Gold Medal Beauty

My first memories of my mother are…my first memories. My hair hurts. My head hurt. Curlers – not greed - are the root of all evil. In my first baby photo, I had a total of - maybe - 7 hairs….all curled. From then until I turned 13, every picture in our family album my hair was either piled on my head full of pins and spray or…in curlers wrapped with toilet paper. Like all writers, I am the author of my own history….however, mine are confirmed by photographs.

My mother’s only education is beauty school. I was her best student. Interestingly, my mother never had much to say about my wardrobe. This was not part of her curriculum. Also, it was obvious early, that we were not going to share the same form. Tall and lean, my mother lived on days of fad diets and evenings of popcorn. Built my like my father’s mother, I, too am tall, but a large ass and overflowing bust made me a target at a young age. The teasing was endless; the moniker of “Triple B” (big butt, boobs and baby)still is stamped on the inside of my brain. This was the beginning of my love/hate relationship with my body.

Mom brought me to Montgomery Wards to buy my first bra. My mother was always easy to find in stores. It was just a matter of looking up. Over the racks of clothing and the selves of cosmetics, her hair was like a beacon high above steep cliffs of merchandize. I was lost in the storm of bras. They intimidated me with their jagged rows of hooks and suffocating thick fabric. Why would I want to add depth and weight to an area already thicker than my peers? Nothing fit. Nothing was creating the illusion of a flat chest as I had hoped. Mom’s impatience added volume to her suggestion of “I am just going to buy an ace bandage and roll you up in it,” causing all eyes to assess the problem of this pubescent child. To this day, shopping for bras, along with jeans and bathing suits, requires extended mental preparation, a glass of wine and a friend who is an excellent liar.

Mom always had a new diet for me…chalky shakes, cabbage soup and caffeine-packed candy. When shuffling through the pictures of my youth, I cannot seem to find that image that rendered her fat fear. I was athletic; I was thin. She would probably say, “…and you are welcome.”

Boys dated me to be near my mother. It is true. She was a beauty…still is. Her youthfulness was two fold. She not only looked young, she acted it. She laughed, she hugged, and she played. Mom was so entertained her children. At 67, she continues played with us…waterskiing, fishing, cards, rollerblading, dominos and trampoline jumping. Not too many years ago, I came home from work to find a note from my 10 year old son saying that he and grandma had gone around the block to McKennan Park to ice skate. There she was in the middle of the rink, doing one of those Olympic spins where the individual blurs into a personified tornado. She had on her fringed buckskin coat. It was – she was – poetry in motion, and not a hair moved or was out of place.

Last week, I swung by a local restaurant to say hi to my mom as she was meeting friends from high school. The husbands of her former classmates must have been green with envy. While their wives had aged into visual pictures of Midwest grandmothers with grey helmet hair and the “I give up outfit” of jean cropped pants and camp shirts, my mother looked – well – sexy.

Long before “Stacy’s mom had it going on” and terms such a MILF and cougar, there was my mother - tall, elegant, tanned, stylish and perfectly coiffed. However, her real beauty is that she has no idea of her stunning physicality. She is too busy serving a community, spoiling her family, playing, laughing and praying in her world….and that is truly beautiful.

Royal Blood

I took these shots of nieces Sydni and Jadyn on Sunday...I am so inspired that tomorrow I may go to work dressed like Wonder Woman!

Cancer Sucks

Troubleshooting Cancer

My Dad is Trouble and Someday I Just Want to Shoot Him

I talk…a lot. Ask anyone to describe me and the visceral responses are usually, “she talks too much” or “she is too opinionated.” My father once told me that “I had diarrhea of the mouth.” It isn’t pretty, and I can’t deny those descriptions. However, my real strength is my ability to not speak. It’s true; I can also be quiet for hours on end.

As a theatre director, I spend half of my life quietly sitting in darkened houses – observing, assessing, feeling, and troubleshooting.

These skills - that I continue to hone in the dark - came to light during my dad’s time in the hospital following his colon and rectal surgery and during all the subsequent visits and stays thereafter. I can sit in a room and say nothing…for a long time. This is important when the one you are sitting with is in pain or is scared – language is not normally welcomed but having someone sharing the silence with you is.

