Gwen Ihnat

Forgive me for sounding all Foglebergian, especially during this time of year, but a few weeks ago I met up with an old friend from college. This person is one of my favorite people in the whole wide world, even though we haven’t seen each other much over the past decade. We were roommates my last summer in Champaign, which is the last time I can point to a carefree existence. I was a Dance Hall Girl in Sweet Charity that summer at the local community theater, so singing “Hey Big Spender” in a short dress in front of strangers was about as taxing as those three months ever got.

Anyway, this person, whom I shall refer to as Mike, for that is his name, is a really great guy. Always smiling and extremely laid-back, so I poured all my 21-year-old girl angst on him (my last-semester boyfriend had moved to D.C. to go work at the Post; also, Fred Astaire died that summer), and he would always calm it down. Now he spends his time teaching other people how to make their houses green and environmentally fuel-efficient, saving the planet one house at a time, that’s how great he is.

So we had been Facebooking a little bit and it turned out he was going to be in Chicago for a concert and we made plans to meet up before his show and I almost didn’t go. You know why? About 30 pounds since he last saw me, is why. I almost called in “fat”. It’s not a guy thing, I would have been the same way about seeing anyone from back then. I just didn’t want the shock and awe of “Wow, there’s sure more of you to love.”

To his credit, of course he didn’t say anything like that, and hopefully didn’t even think it. About 10 years ago, the D.C. boyfriend tracked me down to the museum where I worked and I met him for a drink. The outfit planning took a long time, I remember. When I finally met him (get what I finally came up with: yellow linen oxford, black miniskirt, white tights, patent-leather Mary Janes with heels – I was 34), he tells me: “You are unchanged.” I felt like I could just turn around and say, “Thank you, Good Night!” with the sign of the devil in the air, as that was pretty much all I had showed up for, anyway. Now, however, I am changed.

Usually I gain about 20 pounds when a parent dies. That’s been my pattern, anyway, since the last time I weighed this much was when my dad died. After that, I discovered the fabulous Atkins diet and lost 25 pounds. Apparently, Atkins works really well the first time you try it and then your body figures it out and then not so much.

Now, I’m doing things like noting news articles where they’ll do gastric bypass on patients who are less than morbidly obese, skipping meals, and going back to the gym. They have a holiday challenge where they weigh you and measure your waist in November and if you just maintain your weight (or even lose!) over the holidays you get a t-shirt or something. I went up to the “courtesy” desk and this hulking nine-foot-brute finally sauntered up and asked, “You need somethin’ ”? I mentioned the holiday program and he proceeded to weigh and measure me right there. So embarrassing. Even my husband (fortunately) doesn’t know those particular numbers.

Last week I participated in this crazy Boot Camp class the gym offered the day before Thanksgiving. It involved horrid things like kettle balls and the BOSU and running laps. Lots of laps. It was the most I have ever run in my whole life, hands-down. And I wasn’t even on fire, or being chased by a Sasquatch. Most of the other people in boot camp were blonde 20-somethings who dropped little tidbits like, “I ran seven miles yesterday.” I was coming up with comments like, “These kettle balls seem heavier all of a sudden. Are you sure they didn’t switch them?” I was sore by lunchtime.

As a Boot Camp virgin (possibly the only one there), the trainers took pity on me and allowed me to walk some of my laps, I think because they were afraid I was going to have an aneurism. Most of the time I’m really glad my gym is connected to a hospital. When I first started going there it had a kind of geriatric flavor because of it, but now it’s all hipster. Offering things like Boot Camp. Which I think I want to sign up for. I hated it, which makes me think that it’s probably very effective.

I stopped going to the gym for a long time (although still paying the automatic $70/month fee like a sucker) because the twins would freak out in the gym daycare, so the only time I could squeeze it in was on the weekends. In desperation, I sat the kids down the other day. I just laid it on the line for them. “Look,” I said, “Mommy’s fat. We need to get back to the gym.” Theo’s head shot up. You could tell that he was expecting the usual, “We need to use our listening ears” lecture instead. But both of my kids have called me fat; they were not at the age yet when they knew it was about the worst thing you could call a person. At the beginning of the year, Theo said excitedly, “Mom, you just get bigger and bigger!” Obnoxious children at the playground have asked me what kind of baby I’m going to have. Clearly, huge (read: HUGE) changes must be made.

So, Boot Camp right now looks like my best option short of surgery. Also, to eat as little as humanly possible, which I’m really bad at. I know to get serious I should give up the alcohol. Maybe after the holiday party season.

Mike and I had a really awesome time the other night. I’m extremely glad I still went. There were some reminisces, sure (we had lived in a haunted house and ended the summer with an apartment fire, really, lots of good stories), and I probably talked about the kids too much, but he, as always, was smiley and patient. Then his little brother showed up to take him to the concert. I had met his brother when he was about 12 and came down to visit Mike in Champaign my senior year. In the cab on the way to the train (me)/House of Blues (them), he said, “I remember where I met you now. You were in the record store window putting up the Husker Du display.” I was the publicity chair for the school concert committee and got to promote shows at the record store. I had grabbed some committee members and climbed on top of a parking garage to spray-paint some flowers to resemble the cover of Warehouse: Songs and Stories.

“That is so cool!” I squealed. “I’m so glad we didn’t just meet at the Burger King or something.” Then I hugged Mike very hard, jumped out of the cab at the Brown Line on Wabash, and smiled all the way home. I was happy because a) apparently cool people you’ve known from decades ago remain just as cool and you can still have a great time them with years later and b) I had forgotten that I was the Husker Du girl in the record store window. I was that girl.

