not to #@&% it up. (Inside joke, sorry.)
@colleenmw's turkey breast
I guarantee this star of the recitweet world will fit into this fall's crock-pot game plan. Only two ingredients! And it's getting rave reviews over at allrecipes.com. How can you go wrong?
Crock on, tweeple!
Have a recipe for a one-pot wonder? Can you summarize it in 140 characters or less? If so, send it to Todd via Twitter. You can follow Todd at twitter.com/toddfettig.
24-Minute Bikewitness Action News
UPDATE: Slow cooker (aka crock pot) recipes continue to twickle in via Twitter.
Check out these gems: a hearty beef stew offered by a colleague, and a turkey dish that just might be the easiest recipe ever.
@danhawkinsmlive's beef stew
Nice. I have stew meat that I didn't use in last week's slow-cooker sensation: a too-complicated-to-tweet Hungarian/Italian goulash. I've slotted @danhawkinsmlive's beef stew for this Friday. Looks like some good pregame grub before we head over to the homecoming game.Yes, Dan, I will try not to #@&% it up. (Inside joke, sorry.)
@colleenmw's turkey breast
I guarantee this star of the recitweet world will fit into this fall's crock-pot game plan. Only two ingredients! And it's getting rave reviews over at allrecipes.com. How can you go wrong?
Crock on, tweeple!
Have a recipe for a one-pot wonder? Can you summarize it in 140 characters or less? If so, send it to Todd via Twitter. You can follow Todd at twitter.com/toddfettig.
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