I have heard people describe knowing that they are have found “the one” because they are so comfortable with that other person that they can take road trips or watch TV and just sit…just be. The need to speak is not necessary. Ohmygosh…I think that I may be “the one” for my father.

I troubleshoot for a living. I have to make sure schedules work – actors, advisees, technicians, faculty committees. I have to balance this along with making sure my men gets to family functions, school and church events, appointments, and work. This also takes a certain amount of vision. I see that when the third dancer from the right does that twirl during the first chorus, she will run into the upstage staircase. Therefore, I need to move her or adjust the design. If an actor has to go be at work at Tuesday at 6 pm in order to pay his tuition so that he can then be in the play; well then, I cannot work the scene or act that he is in on Tuesday at 6 pm and need to revisit the schedule. If I know that I am meeting with an advisee who is failing a required general class (for the second time), there may be tears. So, I make sure my phone is turned off and the Kleenex are available. If my son’s car insurance is due, and I know he can’t make the payment this month, I just make the transfer. Troubleshooting protects those I care about from getting hurt.

Listening and troubleshooting are inseparable. When my father is still in the hospital 10 days longer than he expected, I plant myself next to him. When he shifts more than three times in one minute, I remember to grab his robe and tell him I ready for a walk and ask if he would like to join me. When his tasteless food arrives, I remember that I need to run to the gas station and that V8 and granola bars are there anyway, so I will just pick some up. When he tries to control visitors (family included) with dialogue infected with sarcasm and abrasive opinions that seem hurtful, I remember that he has absolutely no control of physical condition and that he hurts. So when I bite my tongue and nod, I am helping him ease the pain. If I see something coming I do not hesitate to divert it or grab it. It is just troubleshooting.

And by the way, after spending 5 to 10 hours a day is a darkened theater just listening, it is no wonder I talk a lot when I finally get the chance….just ask me.

It's Not World Peace

My 3 am Thoughts…

My friend Mary Garry’s, “It’s not world peace” is a kinder, gentler version of my father’s “You are not nearly as important as you think you are” that I grew up with. Both aphorisms have served me well.

Like every child I cringe to believe – let alone acknowledge – that I have grown up to be my parents. My mom is exempt from this trepidation as I could only hope to grow up to be the kind, selfless, and beautiful woman she is. If it takes a village, my mother is the mayor, the preacher, the teacher and hairdresser all rolled into one. My dad, on the other hand, is the terrifying authorities feared in such shows that I grew up with like The Rifleman, Gunsmoke, Hawaii 50 and Ironside.

When I was young, I remember my father – exasperated – spit, “You are either way up or way down; there it is no in between.” Then, I became a high school teacher. Much to my surprise, I discovered that I had been no different than every other teenager girl. Dad clearly needed to get out more.

Like my father, I enjoy a good story. Like my father, I talk with my hands. Like my father, I tend to hyperbolize. If I was 20 years younger, my overactive, creative brain would have probably gotten me a diagnosis of ADHD; but in the late 60’s and early 70’s it just got me in a lot of trouble. Episodes of being tied into a chair, locked in a storage closet, and having my mouth duct taped shut were all acceptable prescriptions for overzealous educational enthusiasm in my elementary schools.

If I am a drama queen; my father is the tyrant. Unlike my father, I have turned my ability to dramatize into a profit. And, unlike my father, I know when to shut the show down. My students know that it only takes a soft, “Kim, can I talk to you a minute?” for them to see that my time and ear is their’s. When lines are not memorized, the set is not dry (and it is opening night), tickets are not selling and the lead actor has been puking since 4 am, I typically just take a breath, say a prayer and repeat, “It’s not world peace, “and great wave of quiet priority floats me through the moment as I am reminded that this is not about me. “I am not nearly as important as I think I am.” Life is just easier when your self-serve line in life goes out of order, and you have to float to find the humor and honor.

