It's time to sand the rust off the belt, and replace spent pieces, my beloved Midwest!

I am a proud child of the Great Lakes region of the Midwest — a collection of states that made this country a manufacturing powerhouse, while also feeding the nation and serving as its transportation hub — but my parent needs to straighten up its act or I may have to flee the nest.

Traveling the states that touch the Great Lakes and watching national news, I've come to realize that we really are part of the nation's Rust Belt. It's not just because heavy manufacturing has faded into our past; it's also because we've let a whole lot fall apart. Drive I-65 through Indiana lately? You probably need dental work. Lose your car in a sink hole after a sewer tunnel collapsed? No, it's not the stuff of science fiction; it's our new reality. Sit out four hours of a work day because the power at the office in the city was down? In this day and age, really?!? And don't even get me started on the state of public education ...

Pulling up roots does not appeal to me, especially now that I have a grandchild. However, I am growing increasingly frustrated by what I will call our eroding sense of public good.

We should be proud!

The Midwest most certainly deserves to be proud of its history. My home state of Michigan gave birth to the assembly line (Ford Motor Co.) and mass production, which enabled average Americans to buy cars — and myriad other durable goods, including houses. The Big Three automakers (Ford, General Motors and Chrysler) put America on wheels and helped establish the middle class, together with union labor, which raised the country's standard of living. Raw materials, including timber, iron and copper, flowed out of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan on ships sailing the Great Lakes; the Great Lakes themselves became an invaluable trade route that fed — literally and figuratively — the nation. All the while, farmers produced diverse foods, from apples and potatoes to milk and beef.

My adopted state of Wisconsin helps keep the nation in milk, cheese and bratwurst to this day. Milwaukee was one of few cities in the U.S. to try socialism on for size while building community pride, spawning fabulous public parks, buildings and education. And, of course, we can't forget the beer, motorcycles, and mining and agricultural equipment (Allis-Chalmers) produced here.

Illinois became the nation's transportation hub — the Port of Chicago connected the state to  Great Lakes shipping; Chicago became the center of the railroad business, leading the nation in rail connections; and O'Hare International Airport was once the world's busiest airport. Illinois is also part of the nation's Corn Belt, is home to the world's largest commodities exchange, and was claimed as home by four of the country's presidents.

Indiana, which sits in the Corn and Grain belts of the U.S., gave us organized high school basketball, Hoosiers (in this case, I mean college athletes), and more NBA players than any other state, plus one of motorsports' most-beloved race tracks. She also helped product the steel that built America.

The two states with which I am least familiar, Minnesota and Ohio, both boast Great Lakes ports and miles of access to major rivers (the Mighty Mississippi and the Ohio, respectively). The Wright brothers of Ohio modernized flight, with the first powered airplanes. Minnesota voters set the standard for active political participation.

Combined, our states also founded impressive public research universities, including most of the Big 10 schools.

But we can't rest on our laurels

We did well, we Midwestern Great Lakes states, during the agricultural economy and then the manufacturing economy, for myriad reasons. We can credit our vast natural resources — not just iron, copper and timber, but also healthy soil and fresh water; our proximity to the Great Lakes and the development of the St. Lawrence River into a seaway; an abundance of paved roads, water canals, railroads and airports; and our bust-ass work ethic and kick-ass education, both formal (apprenticeships, internships and universities) and informal (Grandpa showed you how).

Now, however, we're in a knowledge economy. We cannot all rely on the soil or the strength of our backs to earn us sustainable incomes. I say "all" because some of us still do work in agriculture, with family farmers fighting like the Irish for their livelihoods, and in manufacturing, which is returning stateside in high-tech formats. But most of us find ourselves pretty far removed from our (great-) grandparents' farms and our (grand) parents' factories. We're being forced to evaluate our worth, and it's scary.

The result has been belt-tightening. We fight tax increases, even as our roads literally crumble. Instead of fixing our broken public school systems, we divert money and resources via voucher programs to private schools, which aren't doing much better by students because they use the same out-dated educational models as public schools. The Great Lakes are polluted and stricken by invasive species; O'Hare has become the second worst airport in the nation in terms of delayed and canceled flights. We in Wisconsin refuse to join the Midwest High-Speed Rail project or to accept federal stimulus money to invest in broadband Internet expansion. We've defunded our public university system, to the point where tax revenue accounts for only 18 percent of the University of Wisconsin budget, forcing tuition up at unprecedented rates; students whose parents cannot pay for college are taking on unprecedented student-loan debt loads.

