Steph Simply

Morning Mindset

November 2, 2017November 1, 2017 by stephsimply, posted in Uncategorized

“Your first ritual that you do during the day is the highest leveraged ritual, by far, because it has the effect of setting your mind, and setting the context for the rest of your day.”—Eban Pagan

“There is enormous power in nailing your morning routine, but there’s even more power in adapting to it when it doesn’t happen as we’d like.”—Terri Schneider

I will be painfully honest, and perhaps even, a bit vulnerable. Last week, was not one of my better weeks. Therefore, as I write this piece, I am writing to myself as much as I am writing to you, Dear Reader. It is my hope these personal reflections benefit another person struggling through a tough week, day, or even moment.

Due to the fact, I try to accomplish several tasks in the morning; I try not to hit snooze-button on weekday alarms. I have learned that by hitting snooze, I am setting myself up for trouble later, namely running late. Running late then leads to the domino that starts the fall of other events, such as not having enough time in my classroom before students and co-workers arrive to adjust to my space and the day—which can have a noteworthy impact because I am no longer naturally wired to be instantly extroverted in the morning. Engaging with numerous children and adults requires abundant energy, clarity, and focus, at least for me. Thus, having that buffer time of 15-20 minutes to quietly rev up, despite the fact I typically have everything in my classroom set up for the day before I arrive at school, generates an upbeat start.

Of additional importance, as this past week demonstrated, are those initial waking thoughts. Mindset is vastly influential. Despite the fact I did not hit the snooze button, I began last week, and honestly, each day, with a mindset of dread. But first, a disclaimer . . .

I am, by nature, as the saying goes, a hot-mess-express when it comes to organization, including time. One look at my house and personal belongings will give you insight into this fact. Fortunately, my wonderful parents recognized my hard-wired chaotic nature, repeatedly talked to me about it, and further modeled the power of routine. Not only did they teach/model the importance of establishing a routine schedule for time-management, but also habits regarding where and how to keep belongings. Therefore, I know how to set up a fairly successful time management routine, and have at least applied them to my professional life.

My car/house keys are kept in my purse, while my school badge and school keys are kept in my school bag. Cell phone is placed in my purse on the way out the door to school, and set on my desk upon arriving to my room. White boards at the back of my classroom have three lists, one for each grade I teach, enumerating my students’ daily goals—which are always rewritten every afternoon before leaving school. Post-it notes of to-do lists adorn my desk, along with a stack of papers that require my attention on the next school day, are organized in the afternoon before my departure as well. Instructional routines for the day, week, month, and year, have all been intentionally created to ensure I hit every instructional goal by the end of a school year. However, one alteration in these plan; and BOOM, I become a proverbial fish out of water, not able to breathe properly as I yearn for the waters of routine, structure, and consistency.

And, that, my Dear Reader, is why I began last week with a mindset of dread. The previous week had already been filled with numerous alterations in the schedule, and the then current week was beginning that way as well. Furthermore, I began to feel as if I had become the stereotypical, “old” teacher, set in her inflexible ways. “Get rid of me now,” I felt certain, was printed all over my forehead last week like the scarlet letter of Hester Prynne’s chest.

Like that recognizable fish on the sandy shores of life, I flipped and flopped, trying to edge back into the water in order to swim with the flow. “I can do it,” I told myself, “I can go with the flow of change.” Then, as I began to go-with-the-flow, and not my carefully constructed routine, I would completely forget to complete required task(s). This would then initiate another cycle of self-flagellation, “I’m of no use. Why couldn’t I remember a simple request?”

With great admiration (and some envy too), I watched as several of my young co-workers navigated through all the changes and requirements with seemingly little struggle. Oh, how I wished I could be more like them. (On Friday, however, one shared the week had seemed frustrating and challenging to her too!)

Which brings me back to the purpose of all this rambling confession: the importance of a positive morning mindset. While a routine is helpful and important, a flexible and optimistic mindset is quite possibly of greater value than my routine, especially now as the upcoming days become shorter and more frequently cloud-filled, and yet schedules often become more harried, hurried, and inconsistent as the year heads into holiday months.

Getting up early, without hitting the snooze, in order to have time to exercise is a noble and worthy cause for the health of my physical body. However, if my thoughts, as I step out of bed, are focused on the dread of the upcoming day, then perhaps I am creating a habit as powerfully negative as hitting the snooze button repeatedly. Perhaps, instead, I would benefit from two skills that I most recently practiced on a trip with my 7^th grade students to Camp Magis.

Firstly, going to bed with grateful heart and a positive intention for the next day. Then, upon rising, refocus on that positive intention. Furthermore, I need to return to an old habit, which has gradually slipped away from me: spending a few moments of each morning in meditation/prayer. Taking as little as 10-15 minutes of time to pray/meditate and/or reflect upon a purposeful readings, may not only offer clarity to the monkey-chatter of my mind, but may also encourage a more agile, nimble, and responsive state of mind—benefitting not only me, but also, the co-workers and students with whom I want to be of service. Of course, I will need to readjust my established morning routine, but if last week was any indication, it is certainly with a try!

Go, Do Not be Afraid, and Serve

October 26, 2017November 20, 2017 by stephsimply, posted in #breakingbread, Herald-Dispatch Articles, Simple Observations and Musings, Travels

“But the LORD said to me, “Do not say, ‘I am too young.’ You must go to every one I send you to and say whatever I command you.” Jeremiah 1:7

“Go, do not be afraid, and serve.”—Pope Francis

“It’s too early, Mrs. Hill,” yawned one of the 7th grade girls in my car as we traveled in a caravan towards our ultimate destination: Camp Magis, held at Bishop Hodges Catholic Pastoral Center located on 1,400 acres in the middle of WV mountains just outside Huttonsville.

“I’m just going to sleep until there’s enough daylight to read,” sleepily stated another young lady.

“I’ll just take a nap too,” I retorted in a poor attempt at early morning humor.

Neither of the girls said a word. Yep, they were definitely sleepy. After all, it was just minutes after 6:00 am, and most of the students were not used to being awake this early.

John, my husband and fellow co-worker, was ahead of me in his truck as well as five other parent-volunteer drivers, three of whom would be staying in the camp along with John and me. The drive would take about 3 ½ to 4 hours, depending upon traffic and length of stops.

The Camp Magis tradition began in 2014 for all seventh graders in WV Catholic schools. The name, “Magis,” whose Latin roots mean more or better, also comes from St. Ignatius of Loyola, who asked, “What more (magis) can do I do for Christ?” In addition, the Camp’s spiritual theme was further inspired by Pope Francis who urged youth at the World Youth Day rally in 2013, to “Go, do not be afraid, and serve.”

Last year, John returned from camp, after his first visit, bubbling over with enthusiasm for the activities, the counselors, and they way in which the students bonded—not only to each other, but to their faith. Thus, when I was asked this year if I would go, I had to say, “yes.”

Still, I must confess, the teacher side of me was bemoaning the fact I would miss three days of classroom instruction with my students. Certainly, I could leave plans for my 6^th and 8^th graders, but that type of work is not the same. Then, on Friday, five days before we were to leave for camp, Father Dean talked to the 7^th graders at the end of our weekly church service. While his message was meant for the students, I could not help be inspired as well.

He began by emphasizing that importance that magis means more and better.