Stoma, feces, and open incisions are grotesque props to the dramatic climax of a colostomy. There is nothing attractive about any of it. My father’s new aesthetic caused my mother to – literally – swoon….and not in a good way. The village nurse she will never be. I saw it coming in my periphery, so I simply walked over, held her elbow subtly and sat her down so she did not faint. In the meantime, I was light headed. I chocked back gags. I asked lots of questions….and I smiled the entire time. I gave a Tony Award winning performance because you see, “I am not nearly as important as I think I am.”

My dad is the protagonist in this drama, and like all great stage heroes, his first lines were to all of us was, “Faith and family are the most important things we have.” Okay, so he was still doped up or morphine, but it was pretty dramatic and delivered right on cue.

My village has been infected with cancer, but the show must go on. My dad continues to cast me in this supporting role of nursemaid, whipping girl and security guard. I was the 1st girl on the right at 3 am in his hospital room as he recovered from surgery, and I continue to be his antagonist during his chemo sessions. He has never offered me a kind word nor a rave review.

Only once did he offer the ultimate sacrifice –his hospital room’s remote control. When you are donning a wardrobe of hospital robes, eating only jello and waiting for time to heal, the possession of the remote control is like the key to the Rosetta Stone. It was as close as I am ever going to get to a “Thank you” or a “Please, don’t go,” and that is okay.

“I am not nearly as important as I think I am” and this is may not be “world peace.” However, my relationship with my father is important, and I am learning that a quiet peace shared between the normal dramatics the two of us usually share, mean the world to me.

Poet Laureate of Sherman, SD

You know where sympathy is in the dictionary? Between shit and syphilis.


Ben Franklin and Winston Churchill have nothing on my dad. He is a blue collar wordsmith. My first memory of my father’s manipulation of the vernacular came early. When we would fall down and cry, as small children do, he would say, “Come over here, and I will pick you up.” This always seemed odd to me. If I could get up, I probably wouldn’t be crying. I have no memory of my dad ever picking me up.


My father did not show any of his children extended physical affection. That is not to say he that was not physical with us. My father liked to boast, “Some people call it fear; I call it respect.” In truth, he was probably more right than I wish. I did fear my father. He was quick to spank, and I was no stranger to the power of his hand wrapped around a razor strap. I was first introduced to the strap after an extended game of kick the can in the Brandon hood. The sun had gone down and so did the drama in my house. I received my last physical punishment at the age of 16. I got home past a curfew - that was never established - after being out with a boy he disliked. “You know when late is too late” he would say.


It was 2 am. There he stood, belt in hand. As I had to walk up gauntlet - up the three steps to the kitchen – instead of running downstairs to my room. I wish I would have hissed “Let them eat cake” as I peed the on my mother’s kitchen carpet. However, I was never as articulate as my father is those trying times. Our home was a landmine of unspoken, but punishable if infracted, laws.


A few years later, I visiting home from college on a Saturday. In truth, I probably came home to take advantage of my mom who would wash my clothes, pack me homemade food and slip me a twenty. I had plans for the evening which included dancing at the Revolution in downtown Sioux Falls, drinking 3.2 beer and crashing at my cousin Lori’s. Before heading out, my dad reminded me that church was at 9 am. This was not part of the plan. Since I was now in my second year of higher learning, it was official; I had more education than my parents. I knew things. I informed my father that I did not have to be in a building in order to pray and serve the Lord, and the tradition of Sunday church was archaic. My father sighed, “It is amazing that someone who is spending money to be smarter can become so dumb.” I may not have been the loudest voice singing “This is my Father’s World” the next morning, but my butt was in the pew.


My father had a mantra. From what I can tell, Dad’s “Pride will kill ya,” was his bumper sticker adaptation of his AA influenced “The Serenity Prayer.” We heard this phrase a lot. All through high school, this was his answer to everything….well, that followed close by “either you fix it or I will,” and “kill ‘em with kindness.” The later of these – in retrospect – seems odd advice from a man, who loves the fresh blood of landing a verbal kill.