Did I mention that we're now in a knowledge economy? That means workers are valued based on what they know. Robots can build cars; workers control robots, a job that requires knowledge. Once upon a time, unions might have provided on-the-job training at minimal cost to workers, but ... that's a thing of the past. Now, workers have to pay to acquire knowledge considered valuable, even the basic knowledge needed to get in the door at a starting level. Or face working in low-skill, low-pay industries like retail (Wal-Mart) or service (restaurants). Further, workers in today's knowledge economy must learn to collaborate, troubleshooting in teams, as today's workplace problems are far too complex for individuals to solve. That requires, ummm, teamwork.

Teamwork. Does a state that refuses to pay for vital public services seem like a place employers would look for team players? Let's check the Fortune 500 company count. Michigan, a burned-out skeleton of its once proud self, has 19; Minnesota has 18. Wisconsin has 10. Granted, Michigan has twice the population (and the Big Three), but Minnesota has fewer people than Wisconsin. Why the disparity?

That is one of many questions we in the Midwest need to ponder. Heavily. Seriously. Publicly. Privately. What is working? Ask Detroit (believe it or not). And what isn't? Ask many other Midwest communities.

I'm fairly confident, having weighed the situation myself and collaboratively with others, it's going to become painfully obvious that failing to tend to the public good is simply feeding the rust.

Parenting while poor is neither a crime nor a sin

Confession time: Members of my extended family once contemplated calling Child Protective Services on me.

I know what you're thinking: You're going to hate me by the end of this confession. Perhaps. But it won't be because I hurt my children.

See, I am not confessing my own parenting sin, which was simply being poor. I am confessing nursing hurt feelings for far too long.

The charges were ... 

I'll get right to the point. The following were the causes of concern:

• Our children wore hand-me-down and thrift-store clothing, plus well-worn shoes, while I wore professional clothes.
• Our children slept together on a full-size mattress on the floor, instead of in twin beds on frames.
• Our children were fed peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches for dinner on occasion. 

Later, the charges were amended to reflect the possibility that I was having an affair on my hard-working hubby.

At this stage, I would like to point out that my husband was not a target of these charges. The women who made these charges knew that I was the one making the day-to-day decisions about child rearing. They also didn't know me very well, as I had married into their family.

Further, I am well aware that these three women love me and, more importantly, love my children. They also decided against reporting me after my husband intervened.

But ... they did me — and my children (and the hubby) — a great disservice by jumping to conclusions.

My defense was ... 

I admit it: I could not afford better clothes, or lots of shoes, or three complete twin beds, or an apartment large enough to comfortably fit three twin beds. I was also adverse to cooking. What I did instead was this:

I mastered the art of thrift store shopping for the girls, and I kept a couple "good" outfits — what old-timers would have called the girls' "Sunday best" — tucked away for special occasions. Same with shoes; the girls always had a nice pair, for school, and a beat-up pair for everyday living, plus snowboots. (The requirement that children have a pair of gym shoes to be used only in the gym, only at school, nearly gave me a stroke!) My logic went beyond economics, by the way; I wanted my children to be young explorers, scientists and artists, which meant they needed clothing they could freely dirty up during daily living.

I also mastered the art of thrift store shopping for myself. All that professional clothing I wore? The labels all said Goodwill. And, when I wasn't at work, I wasn't wearing the good stuff. I pulled out tattered jeans and tanks and dirtied them up with abandon, alongside the girls. (Today it's sweats and tanks, much to my hubby's chagrin.)

Yes, my children slept on a full-size mattress on the floor. We had a two-bedroom apartment, which meant the three girls had to share a room. I made the executive decision to give them the master bedroom and to dedicate most of the space to play, not sleep. We considered getting them "real" beds. But the apartment was small, and they were stuck together regardless, so I applied some creativity to a solution. It helped cut down on bedding costs (fewer sheets required) and on injuries; falling off that bed was hardly dangerous. Win-win, I thought.

Interestingly, they had more fun together in that room than in any other living situation we had while they were young. They used the bed as a stage and put their imaginations to work.

And, regarding the butter-and-jelly sandwiches: Yup. I fed my children crap meals — processed foods, in other words — at least once a week. Two or three times a week, if my work week was especially crazy. I still feed my children crap, in fact; Monday is frozen pizza night in our house. I happen to hate cooking. And I knew my children ate well at school lunch, so I was lazy with some dinners. Other nights, however, I did whip out pots and pans and cook up a meal with real protein and random veggies.

