Michiana Chronicles

Michiana Chronicles is a series of radio essays by Jonathan Nashel, Louise Collins, Joe Chaney, Jeanette Saddler Taylor, Jeff Nixa, April Lidinsky, and Ken Smith.

Michiana is the region of north-central Indiana and southern Michigan roughly centered on South Bend, Indiana.

Michiana Chronicles airs on Fridays at 7:35 a.m. and 12:30 p.m. on WVPE (88.1 FM), the home of public radio in Elkhart / South Bend, Indiana.

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Recent pieces

Skirting the Issue -- Now, Land’s End and other sensible clothiers exploit this swimsuit anxiety brilliantly to play on both the intelligence and self-loathing of grown-up women. For one thing, you practically have to have your Ph.D. in Swimsuit-ology to wade through the thick catalogues hitting mailboxes now, with bold headlines promising “Flattering Solutions” – implying every body is a problem. In fact, you can shop by “anxiety zones,” choosing which body part you think most needs to be slimmed, supported, disguised, and, somehow, covered, all while revealing more than most of us care to face in full-length mirrors, fully clothed. By April Lidinsky.

Baby, It’s Cold Inside -- After you see these photos you will probably wonder what we can do to prevent every single last iceberg from melting away and becoming history. Here, I confess, I have no idea. I’ve heard it all before: lower carbon footprints, drive hybrids, recycle with abandon, hate the oil companies, love to read in the dark, you name it. And you know what: none of this is going to bring back these icebergs or grow new ones or do anything to stop our relentless destruction of the earth, let alone quell the naysayers on global warming. I recently heard on NPR that an iceberg the size of Connecticut just broke apart and is melting away. Now, I’ve been in Connecticut many times and I still can’t wrap my head around this little fun fact. What can possibly be the size of a state? By Jonathan Nashel.

Pledge drive feature—Daddy Daughter Dance -- During the Spring 2008 pledge drive, WVPE listeners got a chance to hear one of last year's most popular pieces, Jeff Nixa's story of the Daddy Daughter Dance: There’s a little girl over there, eleven years old, sitting alone in her new dress at the daddy daughter dance. She looks like she’s eating her two cookies. But she’s really watching the other girls dancing under the balloons with the men. “May I have this dance?” I ask the girl. She gets busy with her cookies. “Not now, dad.” (Read the rest). By Michiana Chronicles.

A Green Witch -- I sipped on my Pepsi, we chatted, and at some point I said, “So what do you do?” She held up a finger and swallowed a bite of Sloppy Joe. ‘Oh,” she said, “I’m a witch.” Now, at this point a lot of my fellow ministry types would pray for the Lord’s protection and suddenly remember the bible study they were supposed to be at. But I kind of like the witches I’ve met. Women who belong to the nature-based religion called Wicca. By Jeff Nixa.

Chronicling Michiana -- “Jeanette, you’ve got the devil in you, big as a hog.” That’s what my paternal grandmother told me when I was a child. No fool, she saw right through that prissy little façade that my mother created for me: a starched, ironed dress with a big, butterfly-bow at the waist in the back, Mary Janes, and those bouncing little Shirley-Temple curls. Grandmother wasn’t duped for a moment, though; she saw my core and recognized me for the pot-stirrer that I was, despite my mother’s attempts to disguise it. By Jeanette Saddler Taylor.

The Chaney Identity -- In an idling part of my mind an ongoing fantasy involves my breaking free from the constraints of society to become a world adventurer or a secret agent who works to dismantle, or at least evade, a corrupt pervasive authority. In its extreme form, it’s the fantasy of the resistance fighter, the one who can sacrifice anything, even love, for the sake of a narrow but towering principle. True, the story sits four-square in the realm of paranoia, but its pleasure derives from the resourcefulness and miraculous invulnerability of the hero. Imagine being the master of your own existence, attached to things only insofar as they are useful, capable of adapting in an instant to any new opportunity or threat. By Joe Chaney.

Microclimates of the Self -- Maybe because I’ve also been staving off the gray gloom of Seasonal Affective Disorder with splashy seed catalogues, I’ve been obsessing lately about this question of what makes plants – and people – thrive, and what makes us shrivel. Sometimes the smallest changes – moving a few feet from shadow into the sun -- can make all the difference. Fellow gardeners have taught me to map out the microclimates of my yard, since planting a peony a few paces one way or another can herald a June of wild fuchsia blooms or one of barren stems, leaves curled like empty palms. By April Lidinsky.

The Love that Dare Not Speak Its Name -- Now I know that I’m not alone in my awe of potholes. I heard a story about this German guy who was so taken with our potholes that he took photos of them and sent them back to friends and family in Deutschland to give them an idea of what riches await them in the New World. I guess these poor folks have never seen a pothole on their Autobahn. Yes, they may able to drive their Porsches 200 mph on their pristine highways, but I bet they couldn’t handle the mean streets of Edison or Ireland given the potholes on them. Germans are such wimps. By Jonathan Nashel.

The Morning after Valentine’s Day -- As many as 14% of adults chose to skip V-Day this year because, and I quote, "I am just so grateful to be free of that clown." End quote. Another 21% say they messed up their last romance but they're more than ready to try again, please. A happy 6% have figured out how to go on slowly and imperfectly weaving that special someone deeper and irretrievably deeper into their hearts for years after the first blush of romance. Watch out for these folks – they have trouble with decorum in elevators and on dusky summer evenings in their own back yard. By Ken Smith.

Chair Massage -- A real massage is more than a back rub. It's a phone call, from the boiler room of your body and soul, up to the bridge, begging to give a status report. We’ve got a problem here, Captain! Or, We need to slow down, Captain, the heart’s gonna blow! Our bodies, that we curse, medicate, flog on treadmills and putty over at cosmetic counters, are trying to talk to us. Without a glimmer of understanding or curiosity on our part. Ever wonder how your body can transform a cheeseburger and fries into bone? Or a baby? By Jeff Nixa.

Patrick Henry in the Marching Band -- So, you have this little blonde baby, burdened with the moniker, Patrick Henry. That, however, is the least of his troubles; he’s blind, not just unsighted, but lacking eyeballs. A challenge, but we’re a starchy Anglo-Saxon family, so we pulled up our socks and got on with it. His mother, Patty, and his Granny, Pat, his first “baby-sitters,” ensured that he had plenty of stimulation through being cuddled, read to, and given textured, squeaking, bell-ringing, talk-to-you toys. And, his father, Patrick John, a musician, would calm and amuse Patrick Henry during baby-upset moments by placing him on the top of the upright piano and playing. By Jeanette Saddler Taylor.

Imagining a Different President -- Admit it, fellow white guys: it means a lot to see yourself in the image of the President and to sense your own experience reflected in the President’s phrases, facial expressions, gestures, and cultural references. For Americans, the president is the universal public representative. His is the face that appears on the dime, the quarter, the dollar bill. His face signifies cultural value. And that face has always been my face. I’ve always been included in that picture, that narrow mirror. Not everyone has been. By Joe Chaney.

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