“Go, be ambassadors for our school. Do more than is asked of you. Do better than is expected of you. Ask yourself, what is God calling me to do more of or to become better at? Be mindful and prayful in these questions throughout your stay.”

Much to my delight, our students took Father Dean’s directions to heart during our three-day stay. From volunteering to read during church service, to cleaning up after meals, to diving into activities with vigor and vim, to sitting/kneeling quietly during times of prayer, to helping one another during difficult tasks, as well as to looking out for a student from another school who clearly had some challenges—our students did more and better.

Specifically, two activities deeply stirred me. One occurred each morning. Students were asked to attend chapel at the start of each day, before any other activity, including breakfast, for a unique prayer service. I was prepared for whining, complaining, and passive nonparticipation, but I was pleasantly surprised.

Both mornings, students, with no prodding from the other parent-volunteers, John, or me, listened to the speakers, and did as instructed. Looking around the chapel each morning and seeing our students, side-by-side teens and chaperones from other schools, kneeling at the alter, or sitting with their heads down in prayer and reflection, was such moving scene—I could not help but feel a profound stillness and sense of peace within.

In fact, walking away from chapel on our last morning, one of my students said to me with a wide smile, “Mrs. Hill, I didn’t think I’d like having to pray every morning, but I feel happier each time I do it. It’s like God giving me a hug to start my day.”

She was still grinning as she took off running to catch up with a group of girls heading to breakfast in the brightness of the full-on golden sunshine of a brisk autumn morning. If only I could bottle that moment for another time, when teen hormones will inevitably cloud her vision; but maybe, just maybe, the seeds of prayer, like the fallen hickory nuts l kept stepping on, haven taken root within her and will help her weather stormy days of teenage angst.

Did I mention that the camp setting could not have been more idyllic? Fall colors were flamboyant like an outdoor Christmas light display. In fact, many of our activities required hiking up hills of multi-hued leafy paths.

One of these hikes was based upon Mother Teresa’s quote, . . .”God is the friend of silence. . . . . We need silence to be able to touch souls.” Kids and chaperones alike were invited to spread over and up the side of a hill. Once nestled into a spot away from other campers, we were to spend 20 minutes in total silence.

I chose to walk as high as was permitted on the edge of a heavily forested area. The wind continuously whistled, rustling the leaves. Colors of amber, rust, and honey gently rained around me. The scent of overly-ripened apples, the detritus of fall, and damp earth filled my nostrils. I leaned back on my hands sensing the blades of cool, green grass bending with the pressure of my touch. The mountains across the valley were rolling and numerous, striking a bold, colorful contrast to the cobalt sky and soft, billowy clouds. Below me were students immersed in the sounds of nature and stillness. It was as if this natural resonance were an old-school felt eraser wiping away the mental, monkey-chatter often scrawled upon my mind. This was a Divine moment on a Divine canvas.

Such symbolic representation—we were separate; and yet, we were one in His silence. What a message: One world; one collective group of people–divinely created to serve one another and our earth.

Magis. Let us do more. Let us do better.

New Brunswick Bar Clams

October 19, 2017October 18, 2017 by stephsimply, posted in #breakingbread, Herald-Dispatch Articles, Recipes, Travels

“Oh, bar clams are so good. You could eat them right out of the jar!”—Vincent Theriault

This past summer, our family spent two weeks visiting the Canadian province of New Brunswick. It was a third visit, but our first time staying just outside the mostly French speaking community of Petit -Rocher. The house in which we stayed, found on Air BnB, was beautifully situated on the Bay of Chaleur.

Arriving to the vacation cottage in which we stayed off the Bay of Chaleur in Petit Rocher, New Brunswick

It has been our experience that the maritime provinces of Canada possess some of the warmest, most friendly people. This summer’s trip was not an exception. The neighbors to the right and left of our house were often visitors to our evening campfires, and we welcomed them with delight. In fact, by our last night, we were hanging out at one neighbor’s campfire, the Roy family.

D0B9C43B-D7D3-49A6-BDF6-A1B8E466ED6B — Starting the campfire before darkness falls. Petit Rocher neighbors would stop by this campfire during the evenings to chat.

The Roy family welcomed us into the neighborhood on the first sunny day. (We arrived in the midst of a rainy cold front; and thus, the first couple of days were wet, cool, and not suitable for building a fire.) Bobby Roy was the first to introduce himself, soon followed by his son Denis. As the weeks progressed, we met more members of this gregarious and outgoing family. They were great neighbors, and we now treasure fond memories of our time spent together in this picturesque setting.

John and Bobby Roy

Canadian flag bestowed upon us by Bobby Roy and his family.

Denis and his father, Bobby, were frequent evening visitors!

In fact, the Roy family was so generous, by the end of our first week; they had presented our family with an official Canadian flag that we flew proudly while staying there. John, my husband, was bestowed with a stylish Canadian ball cap. Furthermore, we were also given a jar of a New Brunswick delicacy, bar clams. Both Denis and Bobby stated the bar clams would make great chowder. I proudly took these into the vacation home in which we were staying; set the jar on the counter with the full intention of eating them while we were there.

On previous trips, we stayed in Janeville, NB, also on the idyllic Bay of Chaleur. During our first trip there, we made friends with another family, the Theriaults, Vincent, Gisele, and their dog, Bijou. On this last trip, however, we were located about 40 minutes north of them. Wonderfully, though, we were able to get together with them a couple of times during this same visit.

24336CD9-D3AB-4A63-A4AD-28DB7A03324D — Vincent Theriault, John, Maddie, me, and Gisele Theriault when we first met in Janeville, New Brunswick. The house (church) in which we stayed is in background, and their summer cottage is directly behind us.

It was during a dinner visit with Vincent and Gisele, that they happened to notice the jar of bar clams on the kitchen counter. They both shared with us how tasty the clams were. In fact, they stated that the clams could be enjoyed as a delicious meal straight out of the jar! Simply add a salad and a loaf of crusty, buttery bread; and, boom, dinner is served.

Gisele, Vincent, & Bjjou Theriault with me, John, and Maddie.

Gisele & Vincent Theriault, John, and Bobby Roy.

Vincent, Gisele, and Bijou Theriault of Janeville (summer) and Moncton, New Brunswick, Canada.

Ultimately, the clams came home with us still uneaten. John researched alternate ways to prepare these clams in addition to the methods described by the Roy’s and Theriault’s. He landed upon an idea—pasta.

Hmm . . .I liked that idea, but I would have to choose the pasta carefully because it must be gluten free due to my celiac disease; and trust me, not every gluten free pasta is tasty. However, I had recently tried one called POW, made out of mostly green lentils, that John even found appetizing. Therefore, I began brainstorming.

I could make the sauce completely from scratch. However, given the limited time during the workweek, I opted for a shortcut instead, and came up with plan after a visit to my favorite grocery store, Route 60 Kroger. I perused their aisle and purchased the following items: spaghetti squash (What’s not to love about this vegetable?), POW pasta, one jar of Classico brand Riserva Alfredo sauce, a can of Bumble Bee brand Red Clam Sauce, a bag of frozen peas, and a can of mushrooms (although any fresh variation of mushrooms would nice) as well as a can of fancy white crab meat (for an increase protein), and finally, a wedge of parmesan cheese.

Ingredients gathered for Bar Clam pasta with an appetizer of cheese and prosciutto!