This sinful shortcoming of mine has been righted by my husband since then; he is now chef, and I'm the kitchen help.

The ugly specter of an affair was brought up as a possible explanation for all these parenting sins ... and it seemed fitting, as I was often absent at critical times during the day. See, I worked more than 40 hours, often putting in hours at "unusual" times." I was a workaholic. I was also a journalist, which meant I worked when the news happened. That was often evenings, which was one of the reasons cooking dinner was such a struggle for me.

But, to our extended family members, who were used to factory and office jobs with regular schedules, I'm sure the "I have to work" excuses seemed thin.

Need vs. want 

Now, you're probably wondering how it is that we were "poor" when I've alluded to the fact that both my husband and I worked. Hard. And long.

Well, that is the reality of our economy. Two parents can work and still struggle to make ends meet. Especially when the goal is to ensure the children are safe and sound. Safe and sound, to us, meant an apartment in a complex with lots of other children, extended family nearby, and a good school district (or, at least, a school district with good individual schools).

We also started out in a very different position than most parents; we were pregnant straight out of high school, which meant we had lots of expenses at a very early age. While I had a college degree, I also had student loan debt and worked in a low-paying field. My hubby didn't have a degree but did have mad mechanical skill; he was subject to the ebb and flow of manufacturing, which was often unkind with layoffs. Frankly, he worked far too many years in jobs he hated — sometimes, more than one at a time — to ensure our needs were met.

And I argue our needs were indeed met.

Do children need brand new clothing? (Note: I have heard people complain, more than once, about how well-dressed the poor children in Milwaukee are. Clearly, the complainers observe, parents are spending WAY too much keeping up appearances. Well, I can assure you that the poor parents of Milwaukee, especially minority parents, know they will be judged unfit if their children wear anything less ... so I guess they're damned if they do, damned if they don't.)

Do children need their own beds (or bedrooms, for that matter)?

Do children need a whole-foods dinner every night?

Well, that last one, I do regret. My children deserved better food, no doubt. So did the hubby. So did I, for that matter!

But I don't believe my children suffered for our lack of money, anymore than I suffered from my mother's lack of money. Yes, I was raised in poverty; my divorced mother collected welfare for six years of my childhood. It was no picnic. But it wasn't all bad, either.

What you learn when you grow up poor:

• Value goods and property, owned by you and borrowed from others (because you can't afford to replace anything, frankly). 
• Value your own ability to get stuff done (because you cannot afford to hire someone else to do it, or waste the social capital needed for emergencies to ask the favor of others).
• Value sharing (because you need stuff you cannot afford, as does your neighbor, and because it often exponentially increases the enjoyment of said stuff).
• Value people. 

That last one is very important to me — an ethic, so to speak. When you are poor, your network (of other poor people, usually) is all you have. And that network is often the difference between life and death, literally. For example, growing up in rural Upper Michigan, we always stopped to help stranded motorists alongside the road, even if we didn't know them or didn't like them. We could not assume they had other ways of getting out of trouble, such as AAA; being stranded could mean freezing to death. And we knew we might need the favor returned.

This same principle has cost me, though. People matter to me, which is why I've never confronted the women who wanted to report me to Child Protective Services. I don't want to break ties; they are a part of my network.

Proof is in the pudding

Did my children also learn valuable lessons from being poor?

Well, my children share my values. They still shop for used clothing to save money, and they spend big on their work clothes. Makes perfect sense to me. They eat healthier food than my husband and I did at their ages, in part because my husband and I eat better now. And my children learned very early on how to be good roommates, sharing space and property (making them great members of society). In fact, when we deadbeat 'rents finally bought a house, it was four bedrooms and — gasp! — one bathroom. We lived together in relative harmony.

However, my children value people in a different way than I do. They have no desire to spend time with people who judged their parents and jumped to negative conclusions.

They realize there are alternatives. For example, ask the mom or dad about the logic behind seemingly poor decisions. Sometimes, it comes down to simple economics, and they're too proud or independent to admit it without prodding. Sometimes, a lesson in healthy eating or a cooking class is in order. (And, of course, there are cases of actual neglect and abuse ... but, without physical scars, you won't know until you investigate.)