I never talked back to my parents; I still don’t. However, I do have one moment of burning glory. My dad had just laid down a “pride will kill ya,” to which I responded, “I don’t think you are suppose to say that to your kids. I participate in every sport possible, serve in every club, have a part-time job all while getting mostly ‘A’s.’ Why aren’t you proud of me? Why shouldn’t I be proud of myself?” Frankly, I was could not have been more proud of myself at that moment….but as the Greeks can attest, pride can topple the biggest and best of us. Dad’s response was textbook Sylvin, “Pride will kill you” he muttered as he wickedly smiled, shook his head and walked to the other room.


Fast-forward to January 1984. I am a single parent of a 3 month old son, living in a low-income housing, receiving my monthly Aid to Dependent Children check, and reporting to WIC every other Saturday at the 4H Building for baby formula, KIX cereal and blocks of free cheese the size of my torso. Only once did I complain in front of my parents about my financial dependence on the State to which my father quickly retorted, “I have been working and paying taxes since I was 17, - your mother too – to help girls just like you. Suck it up, take the help, get an education, find a job, pay taxes, and help the next girl.”

Not long after that I was in the Brookings Hy-Vee using food stamps to buy groceries. The woman behind me had an opinion about my choices and had no problem sharing them with me. Evidently, she was acutely aware that her taxes were helping this girl. It was my father’s echo of “pride will kill ya” that allowed me to take my bags, smile (kill her with kindness) and just walk away.


If my sister was to contribute to this story, she would say that her favorite “dadism” is “how much corn do you think that would hold?” This question works whether visiting the Smithsonian, the Vatican or the neighbor’s silo. If you asked my children, they would instantaneously – complete with a Sylvin accent – harmonize a “Oh, Yeah.


Me? I may resemble his frequent assessment of someone who “is talking just to hear their head rattle,” but it was a calm morning in June when I witnessed my father at his most colorful and articulate. Evidently, dad found himself behind my son Tyler on a Sioux Falls street. Forever a motorhead, dad had been waiting 15 years to buy Tyler his first vehicle. He had also been waiting 15 years to teach Tyler the rules of the road. After tailing him around town and witnessing excess speed and other breeches of the driving handbook, my dad followed Tyler home. By the time I open the back door, dad was mid-rip. “Who do you think you are? Dale Earnhardt? Kid, if your head was any further up your ass, we are going to have to insert a plate glass window in your stomach just so we can have a conversation.”


Take that Eleanor Roosevelt. I could not have said it better. Copy. Print.

White Trash Kennedys

The day we were told that my father had cancer, we sat in a cramped, sterile room on the 4th floor of the Cancer Institute on the “Elvira” medical campus.

Both of my parents call the hospital “Elvira” when, in fact, it is the Avera Health System. I have tried to correct them with subtle humor, but their lips seem to easily exchange an “E” for the “A” Maybe it is their love of country music or an homage to the Oakridge Boys

Elvira, Elvira My heart's on fire Elvira Giddy Up Oom Poppa Omm Poppa Mow Mow Giddy Up Oom Poppa Omm Poppa Mow Mow Heigh-ho Silver, away

My parents slip the extra “l” in automatically. If my family was to sponsor a letter on Sesame Street, it would be the letter “l.” Lillian, love, laughter, lefsa…are all important “L” words in our home.

So here we are. Mom is on my left, Thad on my right, Dad on the examination bed in front of me (and Jen on speed dial). I have described my family as the white trash Kennedys. We live, love, fight and move in a pack. For almost thirty years we loaded up the Winnebago to travel cross country for track meets, basketball tournaments and football games. Furthermore, not a baptism, birthday, funeral or Sunday at Grandma Sievers’ was missed by our Schetnan entourage.

If my mother had it her way, my brother and his family, me and mine and my sister would all live on the farm like a Minnehaha Hyannis Port. I am proud of my white Kennedy status. When I say we, I mean we- aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins (second through fourth removed), we are quite a clan. However, my proud waving of our white trash status came to an abrupt halt last 4th of July when my mom overheard me taking to my friend Neil on the phone. “No…no big plans. It is a typical white trash Kennedy holiday. We are heading out to my cousin Denny’s barn to drink Budweiser and blow shit up.” With tears in her eyes mom told me she never wanted to hear me say that again. I am not sure what upset her the most the “white trash” or the “Kennedy” part.