Later that week, John and feasted on scrumptious bar clam pasta! The first night, I served my sauce over spaghetti squash only, while John ate the pasta. The next night, however, I combined the left over pasta and squash into a large casserole dish, poured the sauce over it, and topped it off with a bit of shredded cheese. This turned into a flavorsome casserole, which fed the two of us two more nights!

First night’s meal.

In fact, we loved this dish so much, that I have already purchased the ingredients to make it again—only we will have to settled for canned clams, instead of the fresh New Brunswick clams. Hopefully, it will still be a just as tasty!

Leftover night!

Thank you, Roy family, for generosity and hospitality as well as introducing us to a new food! Thank you, Vincent and Gisele, for your generous encouragement! While we did not have crusty bread, we did serve this wonderful meal with a simple salad, and savored pleasant thoughts of the wonderful people are fortunate enough to call friends from New Brunswick!

Bar Clam Pasta

1 spaghetti squash

1 box Ancient Harvest brand POW! Pasta (or your favorite brand/type pasta)

1 15 ounce jar of Classico brand Riserva Alfredo sauce

1 15 ounce can of Bumble Bee brand Tuscan style Read Clam Sauce

1 jar/can of bar clams or baby clams (size will vary depending upon how much you want, and brand you use)

1 6 ounce can fancy white crab mean

1 cup frozen green peas–optional

1 can or package of mushrooms—optional

Red pepper seeds, if desired

Preheat oven 375 degrees.

Coat long casserole dish with nonstick cooking spray.

Cut spaghetti squash lengthwise and remove seeds.

Place squash halves flesh side down in pan.

Bake 45 minutes or until flesh is tender and easily pricked with a fork.

Cook pasta according to package directions.

In large saucepan, combine both Alfredo sauce and clam sauce.

(I also add half-cup water, or milk, to the emptied Alfredo sauce and shake to fully get all sauce, but it is not necessary.)

Warm gently to a slightly bubbly stage.

Gently stir in crab, clams, peas, and mushrooms (if using)—do not boil—rather return to slightly bubbly stage for a few minutes.

Stir in ¼ cup shaved Parmesan cheese if desired to thicken sauce.

Cover and turn off sauce.

Once squash is baked, remove from oven.

With hot pads, flip squash over, flesh face up, and allow to cool.

Once cooled enough to handle, use large spoon to scoop out flesh into dish.

Separate flesh with fork and season with olive oil and sea salt if desired.

Ladle sauce over desired pasta, squash, or a combination of both.

Top with additional Parmesan and/or red pepper seeds.

When cleaning up after dinner, place left over pasta over top of squash and fold together.

Pour remaining sauce over the combined pasta and squash.

Top with desire amount shredded cheese, if desired.

Spray dull-side of foil with nonstick cooking spray. Then, place coated side of foil face down to cover pasta dish.

It will be ready to bake the next night in a preheated 350-degree oven covered for 20 minutes.

Remove foil and bake an additional 10 minutes, or until cheese is golden and sauce is bubbly.

Joyful, Joyful, We Adore You

October 12, 2017October 10, 2017 by stephsimply, posted in Herald-Dispatch Articles, Simple Observations and Musings

“Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee, God of glory, Lord of love;

Hearts unfold like flow’rs before Thee, op’ning to the sun above.”—Henry van Dyke

It was Saturday, and I had several errands that needed completed by weekend’s end. Would I have enough time? I felt anxious. Perhaps, I should not have slept in until 7:00 am.

I left the house around 8:30 am, list in-hand. First stop, my local bank. My stomach was fluttering with worry. Stepping out of the car, the sunshine felt warm and cozy, like wrapping up in my favorite hoodie and sweatpants after work. I looked up and vividly blue sky, streaked with white stretched like the pillow-fill Maddie uses when sewing pillows. The sun kissed my upturned cheeks.

“Melt the clouds of sin and sadness; Drive the dark of doubt away;

Giver of immortal gladness, fill us with the light of day.”

I entered the bank and was greeted by all of the tellers. Bonnie, a long-standing employee, directed me to come to her.

“Well, how’s life without your daughter, and how is she doing?”

Just that question, alone, warmed my heart. How thoughtful of her to ask. I shared a bit of information regarding Maddie, my daughter—probably more than she wanted to hear. Then, I thanked her for asking.

“I think about her often and wonder how she is doing?”

While I would not call Bonnie a complete stranger, it is not like we are best friends; and yet, she thought of my daughter. What a wonder! I could feel myself smiling as I left the bank. Such a small act of kindness, but it helped assuage my apprehension.

“All thy works with joy surround Thee, earth and heav’n reflect Thy rays,

Stars and angels sing around Thee, center of unbroken praise.”

Crossing the bridge into Huntington, I couldn’t help but notice how golden the morning was unfolding over the mighty Ohio River. Water glinted with silver as if thousands of sewing needles danced on top of the water. I decided to grab a cup of coffee from the shop Maddie and I used to frequent in the mornings before school when she was still home. It seemed like ages since I had last visited.

The sun was dazzling. Huntington was quiet, and the streets were fairly empty. A cheerful young woman bounced along the sidewalk walking her likewise lively dog. His fluffy red tail swished back and forth with metronome-like meticulousness.

“Hi, Stephanie. Haven’t seen you in a while. The usual?”

How did he remember me, much less what I drink?

“How’s your daughter? Where is she now?”

This time, I kept my answer short and to the point.

“Well, we miss seeing you two in here,” he said with a smile as he handed me my coffee.

“Field and forest, vale and mountain, flow’ry meadow, flashing sea,

Singing bird and flowing fountain call us to rejoice in Thee.”

Driving on to what was supposed to be the next errand stop, I become lost in my thoughts. I recalled a former kindergarten student I had encountered the previous night, Alexa. Her freckled face lit up with recognition, and I found myself enveloped in her warm embrace. Breaking away from our hug, she turned, face still broad with a gleeful smile and offered kind words to my husband, John, who had also been her teacher when she was a bit older. My heavens, it was wonderful to see her, now at age 21, and know she still had fond memories of her time spent with John and me.

It was then I realized I was driving on autopilot, not focused on my next errand, and was heading towards the school in which I now work. Instead of becoming frustrated with myself, I chose to turn it into an opportunity to head to Ritter Park, walk for a few minutes, and savor the splendid sunshine. Besides, I had not visited the park in over a month, and walking outside does wonders for my spirit.

Nearly blinding and abundant sunshine was interspersed with areas of cool, sweet shade. Colors of fall were clearly emerging—tarnished golds, leathery browns, rich merlots, and vibrant reds intermingled with fading, dull greens. Sand colored leaves now scattered over the path permitting a slight crunching sound that whispered, “This is only the beginning of a new season.” I could feel myself smiling, as I became the proverbial sponge, soaking up God’s goodness as more of my fretfulness fell away.

“Thou are giving and forgiving, ever blessing, ever blest,

Wellspring of the joy of living, ocean depth of happy rest!

“Hi Mrs. Hill!”

I had completed a full loop of the park, walked up by the rose garden, further up through the rolling hills of the amphitheater, to the very top of the outlook where a large shelter once stood, down to the dog park, and then left, down the hill towards the tennis courts. I looked across the road to a tennis court. There stood one my current students enthusiastically waving at me.

By the end of the walk, I was at peace with the thought, “I will do what I can do today, and leave the rest behind.”