Frankly, you could also quietly step up. If you see a child in worn shoes, consider a trip to the shoe store for a surprise birthday present. Offer up free babysitting to a parent who seems frazzled by crazy work hours. Give away some of your garden-grown veggies or show parents where to get inexpensive or free veggies. Have a conversation with the affected child or children; you might become a part of their network, reducing the likelihood that they will be forever poor.

Now, take everything I have said and apply it to a struggling single mom. I had my husband's shoulder to cry on the day I learned my family believed I was failing as a parent. (I also had his income, THANK GOD.) Had I been on my own, I would have been absolutely devastated.

To some degree, I was. I still don't trust my extended family the way I once did. But I think the family lost out on more than I did. Despite our shortcomings (and, yes, there were other, more-legit, shortcomings), our children grew into fabulous young women who are a constant source of joy and pride for me and my husband. They know the difference between need and want, and they want to spend time with us.

But not so much with the folks who doubted their parents.

Hey, journalists: Use your whole brains!

No doubt many of us journalists could use a mental shot of adrenaline after being exhausted by corporate restructuring, downsizing and outsourcing. Author Daniel H. Pink provides one with his book, “A Whole New Mind: Why Right-Brainers Will Rule the Future.”

We’re in danger of being replaced, folks, just like factory workers before us (and supplanted, like farmers before them), because the information economy is evolving. “Last century, machines proved they could replace human backs. This century, new technologies are proving they can replace human left brains. … Any job that depends on routines — that can be reduced to a set of rules, or broken down into a set of repeatable steps — is at risk,” Pink observes (p. 44).

He’s right. Copy editors: Consider spellcheck. And if you believe knowing AP (Associated Press) style will save you: Consider your many low-cost replacements in India …

Pink calls this the “conceptual” age, or the second stage of the information economy, in which left-brain thinking — logic, like that which we use to construct AP-compliant ledes — is no longer enough. He calls on people to start using their whole brains, including the once-disparaged creative right sides.

I know what you’re thinking: We already do! You’re right.

Pink claims we need to develop six “high-concept, high-touch senses” (p. 65) that will help us remain relevant as evolution occurs: story, design, symphony (creating a whole from pieces), empathy, play and meaning. We’re more than half way there, folks! Our careers involve crafting stories that are interesting enough to be heard; that are designed to catch the attention of people suffering from information overload; and that assemble puzzles using pieces the public may otherwise never connect (creating symphony). Journalism is story, design and symphony.

Further, I believe we journalists are masters at play—yeah, Pink literally means having fun at work. My favorite Facebook page remains Overheard in the Newsroom; our humor can’t be beat! I doubt we would have survived the layoffs and closures with sanity intact if we didn’t enjoy each other’s company — or if we didn’t find meaning in what we do. Pink emphasizes meaning: “[W]e live in an era of abundance, with standards of living unmatched in the history of the world. Freed from the struggle for survival, we have the luxury of devoting more of our lives to the search for meaning” (p. 218). We journalists don’t need to develop this sense; certainly, we’re not in this struggle for the awesome pay! We believe a free democratic society depends on the free flow of accurate information. We live meaning.

In a perfect world, we also employ empathy. Unfortunately, given that the public now views us as lower forms of scum than politicians and lawyers, I suspect many of us have shelved empathy, as it takes time and energy — and who has time or energy in the day of instant news?!?

Pink gives readers some exercises to help strengthen empathy, and — let’s face it, peers of mine — we need a refresher. If we employ empathy, we understand it is more important to get the facts about the Boston bombings correct than it is to immediately inform (read: inflame) the public with rumors. We have been betraying the public trust by putting immediacy ahead of emotion. And, yes, I know the public demanded immediacy, in the beginning of the information age … but I suspect you’re going to find, in the conceptual age, that the public wants its emotions tended, as well.

Let’s given them what they want and be the whole-brainers I know we can be!

My condom-pushing school district makes me so proud, I could burst!

I'm sure you've heard: High-schoolers in Milwaukee Public Schools — my daughter and her classmates — will be able to get free condoms from their school nurses beginning next school year.

My reaction? YES!!!

I'm celebrating a bold move: According to the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, only 4.5 percent of high schools in the country make condoms available to students. That means MPS is taking a leap.

I'm not going to get into the details of the Board of Education's decision, which was reported in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel article, MPS approves condom giveaways. You can read about the technicalities on news sites.

Instead, I'm going to speak for those girls who, like me, got pregnant before they grew up.

