Category Archives: Linda Claire Hess Groshans

Take A Hike…a short story by Linda Claire Groshans

Take a Hike

photo by Linda Claire

It was 1995 and an anti-depressant called Prozac was becoming a commonly used drug. I wanted some. My friends had it, and I needed it too. Afterall, the stress of my on-going divorce while also facing single parenting, handling my spiraling financial concerns, and knowing that I would need to return to the workplace, it was all too much. I was depressed and I wanted to take the pill that would make it go away. No problem, I just needed to go to my primary care doctor. Certainly, he would understand pain and give me some Prozac and maybe some Valium too. I needed my pain to go away. I wanted to stop thinking about losing my marriage, I wanted to stop thinking about my husband every minute. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to go on with life and clearly all those scientists in pharma laboratories had come up with a solution that I needed.

I arrived at Dr. T’s office on a Monday morning. I was guided to the exam room where a nurse took my blood pressure, weight and temperature and recorded the results. There was clearly no test for a broken heart, a failed marriage.

After a brief wait, there was a knock on the exam room door and Dr. T entered with a pleasant smile on his face.  Since I wanted to be convincing about needing the pills, I certainly could not smile back.  It all hurt, so I used a little bit of my drama training and my real pain and twisted my facial expression to one of horrible agony.

“So, what’s going on?” Dr T asked.

I guess my answer spanned several minutes. Afterall, I had been rehearsing this moment for a few days. My voice ended by saying, “So, I must have the pill that makes this all stop.”

“There”, I thought. And I waited for him to type up the pharmacy order. This would be the day that the pain would start to ease.

“Why is he still sitting there?” I asked myself. Dr. T. was reaching for my hand and patting it gently while he leaned forward on his stool.

The moments ticked away. “Come on, get on with it” I thought as I tried to will him to give me the cure.

Yes, “Dr., Dr., give me a cure, I have a bad case of lovin’ him”

Still nothing. The room was silent. I hurt, I really hurt and without using any drama I started to cry softly. The tears dripped down my face and I looked for something to wipe my nose. None of this was funny. My life was a wreck and I could not cope.

That is when he started talking again. “Claire, you need to get out in nature.” He said and he looked compassionate.

“Buddy,” I thought to myself. My unspoken voice continued my response to him silently “I don’t need nature, I told you that I need pills.”

“Take a hike, cut the grass, garden and just be outside in nature.” He said.

My mouth dropped open, it was beginning to appear that the pain was going to continue and would probably last forever.

“I’m paying you”, I thought to myself. “Give me the darn pills. I hurt” I wanted to scream, but I kept quiet.  Did he tell me to take a hike? That was about the same verbiage my husband had used.

I left the appointment with nothing more than some half-baked idea that going out into nature would release me from my agony.

I guess it was a couple days later that I decided to weed a flower bed. I kneeled on the ground and I cried. I cried so loudly that my neighbor came running over. “Dear, what is the matter?” she asked.

“I don’t know which ones are the weeds. I don’t even know how to garden.”

“Oh, that is simple” she replied. “The weeds are any of those plants that you don’t like.”

Then softly, she continued talking to me and then asked me a question,  “Hey, I am going for a little hike around the block, want to come with me?”

I wiped my tears and pulled myself up. “Yeah, I would like that.” I said.

The healing had started…

On the shelf…a short story by Linda Claire Groshans

I met Mrs. Schoop only once and it happened 52 years ago. I was a young girl of 14 years old and it happened when I was on a vacation with my girlfriend Mary and her family. I had traveled to Mary’s cottage on Mullett Lake in Cheboygan, Michigan. The word cottage was a not really a good descriptor. For my house guest’s home was truly was a grand lake side home.  

At 14 years old, one of my earned titles was “Book Worm.” I felt pride in that. No hard feelings about the stereotype, just bring me more books.   

On the second day into our stay at the cottage, Mary’s family was gravely disappointed that it kept raining outside. But, because of that day of rain, I had two experiences that have made lifelong impacts on my life. 

The first of those was a found a basket of comic books I found in a window seat. When I earned the name “Book Worm”, it was certainly not because of reading comic books. I read novels, classics, and poetry. I had amazing parents, but they were not parents who allowed comic books in my library. I had seen the funny pages in the paper on occasion, but never a full comic book! While the rest of Mary’s family played the board game Clue, I made my myself comfortable on a soft pillow and grabbed a stack of those comic books. It was a story of true love. I particularly fell in love with Archie, Veronica, Betty, and Jughead. I read the stack and then read it again and again. 

The other event that happened because of the rain that day was Mary’s mother suggesting we meet the woman in the cottage next door. All I knew before walking into her door was that she was a proper old lady who did not like nonsense. “Oh great, an old spinster” I thought.  Yes, words like spinster were very much in my vocabulary thanks to the books Nancy Drew and Anne of Green Gables.  

Mary’s mother wanted us to dress up a bit for the visit. It had been arranged that Mrs. Schoop would provide us with a full tea party at her home. Mary’s mom had us practice our manners, but I was comfortable in this subject, I even knew how to curl my little finger while drinking.  

As we approached Mrs. Shoop’s home, she stood guarding her back doorway. She perfectly fit the look that I had put together in my imagination. Tall, stately, white hair in a tight bun, a shawl around the shoulders and a cane. She did not smile but offered a little wave instead.  

“Oh swell” I thought, “this is going to be a horrible day.”  