“Thou our Father, Christ our Brother, all who live in love are Thine;

Teach us how to love each other—Lift us to the joy divine.”

On the following day, we celebrated my dear, sweet mother-in-law’s 89th birthday, a few days before her officials date of October 10.

“Stephanie, how are you? How’s John?”

I looked up from the shopping cart at Route 60 Kroger, and there stood my former, physician. Several years ago, he sadly moved his practice from Proctorville to one closer to his home in Milton, while his kids were in their early teens. He had worked closely with John and me, and, at the time, his moving felt like losing a family-member. Nonetheless, I was stunned, some years later, he would not only recognize me, but also recall John’s name as well as mine—after all, how many patients did he see? Once again, I delighted in conversation with another special person.

********************************************************************************

“Hi Neil! I am so glad you’re bagging my groceries today. You’re my favorite bagger!”

I was looking at the young man that frequently bagged my groceries with an imploring smile. I purposely search each week for the line in which he bags because he is thoughtful, carefully places products in bags, and then gently arranges bags in my cart. Plus, he always offers to help carry them to my car. So far, I have declined his offer, but it is a nice gesture anyway.

“I was having a bad day until you said that to me,” he replied in his uniquely gravelly voice. “I don’t hear nice things from customers that often. Thank you.”

Later, once home, I was further overjoyed to talk with both of my parents—which is always a special treat.

In the end, most chores on the day’s to-do list were completed; the rest could be knocked out the following day at some point. More importantly, I was reminded of the joy of living a life that matters—maybe not on a grand scale, like a politician or entertainer, but rather in the simple day-to-day gestures that are frequently undervalued; such as, greeting another person by name, asking a personal question or two, wishing someone a good day, taking time exchange pleasantries, smiling, or even offering a hug. It is these seemingly effortless acts that quite often offer a momentary minute of joy.

Birthday Weekend in Cincinnati

October 5, 2017October 5, 2017 by stephsimply, posted in #breakingbread, Herald-Dispatch Articles, Restaurant Reviews, Travels

“If the world comes to an end, I want to be in Cincinnati. Everything comes there ten years later.”—Mark Twain

“Steph, would you be interested in going out-of-town for your birthday? I was thinking we could go somewhere that has an Apple Store. You could talk to them in person about the best product for you and your blog-work.” John, my husband of 28 years, was making this suggestion with great sincerity.

Hmm . . . that was certainly a thought! My laptop had been limping along for the past two years. It needed plugged-in at all times, and I spent more time watching the spinning beach ball of death, than I did actually typing. One thing was certain, it taught me patience; however, portability and increased speed would be exceptionally nice. Plus, what’s not to love about a weekend trip?

Thus, after debating the pros and cons of the few nearby cities that had an Apple Store, we finally settled on Cincinnati. It was a great decision! The weather could not have been more perfect, and we were able to combine business with pleasure.

We left for Cincinnati around 3:30. John drove along OH 73 and OH 32 as we zoomed past the beautiful countryside in transition from summer to fall. Golden and purple flowers/weeds dotted the landscape as the evening sunshine glinted.

Arriving at the Kenwood Hampton Inn, mere minutes from the Kenwood Town Center, which housed the Apple Store, around 6:30, John suggested we head to dinner. Thus, when asked, Amber, the affable and thoughtful Hampton employee, suggested a restaurant within walking distance, Cooper’s Hawk. She shared that a plethora of Hampton clients reported positive dining experiences. As she described the varied menu, we were sold.

Kenwood Hampton Inn in Cincinnati

Breakfast/coffee/lobby area of Kenwood Hampton Inn

Amber was a delightful and helpful Hampton employee.

Cooper’s Hawk was within walking distance, but we will have to try it another time.

Unfortunately, it was Friday evening in Cincinnati and nearly 7:00. Walking toward the restaurant, we could espy copious customers walking into this sleek winery and restaurant. Entering, we encountered wall-to-wall customers. Ultimately, this restaurant was booked with numerous reservations, and we would be facing an hour and half wait. We were too tired for this length of wait, so we decided to trek elsewhere.

Ultimately, we walked a tad bit farther to a funky, Austin-based Tex-Mex restaurant, Chuy’s. It ended up being a serendipitous choice! Despite the waiting crowd, we were immediately able to find seats at the bar—which worked for us as we have learned that whether consuming a favorite adult beverage or water, the bar is typically the best place to receive attentive service.

Inside the bar area of Chury’s

Front of Chury’s menu

The story of Chury’s found on the back of the menu

Chury’s was also within walking distance of hotel.

Excellent service was indeed part of our dinner experience at Chuy’s. The vibe was full-on positive energy, especially for dog-lovers as the eclectic décor was filled with framed paintings and photos of all varieties of dogs! Thin, salty, and crispy tortilla chips were served with fresh tasting salsa alongside a tasty white sauce.

John ordered a warm, creamy cheese dip as an appetizer as we sipped our drinks and washed away the road dirt. For dinner, John noshed on a combination platter in order to sample a wide variety of Chuy’s dishes. Meanwhile, I enjoyed a vegetarian combination dinner served with a side of creamy refried beans and Mexican rice—all of which was topped with a delicious ranchero sauce. Needless to say, we walked back to the Hampton feeling quite full.

Warm cheesy dip for tortilla chips

Vegetarian combo for me

Sampler dish for John

The next day, we arrived at the Kenwood Town Center not long after it opened. I was feeling both excited and hopeful. Arriving this early would ensure prompt service and attention, right? Wrong! This was the first weekend after the launch of the Apple 8 phone. Therefore, it took 45-minutes before I could talk with an employee.

In spite of the wait, a delightful young man named, Kuyuh, helped me. Apple employees do not work on commission; thus, Kuyuh asked specific questions to help me narrow down my choice to determine the best product for me. Another employee, Rachel, in addition to Kuyuh, helped John and me thoroughly! I cannot say enough about them as they walked me through how to transfer all information from my old laptop to the new one. We had such an overall positive experience, I would most certainly return to this store for any future Apple products.

My new laptop is much thinner, lighter, and cleaner than my “vintage” 2005/2006 version, it does not have to be plugged in at all times, and no 10+ minutes of the spinning beach ball of death!

In the meantime, John had been in contact with one of his lifelong friends, Steve, who happened to live fairly close to the Hampton in which we were staying. Thus, for dinner, Steve, and his wife, Lila, gave us a lift to one of their local favorite eateries, 50 West, a brewpub about 15-20 minutes away.

50 West Brewing Company in Cincinnati, OH

We arrived around 7:00, and the place was hopping with customers, mostly family groups. Nonetheless, we were immediately seated in the room just off of the tasting room. Our waitress, Nicole, was attentive and effusive. We started off with delicious appetizers: Pretzels served with Dijon cheddar dip and Pork Belly French Fries. Due to my celiac disease, I was not able to try the pretzels, but they looked amazing, and I was assured they tasted scrumptious. The fries turned out to be new potatoes, topped with Dijon-molasses glazed pork belly, thin slices of pickled granny smith apples, and finished with cheese fondue. As odd of a combination as this sounded, Nicole assured us they were good, and she was right! I especially loved the apple slices!