Girls like Jane (whose name has been changed to protect her identity), a young family friend who became a mom before she could become her own person.

No regrets, believe it or not

A lot of people believe teenage parenthood automatically leads to a life of doom and gloom.

Not me.

In my case, becoming a parent at 18 — thankfully, after I graduated high school — was a great experience. But I'll be frank: I was fortunate.

I was fortunate because my baby daddy wanted to be a full-time father, husband and bread winner, at the ripe old age of 19.

I was fortunate because our 'rents wanted to be supportive grandparents, giving their time, energy, advice and money to the cause.

I was fortunate because I had enough scholarships, grants and loans to afford college tuition and on-campus married housing. (Thanks to growing up poor and being a geeky studious chick in high school, I was flush with student aid.)

I was fortunate because I was healthy, physically, emotionally and mentally. And so was my child.

I was fortunate, in other words, because I had all the resources a parent of any age needs: a partner parent, relief pitchers (the 'rents), a steady income, good health, and opportunity.

Take any of those resources away, and the job gets exponentially harder. Take them all away, and it becomes nearly impossible. Just ask Jane.

Mom and baby are holding on

Jane's baby daddy isn't in the picture. We can ponder the reasons why and debate ways to make him step up ... but, in the meantime, Jane's baby doesn't have a dad. And Jane doesn't have a partner. That's reality.

Jane doesn't know her own father and mother. Again, we can ponder the reasons why and debate ways to make them step up ... but, in the meantime, Jane's baby doesn't have grandparents. And Jane doesn't have relief pitchers. That's reality.

Jane lost her scholarship to college because school proved too much for her. We can debate ways to make her step up ... but, in the meantime, Jane had to go to work instead of college. That's reality.

Jane suffers from an affective disorder that requires medication, which she had to stop taking while pregnant and nursing. That's cold, hard reality.

We're a dime a dozen — but worth more

Between me and Jane, in the spectrum of experiences that are better and worse than ours, you'll find countless teenage mothers in Milwaukee.

You've undoubtedly heard that Milwaukee is among the 10 worst cities the nation in terms of teenage pregnancy rates and sexual disease transmission, although in 2008 the city recorded its lowest teen pregnancy rate in 30 years.

According to a fact sheet circulated by MPS during the discussion about condom distribution, the "2007 Youth Risk Behavior Survey (YRBS) showed that 25% of MPS high school students have had four or more partners, and 42% have had sexual intercourse with one or more people in the last three months. Additionally, 39% did NOT use a condom during their last sexual encounter."

This survey indicates nearly half our high-schoolers are having sex. And nearly half of those sexually active teens aren't using condoms. An understatement: Wow!

We can ponder the reasons why and debate ways to make them step up ... but, in the meantime, they are having children. That's reality.

Normally, this would be the point where I'd try to provide an explanation. After all, that's what we journalists do: We hunt for the "why."

I couldn't tell you why I didn't use a condom back in the day. I was a different person back then. I was a child. I suppose it was just too much: It would have required advanced planning, cash, patience and a firm grasp on reality ... all of which are in short supply among teens.

But today I'm not interested in the why. Today I'm interested in "how" — as in, how do we stop babies from having babies?

Handing condoms to teenagers won't solve the problem. We all know that. It does seem to help, however, if you believe a study published in the American Journal of Public Health, Condom Availability Programs in Massachusetts High Schools.

Says the study: "Condom availability was not associated with greater sexual activity among adolescents but was associated with greater condom use among those who were already sexually active, a highly positive result."

In my opinion, if handing out condoms here in Milwaukee helps just one girl grow up before she gets pregnant, we've achieved our own highly positive result.

Capitol Court may be dead, but malls live in Milwaukee

I have a holiday confession to make: I don't celebrate Black Friday.

My refusal to take part in Black Friday (which is the Friday after Thanksgiving, the biggest shopping day of the year, for those who don't know) could be a result of my mall phobia.

I think it's fair to say I loathe shopping malls. Trying to maneuver a massive, overflowing parking lot gives me a headache. Crowds of rude shoppers — you know, the ones who cut you off in the aisles, snatch items from your reach, or run over your feet with baby strollers — make my blood boil. And, frankly, mall prices leave me cold.

Except to attend the occasional movie, I haven't been to the queen of shopping malls, Mayfair Mall in Wauwatosa, in ... oh, I guess it's been years.