Scott Baker, my father surgeon, enters. He has a stoic wit, which makes him an immediate hit with the clan and a welcome partner of crime for my father. Also, he is cute as the day is long, which is important when dealing with the ugliness of the situation. Okay, so maybe it just helps me.

There are words that are just funny … Punxsutawney Phil, masticate, lisp, Louisiana, squeegee and thespian. There is nothing funny about the words cancer or malignant. Unfortunately, Baker’s delivery fell flat; his timing was off.

First my father looked right at my mother. I have never seen my parents look at each other like that. It was focused. It was loud. It was heart breaking. It was unnerving. Beneath their constant picking and bitching, are two people who have fought the good fight together for 45 years. I do not know who was looking to whom for reassurance.

My father’s visceral (another really good word) response was, “I am so glad it is me. “ He said this three times. The comedic rule of three did not work here either. It was met by silence. I was the next to speak. “Okay, listen to me old man; you are going to make some changes. There is a 16 year old at my house following you around just hoping you will drop him a crumb of time and affection. You have been too hard on him, and it stops today.” He just nodded.

A month later, my dad’s first oncologist informs us that of the 19 lymph nodes removed, 5 are packed with cancer and have oozed through the colon lining. This results in a stoma that looks like someone’s lips have been turned inside out and attached to my dad’s stomach. For some reason, I called it “Petey.”

No time for adolescent jokes about Petey farting; I wanted to know numbers, statistics, and percentages…things that are anything but funny. In his slow foreign accent, the doctor delivered deadpan, “There is a 50-50 chance of survival in five years. How does that sound?” Who says that? “How does that sound?” I retorted, “It sound terrible. It sounds unacceptable. In fact, it sucks.” The WTKennedy’s did not look up. This was not a class act response from their Carolyn-in-training. He had a medical degree and was treating our father and her husband, where was my class? My pedigree? He answered, “Yes, it sucks.”

My last conversation with the oncologist was after my father suffered his second heart attack on his second chemo treatment. I was in Whole Foods in Union Square in NYC. Between the organic grains and the sugarless canned fruits, I asked him, “Why can’t you cut back the chemo power and go more time?” In short, I was told to stay in theatre and let the cancer drama to the experts.

The next lines (via phone):

Dad: “Hey.”
Me: “I talked to the doctor, and he is worried about your heart.”
Dad: “It is fine, but I am stopping treatment.”
Me: I cannot understand that there are no options. My god, there are options for everything…everything.
Dad: I would rather die slowly from cancer than tomorrow from a heart attack. I am done. It is fine.
Me: No, it is not fine. I am 2,000 miles from kicking butt and taking names.

Today, almost a year later, I was – again – in a small room of dad’s second oncologist (when all you got is a “yes, it sucks” as a retort, you are going to lose your audience). My father, for the first time in his life listened to someone else’s opinion….which was to get another opinion. Dr. McHale’s assistant read us the Petscan. “It is clean.” Clean. Clean. Clean is not a funny word, but it certainly rolls easily off the tongue. My Dad worked the room. He was like an actor reading rave reviews after opening night. He was – dare I say – giddy (a very fun word). He hugged nurses and offered a plethora (a hall of fame fun word) of thank yous.

Before blowing the chemo popcorn stand, Dad had to get one more blood pressure read. It was up, but he confessed that he may have felt some anxiety over the prospect of the diagnosis. That was fair. I am sure even the real JFK broke a sweat when the reports came in during the Bay of Pigs or when Page 6 of the Times featured him and Marilyn. My mother’s reaction was odd. She got very quiet. She still had that same scared look on her face that she had almost a year earlier; a look of fear for the future. However, in the spirit of Jackie O., my mom suppressed her feelings, painted on a smile, and through her gracious (my number one favorite word) silence, reminded us all that she is the first lady of white trash royalty.