Pretzels with warm dijon cheese dip

Pork belly fries

Nicole, our super sweet waitress at 50 West

All four of us had different dishes. Steve devoured the Doom Pedal Sausage served on a heaping pile of polenta. John enjoyed a hot chicken sandwich—which was spicy! Lila dined on the Ham and Cheese sandwich, while I enjoyed Tex-Mex Wedge Salad! Once again, John and I did not go hungry! (Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending upon one’s perspective, we became so engrossed in our conversation that we forgot to take pictures of our entrees!)

All in all, I experienced a wonderful birthday weekend-get away! The Hampton Inn in which we stayed was comfortable, clean, and staffed with incredibly friendly and attentive people. It was perfectly situated within walking distance of a wide-variety of restaurants, and only a five to ten minute drive away from the Kenwood Town Center! I would highly recommend this area to anyone looking for a weekend getaway! And, if you decide to visit any of these fine establishments, tell them Steph simply sent you!

Foggy Thinking

September 28, 2017September 28, 2017 by stephsimply, posted in Herald-Dispatch Articles, Simple Observations and Musings

“You who dwell in the shelter of the Lord, who abide in his shadow for life. Say to the Lord: My refuge, my rock in whom I trust!” —lyrics from the song On Eagle’s Wings, written by Michael Joncas based upon Psalm 31 and Isaiah 40:31

It began last weekend. I first perceived a sore throat Friday evening after dinner, but thought nothing of it. After all, I am a teacher; I use my voice all week long. Most likely, my throat, like the rest of my body, was just tired from the week’s work. Saturday morning, however, unable to breathe through my nose, throat feeling as if someone had poured scalding water down it, head aching, and wads of discarded tissues increasing in the trashcan led me the conclusion, I had acquired a minor cold.

When you have a head cold, at least for me, my thinking can be a bit foggy at times. Ironically enough, I couldn’t help but notice the mornings, this past week, were similarly foggy. Early morning, as John, my husband, and I traversed to the local gym, we drove through fog as dense as my grandmother’s chicken and dumplin’ gravy. Similarly, this is what I envisioned my head cold was doing to my brain, blurring my thinking the way the fog was muddling the our view of the road and surrounding landscape.

“The snare of the fowler will never capture you, and famine will bring you no fear; Under his wings your refuge, his faithfulness your shield.”

Nonetheless, I persevered well enough through the day, but by evening was more fatigued than usual. Along with that fatigue came the fact, I felt a bit more stressed, a bit more overwhelmed, and a bit more “behind.” In fact, I cannot tell you how often I stated or thought, “I am so far behind,” or “I can’t keep up.”

A8FB9D71-48F3-4DFA-B22D-7AE86CCE7778 — This image of heart in moss was pointed out to me during the week by one of my students. She said it was a message of love.

Piles of papers, in need of grading, were in constant stack on my desk. Likewise, my inbox of email was growing. Tests needed typed. Equipment/technology wasn’t working the way it should. I had this deadline, and that deadline; this request to fulfill, and that request to honor. I felt like the box turtles I often see sluggishly moving across our backyard as I slowly, but steadily made my way through each moment, each situation, and each day. Still, fog clouded my sense of accomplishment—altering my perception.

“You need not fear the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies by day; Though thousands fall about you, near you it shall not come”

Of note, though, was a conversation I had with a student and her parents one evening during the week. John and I ran into this family during dinner out a local favorite, La Famiglia. Somehow, in the course of our conversation, the student was sharing with us some of her favorite songs she sang in our school choir, and one of those songs happened to be On Eagle’s Wings—one of my personal favorites. I shared with her how it always reminded me of my maternal grandmother, with whom I had the honor of living for two years.

Grandmother Helen read from her large print Bible every night before going to bed. Some nights, if her eyes were tired, she would ask me to read to her. Isaiah, Chapter 40 was a frequent request. She especially loved verse 31.

In the meantime, Friday finally arrived, and my cold was beginning to dissipate in the same manner fog is gradually burned off with the morning sun. With Friday, comes school mass. If I am to be totally honest, when I first arrived at St. Joseph Catholic School five years ago, giving up class time every week to a church service was not an easy adjustment. Now, however, I see and appreciate the beauty and reasoning behind it.

“For to his angels, he’s given command to guard you in all of your way; Upon their hands they will bear you up, lest you dash your foot again a stone.”

First, there is the powerful image of seeing our entire K-8 staff and students, of diverse faith backgrounds, respectfully gathered together in church filling nearly every pew. To this day, it never fails to stir me, and honestly, make me smile. I love seeing the students actively participating in church and observing their growth from year to year.

E118E2CD-4C8F-4CBC-8001-915A60713267 — This image of a heavenly heart in the tree canopy on the hiking trail of Huntington Museum of Art was photographed while I was on a hike with my Dad. It’s funny, I didn’t see the heart image until much later looking back at the photos.

Secondly, and more personally speaking, I often feel more receptive on Friday. Perhaps, it is because I am tired; maybe it is because Father Dean’s message is simple; maybe it is hearing the voices of children singing; or, maybe it is the image of all students raising their hands during the recitation of Lord’s Prayer; and, maybe it is all of it combined. Whatever the reason, Friday church resonates within my being.

This week was no exception. As Divine Providence would have it, the communion hymn was On Eagle’s Wings. As I knelt in prayer following communion, my mind, for whatever reason, became filled with various images in rapid-fire succession: Sitting with my Dad and three siblings as he read to us the Christmas story from Luke every Christmas Eve when I was a child. My mom fitting me for a dress she was sewing for my high school graduation—the same dress that would be cut up some 16 years later to become my daughter’s baptism dress. Watching my husband, napping on the couch, with our daughter curled up on top of his chest when she was only weeks old. Attending my daughter’s matriculation ceremony as she began her college career as an eagle dipped and darted above the gathering. Sitting on the couch beside Grandmother in her recliner, reading to her in the low lamplight of her family room. Sitting with my mom during my grandmother’s last night on earth as I kept rereading Isaiah 40 aloud as my way of saying good-bye. Standing with my Dad, Stepmother, daughter, and other family members when I saw my paternal Mamaw take her last earthly breath.

“And he will raise you up on eagle’s wings, bear you on the breath of dawn. Make you to shine like the sun, and hold you in the palm of his hands.”

The work, the deadlines, the requests, and the emails—all of that could wait. Maybe this is why Friday mass is so good for me. In the same way I had sipped broth this week for my cold, perhaps mass was the soup for my soul– clearing brain fog—often brought on my loss of perspective rather than a cold.

**Afterthought not written in the newspaper edition of this:

As I waited with the Middle School students for our turn to exit from Friday mass, the same student with whom I had had the conversation at La Familigia, regarding On Eagles’ Wings, came down from the choir loft and walked straight to me, mouth stretched in a broad smile.

“Mrs. Hill, I thought of you the whole time I was singing. I know I much you said you loved the song,” she exclaimed with twinkling eyes as she gave me a hug.

That hug and smile felt as if I were receiving a second helping of soup for my soul.

Spinning Our Life Song

September 21, 2017September 21, 2017 by stephsimply, posted in Herald-Dispatch Articles, Simple Observations and Musings

“It is true that I have had heartache and tragedy in my life. These are things none of us avoids. Suffering is the price of being alive.”—Judy Collins

“Some problems are not readily solvable . . .You’re not entitled to pain relief any more than you’re entitled to happiness.”—Dr. John Loeser

It may come as no surprise; I have a knack for “being in my head.” My thoughts can provide me with great comfort, imagination, as well as torment. In fact, my brain is often like a favorite scratched record replaying the same phrase until someone lifts the needle and moves it to another spot. The problem with a stuck record is that it most likely became scratched because it is a favorite tune played one too many times; and, therefore, in the enthusiastic desire to “hear it again,” the record is often handled a bit too roughly creating the nick that causes the needle to stick.