This mall phobia I have is undoubtedly the result of growing up in the country, where shopping was a necessity, not a contact sport. I lack the skills to succeed, I readily admit.

However, I refuse to let a phobia run my life, so I have found a few malls I can stomach — at least on an average Tuesday. Two of them are in the city of Milwaukee, and I thought I'd let you know why they don't scare me like the others ... in case, like me, any of you are mall phobes :)

Frankly, they are not like other malls in metro Milwaukee ... which can be a bonus for anyone looking to change up the holiday routine. The fashions, for example, are decidedly urban, which works for me and mine.

Midtown Center takes over Capitol Court

I never had the (dis)pleasure of shopping at Capitol Court. It was long gone by the time I moved to Wisconsin almost 15 years ago. Yet, people still bring up Capitol Court when talking about malls in Milwaukee ...

Apparently, it left quite an impression. (Yes, I've been told both the positive and negative reasons, but let's not dwell.)

Today, the Midtown Center stands in its place at Capitol Drive and 56th Street.


Midtown is an open-air center, which means it's not enclosed like Mayfair or Southridge malls. (As with outlet malls, all the stores have doors facing parking lots.) I usually like the open-air concept: When I want a specific store, I can (a) easily find it from the comfort of my car, and (b) get in and out of that store quickly. Of course, when it's raining or freezing cold, I'm not such a big fan.

Midtown is also an "affordable" mall. It's anchors are not major department stores; in fact, its anchors are the popular, numerous Wal-Mart,* Pick 'n' Save, and AJ Wright.

I checked the Midtown Center's Web site for accuracy; all 35 tenants listed (with Web sites, if available) are indeed still open — including a Milwaukee Police Department substation, for those who worry about crime at the mall.

Some highlights: Teenage girls and young women, like my daughters, love the fact that discount clothing retailers Rainbow, DOTS, Fashion Bug, Simply Fashion, and Best Price! are together within walking distance.

Stores not listed as tenants but located nearby include Lena's Food Market, City Trends, U.S. Cellular, Playmakers, Manna House, McDonald's, and rare-in-the-city Taco Bell.

Unfortunately, Lowe's home improvement store came and went already.

The mall suits me well because I can spot and avoid crowds before getting out of my car. Parking can be a bit challenging during busy times, like after school lets out, but there are enough out lots to provide overflow space. (I recommend approaching the mall from 60th Street, which is the least busy of the five bordering streets.) And the stores are both practical and affordable.

*Side note: I know that Wal-Mart is a lightning rod among consumers, who love, hate, or love/hate the retail giant. The first time one opened where I lived, I refused to shop there, based solely on the fact that the corporation censors the musicians it agrees to market. However, when the first Wal-Mart opened in the city of Milwaukee, I decided to give the retailer a chance. After all, it was the only big-box, discount retailer willing to build multiple stores within our city limits, despite the crime statistics. Plus, I needed a place to buy inexpensive undergarments :)

The Shops of Grand Avenue will not die

Enter the east end of The Shops of Grand Avenue, housed inside historic downtown buildings on Wisconsin Avenue just west of the Milwaukee River, and you get a glimpse of the former Grand Avenue Mall's struggles: Empty store fronts outnumber full ones.

However, if you move west through the mall, the shopping improves. "It's the best place for shoe shopping," claims shoe-aholic daughter Cherish. Plus, "it has the best food court of all the malls," daughter Angel notes, adding that she and boyfriend "come here just to eat all the time."

Grand Avenue is anchored by a department store, Boston Store, in the mall's west-end building. Not officially considered part of the mall, Borders Bookstore is located in a separate east-end building on the river.

Myriad stores are found between these two "anchors," with all the buildings connected by skywalks. A few of the stores open to the street, like Office Max and Walgreen's.

Again, I checked the online list of 73 tenants, and all the retailers are open. (I didn't check the restaurants specifically, however.)

Highlights: Brew City Beer Gear; Planet TV, featuring all things sold on TV; Torrence's House of Threads and Danielle's, both featuring distinctive evening wear; hard-to-find-these-days photo booths; Peddler Jim’s Produce, with to-die-for berries; and the food court, which is conveniently separated from the stores in that it occupies the entire third floor of a building by itself.

Apparently, guys and gals love the shoe selections of Famous Footwear, FootAction USA, and all three Foot Locker stores: Kids, Lady and regular.

Also popular are sportswear store Fan Fair and hat and cap retailer Lids.