My Loyola class starts next month; I love this class. This is about the third or fourth time I’ve taught it and I really enjoy it. It’s basically grammar for grownups, with professional people whose last composition class was in college and now they can’t remember where the commas go. Plus, they probably make the mistake of thinking that writing all puffed-up and lengthy will help them in the business world, when in fact just the opposite is true!

One of my favorite students was a few years ago; he was big in IT at JP Morgan Chase, and told me that he was really good at his job, but he was so bad at grammar and expressing himself that he was afraid his emails were going to get him fired. Another was a corrections offer who wanted to take the detective exam, which included an essay section. I was glad to help. So if you want an excuse to buy some school supplies this fall and to improve your professional communications skills in the process, join me! And feel free to spread the word:

In today’s world, clear and engaging writing skills can have a dramatic effect on your reports, letters, even your e-mails: skills and style are inseparable! This course is designed for those for whom a long time has passed since their last formal grammar instruction and who want to gain confidence and versatility in their written style. This workshop provides the opportunity to refresh your grammatical skills (sentence structure; punctuation) and offers you tips and useful devices to help you turn good writing into great communication. In-class assignments include many practical examples and editing exercises. Make a valuable investment in your communications skills with this special workshop.

Thursdays, October 6-27, 6:30-8:30 p.m.
Lake Shore Campus, Mundelein Center, Room 507
To register, visit:
https://perseus.luc.edu/continuum/getCourse?classnbr=6809&term=1116

I fear my blog is becoming one of those “zombie” sites – believe me, Sweet Potato Casserole is not the way I would like to greet the world eternally. Unfortunately, it’s now about five months after Mom has passed away, and I have entered this deep, deep, dark, deep depression about it. Have reached this horrible plateau where I’ll actually forget for a few moments or even hours and then I am reminded, and then it starts all over again. There’s not a laugh to be had in the following entry, I’m pretty sure.

We finally buried my mom over the weekend. According to her will, she wanted to be buried next to my dad out near our farm in Pennsylvania. Said farm is (on an excellent day) at least eight hours away, which makes it a bit cumbersome to get to more than a few times a year. But this past weekend was the fourth of July, so we packed up her sky blue urn to take her out there. I wrote a letter, and the kids drew some pictures. We buried her with those and the Tao of Pooh, which is a book I read to her when she was sick, and some pictures of the kids. I told Brian he should have poured some cabernet over the gravesite or something.

It really is a pretty gravesite: Bethel Cemetery on “Shades of Death” lane, next to a long-abandoned church. I dimly remember going to picnic potlucks there when I was little. We should all wind up on top of a picturesque hill somewhere. Mom is next to her husband on one side and her husband’s relatives on the other, a string of Ihnats, dating all the way back to my great-grandparents, Johan and Sofia, who came over here from Hungary around the turn of the last century and snatched up over 100 acres of prime Pennsylvania farmland. And proceeded to have about 11 kids, some of whom are now also in Bethel Cemetery (Mike, Helen, Steve). When my great-grandmother died, my grandmother, Mary, the oldest at about 13 years of age, wound up raising all the other kids. They all called her “Mom.”

I wish I knew more about the history of the farm: my great-grandfather left it to my grandmother, and by the time she married my alcoholic coal-mining grandfather, it was a dairy farm. She left it to my dad, who left it to me. The weird thing is that in all of these Ihnats who have lived there for over a century, only about one person per generation has really ever wanted to see it again. Most fled as soon as they were able, whether it was the hard farm work or the relative isolation I can’t really tell. My brother hasn’t been there since my dad’s funeral a decade ago. Even my mom stopped wanting to go after my dad died.

Fortunately, my husband and kids seem to love it. Now we have about 50 acres [Grandpa lost half of the original 100 because he couldn’t pay his taxes] of beautiful wildflower land for everyone to run around on, as compared to the 1/16th of an acre or so we sport at home. The nearest neighbors run a black Angus farm, so there are cows around. Most of the small towns nearby offer at least a 4th of July parade or a Pumpkin festival for entertainment around the various holidays, and Pittsburgh is only a half-hour away, for God’s sake. I guess I get it – I hated going out there when I was around 12 years old (when my dad would drag us out there for a month!) because there was very little to do there. He never really finished the house he built, so it’s kind of a shack, with pink insulation showing and leftover dishes and appliances and bedding from the 70s and earlier. The spiders and mice live there more than we do, so although I try to wipe everything down when we get there, I always wonder how clean it really might be.

So this was going to be a hard trip, with the burial and all. We bought some yellow marigolds and pink new guinea impatiens from a local farmer. Brian brought two shovels and made a nice deep hole. I put in the urn, then the book and letters and pictures around it, and Brian handed me the shovel. As we filled in the hole I was trying to sing “They Can’t Take That Away from Me” with the kids, one of their favorite songs, but they really preferred “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” which was probably also appropriate. Then the twins spent their evening catching fireflies in an old milk bottle, building a bonfire (with their dad), and climbing up on the roof to look at the stars (also with their dad). I slept a lot.

It’s not really a tragedy to be orphaned at 45; tragedies are when children lose their parents, or don’t have a good relationship with them, or were unable to work everything out with them before they passed away. But I’m haunted by things like a paper my mom emailed me that she wrote that I never read. Or a time she asked to me to come to lunch and I said I was too busy at work. Or even the fact that I appreciate the farm so much more now and my dad is gone so I can’t even share that with him. Or how I have to keep telling the kids about their grandparents on my side of the family because I’m terrified they’ll forget Nana.

Can I take something positive away from this by realizing that life is fleeting and short and to treasure each healthy, happy day I have with my family? All I can do is try. I really am trying.