Likewise, the philosophical and physical notion of pain and suffering has been needling my grooved brain for the past year. I have observed this theme demonstrated in a wide array of scenarios. From the physical pain of illness, aging, injury, disease, and so on; to the psychological pain that often manifests itself as physical pain, blurring the lines between the two, of addiction, stress, workload, depression, anxiety, and so forth, the sufferings and pain of others far and near to me cannot be ignored.

Simultaneously, the notion of passion has also been spinning a track around my mind. Over the past year or two, I have participated in several conversations with people who have decided to “pursue their passion” and make fairly dramatic mid-career and/or mid-life changes driven by their suffering. Furthermore, my husband and I have had copious conversations with our newly collegiate daughter, nephew, and their friends struggling with the pain of figuring out their unique passion, or their calling. These discussions have led to self-reflection regarding my own passions and pains. It was as if the sun has been gradually rising within me, shining light on the perception that, perhaps, pain and passion are intertwined; thus, dawning understanding that life cannot be fully expressed without experiencing both.

It is said that the word, passion, evolved from Late Latin passionem, “suffering, enduring,” which came from the Lain stem, pati, which means to “endure, undergo, and experience.” Merriam-Webster.com reveals a total of five definitions presently used for passion, two of which have several sub-definitions. Passion can therefore mean: the “sufferings of Christ”; an emotion distinguished from reason, such as anger, greed, desire, and conviction; ardent affection; strong devotion; sexual desire; or finally, an object of desire or deep interest.

There is a popular quote, “Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional,” which really makes a valid point. Life involves pain, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad. Ask any mother, the pain of childbirth is real, but it is our passionate love for our child that pushes us through the labor; and, our pain is soon forgotten once that child is our arms.

In my continual passion to become a teacher, I have had to endure many painful evolutions, situations, and challenging years; but without those difficult times, I would not possess the same level of educational wisdom that I now enjoy. If I had simply chosen to avoid the pain of career change, I would have missed 30 years of a range of experiences that spans teaching every grade, K-12.

Likewise, as a writer, there are times, such as when trying to write this very piece, in which I am pained over words, thoughts, and ideas. I will write, delete, think, rewrite, read, delete, pause, think, and rewrite again, sometimes for hours over one paragraph or even a sentence, in order to best articulate what I hope will become a concise, meaningful piece worth sharing.

Would I like to avoid the pain and struggle? Heck, yes! Do I wish words flowed easily and swiftly? Absolutely! However, it is my passion that impels me to persist, endure, and undergo the transitory experience of pain in order to evolve, progress, and hopefully create a nutritional nugget worth sharing.

I recently conversed with a young person complaining about the years of study and schoolwork she faced over the next foreseeable future. She explained how much time school and extra-curricular activities took, leaving little time to relax. Could this pain she was experiencing be attributed to her own passionate work ethic that drives her to go above and beyond any given assignment?

Another person recently described to me, in great details, her physical pain; and yet, she fully confessed those very ailments were a result of her passion for nutritional choices that do not agree with her constitution. Furthermore, this acquaintance knew that those poor choices often stemmed from unhappiness, sadness, and frustration due to not living life in a manner she so desperately desired.

Likewise, I have bemoaned my own back injury. The pain and numbness were letting me know, something was wrong; perhaps my passion for activity needed addressed. Furthermore, throughout the healing process, I’ve had to embrace the pain as a gauge for what activity is or isn’t beneficial. If I had attempted to avoid pain by taking excessive painkillers, I would not only have potentially further damaged my spine, but also would not have learned to live more safely in tune with my body.

Perhaps, I was onto something when I began writing this piece. Like musical black vinyl, humans are grooved with feelings that must be played and heard by the needle of life. Often, it is in our passionate pursuits, we skip out of our God-given track, our life needle becomes stuck, and we feel immense pain. However, just as the stuck record of long ago was signaling an important message; pain is likewise communicating important messages. It often forces us to our knees for a reason. By attempting to avoid pain, we may be ignoring significant implications. And like that record, pain requires listening—deep, Divine listening to learn what we need to do in order to get back on track, creating our own beautiful life song.

Therefore, trying to avoid pain, I’ve concluded, is asking to avoid passion, and, ultimately, avoid life. Thus, I choose to live fully with the pain and passion—all the while praying Divine Providence will play His song through me.

Auberge D’Anjou in Petit-Rocher, New Brunswick, Canada

September 19, 2017September 19, 2017 by stephsimply, posted in #breakingbread, Restaurant Reviews, Travels

“Coffee is a language in itself.”—Jackie Chan

It looked charming from the outside. I had been told that it served delicious coffee.

“The two-mile walk required to get here had better be worth the effort,” was all I could think as John and I entered through the beaded front entry.

The scent was heavenly. I was feeling hopeful. Several staff members warmly greeted us in French.

As my husband and I ordered our drinks, mocha for me, plain black coffee for him, I took in the environment. Beautiful and original artwork was tastefully hung throughout the dining area. A piano stood off in a corner area. Tables were arranged thoughtfully. I noticed a bar area, not in use at the time, was located across from the counter in which food/drinks were ordered.

On my right was a chalkboard menu written in French. Additionally, there was also another menu to my left. In front of me, below the cash register, was a glass case filled with a yummy array of foods–salads, yogurt parfaits, single-serving cakes, mini-pies, slices of quiche, muffins, and so forth.

The young man taking our order from behind the counter, Sebastian, was courteous and quickly switched to speaking English when he realized that we were Americans on vacation and, unfortunately, could not speak French. In fact, Sebastian began to ask us numerous questions that were genuinely curious. What brought us to New Brunswick? Was this our first time visiting Auberge D’Anjou? Did we like Petit-Rocher? He was most engaging and encouraged us to come visit the café often. In the meantime, he told us to choose where we would like to sit, and he would bring us our coffees when it was ready.

John and I chose seats on the wrap-around veranda. It was a delightful day. The bluebird sky had captured a few billowy-white clouds. There was a light breeze, and the temperature was quite comfortable, somewhere in the low 70s. A few other diners were also outside; however, we were there at an in-between mealtime, so there were not many.

Momentarily, Sebastian served us our coffees—each cup freshly made. No cardboard cups and with plastic lids here. Rather, our coffees were served in beautiful, boldly colored mugs that begged for fingers to wrap around them.

My mocha was truly a work of art. Never before had I ever experienced coffee so caringly created and served. I almost felt guilty attempting to sip it, so I waited a moment in order to savor and appreciate the craftwork of the barista. Later, to my surprise, she apologized for the mocha not turning out as beautifully as she had hoped! PLEEEEASE!!!

John and I sat, sipped our coffee, enjoyed quiet conversation, and soaked up what was shaping up to be a picture-perfect day. Sebastian appeared several times to check on us as well as answer any question we threw at him. When our coffee cups were finally empty, and the caffeine had fully kicked in, John and I continued on our walk around the harbor area of Petit-Rocher—just behind Auberge D’Anjou. In the end, John and I ultimately walked a total of five miles through this quaint, dear town.