But, once my foot passed over the threshold of her back door, I was in a new universe. One that I would model later in my adult life. I was ever so familiar with the phrase, “do not judge a book by its cover” and this was certainly the case now. Mrs. Shoop was much more than she appeared at the first glance. 

The tea party was set on a table with fancy frilled linen that was printed with a strawberry pattern. There were teacups, fancy china, creamers, and sugar bowls all shaped to look like fanciful strawberries. The wallpaper was a beautiful border of budding strawberries, the rugs were shaped like enormous strawberries and the chairs had a similar pattern on the fabric seats and backs. Of course, the tea party included fresh berries and large strawberry milk shakes. “This is so cool”, I thought to myself while remembering my manners and waiting for Mrs. Shoop to be seated before I sat and placed my strawberry linen napkin into my lap. We had our party. And then, Mrs. Shoop suggested that we might like to take a tour of her home.  

The first room upstairs was a train room. The room was complete with train tracks built around the walls, and little trains chugged past us overhead. The lamps, chairs and all the décor continued the train theme. 

I was beginning to understand that Mrs. Shoop might become one of my favorite people. The amount of creative talent expressed in her decorating had such appeal. It allowed her guests to be in an almost reverent awe of her creative expressions.  

What would the next rooms hold? As it turns out, I would then see a room of pigs…yes fancy porcelain pigs that were large and walking right across the center of the pig room floor. There were flying pigs moved by large fans on the ceiling. From room to room, we continued the tour of themes. 

Many years later, when I became a single woman again after my divorce, I had my own time and place to decorate as I saw fit. I started by making my living room fit for any sea captain. The walls had great nautical art and word art about the seas. A large shipping chest sat in the corner. A sextant with mermaids sat on my shelves. She was a beauty.  

Friends that I entertained, loved the feel of the room. They said that my house gave them the sense that they wanted to memorize and find each of the treasures. I expanded to a family room bedecked with Little Red Riding Hoods…antique illustrated books, cookie jars, all sorts of treasures. The Red Riding Hood art pieces on my walls were both contemporary and classic paintings. 

Eventually, I downsized, and all my theme rooms got packed up for the taking. I have ended up living in a tiny house. No longer in need of so many possessions sitting on shelves anymore. The creativity that I have still finds room for expression in writing, photography and art.  

That being said, ALL of my current artwork in my tiny house is of my favorite animal…Elephants. In fact, a large Vietnamese porcelain elephant is a corner piece in my living room and even my pillows are shaped like elephants.  

I don’t have shelves for display items anymore, but needless to say, if I did have a curio cabinet shelf, I expect you would see a very fancy and fun shelf of elephants on display. 

47% German

47

Linda Claire in German mountain climber outfit 1959

I have done genealogy research long enough to realize that this passion of mine is viewed by some folks as quite boring. But, I have always had a preoccupation and interest in where I came from and who my ancestors were. I am born to be a story teller and so I wanted to know the stories of my own roots and my own family history. These stories showed me a pathway to the social and cultural history of my ancestors. They were stories that I memorized and retold.

At a very early age, I begged my mother to tell me the stories of our family. She related the stories of her childhood during the Great Depression and how her grandmother immigrated to America from Germany. OK, I decided, I am of a clear German heritage.

Well, this made sense. After all, all our Christmas cookies were from our German recipes … lebkuchen and springle’s are still my favorite. My Grandmother used German words for household items. Well, correction, I thought she was using all German words. For instance, when she wanted us to get our bumbershoots and we understood that to mean we were to bring our umbrellas, it turns out that the word bumbershoot is from the USA. The first known use of the word was not even until 1876.

One of our family favorite side dishes were German kniffles. Yes, that is a true variation of the word spatzen. Our family was Sud Deutsch. Southern Germany. So, there were some words common to that region that were not generally used elsewhere.

Ann Arbor was settled in part by a large German community. My family was a part of that settlement. Bethlehem Church, where we attended worship, continued sermons in German into the mid-60’s.

Our family sang together. I learned a special yodeling song from my mother. We often sang songs in German. On a family car ride we might sing,”Du, du, liegest mir am Herzen, du, du, liegest mir im Zinn”. At Christmas, our Ann Arbor church on 4th Avenue sang some German carols.

Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht
Alles schläft; einsam wacht
Nur das traute hochheilige Paar.
Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!

Growing up, it was not uncommon to be asked about my heritage. “German”, I would clearly state. “I am such a German girl”.

BUT…

BUT…

BUT…

wait for it. wait for it. wait for it.

This was literally less than a half truth.

Although my father loved to tell stories, they were really never about his family. I do remember that he had told us we had American patriots in our family. He said that my sisters and I qualified to be Daughters of the American Revolution. We never joined. I was incurious about his family stories because he seemed to be.

Fast forward, in 2016, I spit into a small container to send away to Ancestry.com for my DNA results. Also, by this time, I had done enough research to know what the results would say. During my entire childhood and early to mid adult years, I believed it to be true that I was of 100% German ancestry. Turns out this is actually only 47% true.

47% true? How did we disregard that other 53% of our heritage? That 53% that is represented by primarily English and some Irish roots. This was not represented in our family customs, diets, music, clothing, church, and more. I have now read many historical facts and stories about my English ancestors. You could say, that I am getting to know them.

I guess I am somewhat sad that I can no longer ask my father the millions of questions I have. The good news is that as an adult I have started connecting with my first cousins. They have provided me with stories that my father’s brother (my uncle) knew about the family. The story that I like best is about my ancestors being captured by pirates. Clearly, that rates among my favorites.