Petit Rocher Wharf of New Brunswick’s Acadian Coast

Due to this positive experience, I returned, solo, to Auberge D’Anjou two more times during our stay in Petit-Rocher. Both times, I walked to and from the Café soaking in the French atmosphere and charming surroundings of Petit-Rocher. Also, I made it a point to try two different coffees: Cappuccino and a Latte. Much to my pleasant surprise, both of these coffees were just as tasty as my first mocha. Furthermore, both were created so picturesquely, I forced myself, once again, to sit and savor their image before I began consuming the contents of my mug.

I had hoped to return one evening for dinner as one staff member, Sole, shared the fact that if I would call in advance, the kitchen would prepare a spectacular gluten-free entree, salad, and dessert—just for me. With great detail, Sole described several dinner delights that sounding mouth-wateringly tasty. Unfortunately, it did not work out, and I sadly never made it for dinner. That said, given my positive experience with the care to which the staff pours (pun-intended) into their coffee, I could only imagine how wonderful their food must be.

Therefore, if you are visiting, vacationing, or happen to live near Petit-Rocher, I highly recommend a visit to Auberge D’Anjou. Additionally, they also happen to be an Inn, making it a convenient place to stay and eat! Auberge D’Anjou is centrally located in the heart of town and is only one block away from the Petit-Rocher harbor area. If you stop in, tell them Steph simply sent you!

I Believe

September 14, 2017September 14, 2017 by stephsimply, posted in Herald-Dispatch Articles, Simple Observations and Musings

“We Believe”—Travis Ryan, Richie Fike, Matt Hooper

Usually it’s an exciting time in my life. I set new goals for improvement; adjust/tweak my instructional methods and curriculum; and, I see that my professional space (classroom) is physically prepared for a brand new school year. To be certain, I still did that this year, but not with the same vigor, verve, and vivacity of previous years.

Preparing my classroom space before school.

“In this time of desperation; When all we know is doubt and fear.”

Perhaps, I was becoming burned out, I secretly wondered to myself. Maybe 30 years in one career is a long enough time span for any one person. Possibly, it was my age; after all, I am not that wide-eyed-fresh-out-of college-21-year-old teacher beginning her career at a rural Kentucky high school. Then again, that grey cloud of ambiguity might have had a great deal to do with the fact that my only daughter, the lovely being with whom my husband, John, and I have spent the last 18 years nurturing, protecting, as well as providing, was leaving us two weeks into our new school year (John is also a teacher.) and beginning her own journey as an adult in college.

89683ACF-A2EE-494F-9317-62F09CEEF0EB — Me, Madelyn, and John at Bethany College in July 2017 for her freshman orientation.

“There is only one Foundation: We believe . . .we believe.”

Nonetheless, I plodded through the professional motions well enough. I prepared for the new school year, as I always do, while simultaneously helping my daughter prime, plan, and pack for Bethany College. I juggled late July and early August days with tutoring students, tackling my classroom/curriculum for the new school year, and trekking repeatedly along US Route 60 stores with my daughter and her ever growing “gotta-get-this-for-college list.” All the while, the shadow clouds of uncertainty grew dark and dense, swirling alternately across my mind, heart, and soul like Rorschach inkblots.

The ever-growing list of “gotta-have-this-for-college” was real.

“In this broken generation . . .When all is dark, You can help us . . .see.”

Normally, during the weeks leading up to the start of a new school year, I experience nightmares filled with ridiculous scenarios. For example, in one frequently occurring dream, I’m assigned to teach Kindergarten students again. I walk into a classroom that was once the gym, and see that it is filled with 60 five-year olds that I am expected to teach with no help in sight. Then, there is the dream in which I am assigned to teach high school students. My class is an old boiler room filled with 45 hormonal teen bodies that were kicked out of other schools; however, I am told, “I can handle them, because I have good discipline.”

F3F2A177-74BD-489B-8B4B-C3C66C3D3C11 — When I saw this on Instagram, I had to insert it!

This year, however, there were no back-to-school nightmares; instead, my sleep was interrupted with numerous panic attacks throughout the night. Each time, I would wake in a fright with my heart hammering heavily, my mind randomly racing, and perspiration penetrating my nightclothes and sheets. What was wrong with me?

“There is only one Salvation: We believe . . .we believe.”

On the first day of school with students, I woke at my normal 4:00 am school day wake-up time; and by 4:50, I was headed toward a local gym with John for a cardio session on the elliptical machine. As I entered the facility, I could hear music blaring. Nothing unusual about that; and I was just about to insert my ear buds in order to listen, instead, to an audible book, when I recognized the song, “We Believe,” as performed by the Newsboys. Chills ran up my arms, in spite of the warm temperature outside.

I had planned to listen to an all-time classic & favorite because my 7th grade students would be reading this in my class this year . . .then, I heard the song, and had to listen to it first.

“We believe in God the Father. We believe in Jesus Christ. We believe in the Holy Spirit . . .and He’s given us new Life.”

Later that morning, I knew that I would be attending mass with all of the students of our school. “We Believe” is a song that we often sing during this school-wide church service. Was this Divine Providence trying to communicate some hidden message to me, I wondered, as I began pedaling the elliptical, listening to the song?

472CB357-9957-4345-B260-36C72C6F0E8A — Was Divine Providence sending me a message?

“And in our weakness and temptations . . .We believe . . .we believe.”

The ideal ending would be to write that, later, during mass, I sang along to this same song with my students, while simultaneously, a lightening bolt of realization zapped my heart and head; thus, making all right in Stephanie’s world. Unfortunately, life doesn’t always provide perfect endings. Instead, mass occurred without the Newsboys’ song, the school year began, and the cloud of vagueness persisted–though I was greatly cheered, or at the very least, distracted– by time spent with my students and the amazing staff with whom I work.

Spending time with SJCS students and staff during solar eclipse of August 2017.

“Let the lost be found and the dead be raised. In the here and now, let love invade.”

Two weeks later, we moved our daughter to Bethany College; and with that life-change, a bit of my mom-heart broke. I was entering a new life phase, and I had a choice. I could wallow in my sadness, ignoring the natural progression of life; or, I could embrace the fact that John and I did exactly what we were supposed to do . . .give our daughter roots, then give her wings.”

1E7FAAEF-5CDC-4272-9675-728C91ADB46E — Moving our daughter into her dorm at Bethany College two weeks into the start of the new school year.

“Now we know Your love will never fail: We believe . . . we believe . . .”

This past Friday, I sat in mass with all of the K-8 students of St. Joseph Catholic School. The sun was glinting through the stained glass, and Father Dean stated to all, “Did you know that you are uniquely made by God?” Why those specific words should get me, I do not know, but they did.

A few of the students who attended mass with me on that Friday.

I did not hear anything else he said (Sorry, Father Dean.) because I became overwhelmed with emotion. I am more than just a mom. I am a teacher. I am writer. I am daughter. I am a wife. I am a sister, an aunt, a friend, a co-worker; and, I AM A CHILD of GOD. WOW! I have an opportunity to make a difference, not just in my daughter’s life, but also in the life of all others with whom I encounter, spend time, and/or share my writings.

“So let our faith be more than anthems—Greater than the songs we sing.”

Later, during this service, the fourth mass of the school year, we finally sang, “We believe;” and, I was reminded, I believe.

Miscou Island is a Hidden Jewel of Acadian Coastal New Brunswick

September 7, 2017 by stephsimply, posted in Herald-Dispatch Articles, Travels

“One of the single most beautiful spots in the world.” –2010 Society of American Travel Writers statement about Miscou Island when awarding the island with a Phoenix Award

“You should definitely go to Miscou Island. The lighthouse is beautiful, and the beaches are private for miles and miles.”

Expansive and secluded beaches can be found at Miscou Island.

It was a beautiful day, a bit chilly/windy, for a walk at Miscou Island.

Chris, our waiter/bartender, for the night at Joey’s Pub & Eatery, Bathurst, New Brunswick, Canada.

John, my husband, and I were sitting at the bar of Joey’s Pub and Eatery in Bathurst, New Brunswick, Canada, this past July, eating dinner and talking with waiter/bar-tender, Chris. We were nearing the last couple of days of what had been a delightful two-week stay. In the course of our conversation, Chris asked if we had ever visited Miscou Island. It was after this engaging dialogue that we decided to drive nearly two hours in order to discover this geographical treasure.

Due to its proximity to Prince Edward Island, home of Anne of the Green Gables book series author, Lucy Maud Montgomery, and Nova Scotia, a whale-watching destination, New Brunswick is often written off as a “go-through” province. In fact, our family discovered this jewel-of-a-province while driving to PEI. However, New Brunswick, as we have since discovered, is, and should be considered, a destination unto itself. In fact, Miscou Island, as we learned, is one more reason to vacation in New Brunswick.

After a delightful breakfast at 748 Restaurant, John and I, along with our daughter and friend, headed down the scenic Acadian Coastal Drive. Traversing this route, we made our through several towns and sites we had previously visited including: Grande Anse with its beautiful beaches and Pope’s Museum; the Village Historique Acadien, a historical reconstruction of more than 40 buildings that portrays Acadian life between 1770 and 1949; the quaint, French-speaking town of Caraquet, considered the capital of Acadia as it roots are deeply steeped in the Acadian families who settled there after forced deportation by the British in 1755; and Shippagan, home of the beloved New Brunswick Aquarium and Marine Center (a great place to see blue lobsters!).

Enter and feel welcome at 748.

Heaping over plates of blueberry pancakes served with plenty of butter and syrup!

Menu at 748.

John ordered a delicious ham and cheese omelet served with potatoes, toast, and of course, plenty of coffee!

My yummy vegetable omelet served with plenty of potatoes and coffee!

Miscue Island lighthouse on the northeastern tip of New Brunswick, Canada

Finally, we crossed a drawbridge, built in the 1950s, connecting Shippagan to Lameque Island, a New Brunswick location we had never before visited. Aboriginal people from the Micmac nation originally settled and named it. Later, French explorer, Nicolas Denys, established a trading post on the island around 1645, but soon abandoned it. A little over 100 years later, the first permanent settlers began arriving on the island. Then, after the British deportation of 1755-1763, five families from PEI make Lameque Island their home in the 1780s. In fact, two of those original communities, Lameque and Sainte-Marie-Saint-Raphael, still remain. Currently, there are approximately 6,000 residents making a living on this picturesque island working in industries such as fishing and peat moss as well as the recently established windmill industry—which we drove past on our way to Miscou Island.

We left Lameque Island and crossed over to Miscou Island via the 2,000-meter Miscou Island Bridge, which opened in 1996 and replaced a cable-ferry. Both Lameque and Miscou Islands separate the Bay of Chaleur from the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. Furthermore, Miscou, interestingly enough, is actually formed by a group of islands attached by bays.

Its name, also given by the Micmac people who used the island during hunting and fishing season, means “low wetlands.” Later, Jacques Cartier first explored it in 1534, and the island became a fishing base the same year. In fact, Miscou’s main industry still remains fishing for its nearly 600 full-time residents. However, unlike Lameque, Miscou’s numerous peat beds have not been harvested and remain in their natural state—making Miscou a must see location in the fall when its vast peat bogs become a vibrant scarlet red.

Traveling along the Route 113, the main road that runs the length of the entire island, we saw numerous historical, wildlife viewing, and scenic sites. Of first note, was the charming wharf area providing shelter to nearly 60 boats that fish for lobster, herring, crab, and scallops as well as La Terrase a Steve, an open-air eatery that claims to serve lobster 14 ways. As we drove past the eatery overlooking the harbor, we couldn’t help but notice its open-air picnic tables were filled with diners enjoying this local favorite.

Continuing along our route, we drove past charming old churches, including the site of New Brunswick’s first established church. Additionally, we saw the site where a Russian plane made an emergency crash landing in 1939 in an attempt to fly nonstop from Moscow to New York. Continuing our winding drive through the exquisite bayside, we drove past access roads to “official” public beach areas that offer restrooms and changing facilities, and instead opted to stop at two different boardwalks: Lake Fry Observatory, known for bird-watching (over 265 bird species have been recorded on Miscou); and, Peatland Path, a spectacular stretch of boardwalk built over colorful, unspoiled, and natural peat land. In fact, it was on Peatland Path that we saw an actual a carnivorous plant, the pitcher plant, up close!

Finally we arrived at Miscou Lighthouse, a National Historic Sight of Canada. It was built in 1856 and is located at the most northern point of the island. This octagonal wooden structure, built with hand-sawn timbers, originally measured 74 feet from its base to top, but was extended to 80 feet in 1903. It is housed with a red Fresnel lens at the top.

As we entered the lighthouse, workers warmly greeted us. We paid our entry fee and began climbing the numerous steps, stopping at each level to take in the views as well as peruse the photos and educational exhibits. Eventually, we reached the top and were rewarded with panoramic views of the seemingly endless miles of expansive coastal beach beckoning us to explore. We heeded the call.

Leaving the lighthouse, we strolled along the nearby empty stretch of beach. It was littered with beautiful rocks, shells, driftwood, and our favorite, colorful sea glass. The day could not have been more clear and beautiful, with vividly cobalt blue skies dotted with pure white cotton fluff clouds above, and sparkly blue-green gulf waters beside us. Though the wind was bracing, the memories we created along the shores of Miscou Island on that July day, and for that matter during those two wonderful weeks in coastal New Brunswick, will forever warm my heart.

I highly encourage a visit, not only to Miscou Island, but also to New Brunswick and the inviting Acadian Coastal drive. It is rich with a unique history, steeped in faith, full of vibrant and gracious people, and possesses an unspoiled, picturesque, rocky shoreline with plenty of space for all of your favorite beach/water activities.

Miscue Island lighthouse on the northeastern tip of New Brunswick, Canada

Maddie and Gracie B. stand in front of Miscuo Island Lighthouse–a place we visited after meeting and talking with Chris, a staff member of Joey’s Pub in Bathurst, New Brunswick.

Steph Simply

Yoga Classes

Morning Mindset

Go, Do Not be Afraid, and Serve

New Brunswick Bar Clams

Joyful, Joyful, We Adore You

Birthday Weekend in Cincinnati

Foggy Thinking

Spinning Our Life Song

Auberge D’Anjou in Petit-Rocher, New Brunswick, Canada

I Believe

Miscou Island is a Hidden Jewel of Acadian Coastal New Brunswick

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