And, of course, the holidays mean a visit from the Leonard Bearstein Symphony Orchestra, with a castle backdrop. Children of all ages love the animated bears, who perform holiday classics.

Gone, unfortunately, are recent tenants Linens 'n' Things and Old Navy.

The buildings that house the mall also house a YMCA, Marriott Courtyard and Residence Inn hotels, and the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee School of Continuing Education, which means steady foot traffic and added security.

The mall suits me well because, well, it's rarely crowded (*sigh*). You must pay for parking, although it's a mere $1 per hour with store validation. (I usually park at a meter on Milwaukee Avenue for convenience, but I'm in and out quickly.) And many of the stores are unique to Grand Avenue, which makes the trip worthwhile.

Watch out for that weirdo; he just might help you out

A few years ago, I saw one gang member shoot another in broad daylight, at nearly point-blank range.

It's one of my favorite summertime memories.

We — the husband, three daughters and I — were attempting to cruise north on Lincoln Memorial Drive, near Bradford Beach. I say "attempting" because the Lake Michigan boulevard resembled a parking lot: All four lanes of the roadway were jam packed with folks attempting to cruise by the beach on this smoldering hot, humid day. We crawled to a dead stop so often that the hubby put the car in park every few feet, waiting for the cars ahead of us to inch forward.

Typically, such heavy stop-and-go traffic would annoy the hubby. He's a go-and-go sort of guy. But the city was entertaining on this particular day — everywhere were classic cars, convertibles, expensive SUVs, hot rods, motorcycles and, of course, swimsuit-clad hard bodies.

One pimped-out ride, a Cadillac convertible, caught my eye as we approached it, parked on my side of the road. I'll be honest: It caught my eye because it was totally stereotypical. The metallic paint job was accented by flashy rims and a leather interior — very nice. Exactly what you would expect a pimp or drug dealer in a Hollywood movie to drive.

And seated inside the car were — no surprise, if you believe the stereotype — four black teenage boys. Four black teenage boys sporting gang colors.

In the interest of full disclosure, I can't remember exactly how the teens were dressed. I do remember at least one red baseball cap, cocked atop its owner's head ... but little else. After living in Milwaukee a while, though, I can assure you it's easy to spot gang members when they're dressed the part; it's a certain look you just know. As the four piled out of the car, I just knew.

While I watched, the boy in the red cap jumped from the passenger seat and turned toward the driver of the car. He held a really big gun that he quickly pointed at the driver, and then — in broad daylight, in the midst of a crowd of people — he pulled the trigger. And he hit his target.

The driver was suddenly soaking wet ... drenched in water from his buddy's squirt gun.

Boys will be boys

Again in the interest of full disclosure, I knew I wasn't witnessing an actual shooting. The hubby and I weren't the least bit nervous watching those boys exit their car.

You see, after being parents for more than a decade and a half, my husband and I could spot happy teenagers a mile away.

Happy teenagers are rarely spotted by adults, any parent of a teenager will tell you. They tend to run in packs, away from their parents and other authority figures. And it's not always obvious from facial expressions when you do spot happy teens, but we parents just know.

And, on this day at the lake, we just knew we were catching a rare glimpse of four happy teenagers at play outside.

The sight was made that much more special — touching, in fact — because we saw four gangbangers defy the stereotype. They reminded us that, whatever their sins, they were still children.

For the afternoon, at least, they were simply boys being boys.

Random acts of humanity

I live for moments like that water-gun fight — moments when people pleasantly surprise others by defying stereotypes, betraying their looks, going the extra mile, turning the other cheek, being the bigger person.

A few more of such moments ...

Dinner and dancing: Last night, we picked up dinner at Speed Queen BBQ. Located at 1130 W Walnut St., it's considered the city's best by many barbecue lovers. The neighborhood is rough, however, and patrons regularly get hit up by the homeless. (This isn't a problem for us; I'm just establishing the setting.)

As we were driving away, my husband told me to look in the side mirror. I did so, and I got to watch a grown man dance his way across the street behind us on roller skates. The show was impressive, and we didn't pay a dime.

Spidey nonsense: We were downtown late one Friday night, stopped in our car at a traffic light, when — out of the blue — Spiderman crossed the street in the crosswalk in front of us. When he got to the sidewalk, he ungracefully tumbled to the ground, then quickly bounced to his feet and looked around to see if anyone noticed. Hmmm ...

No, it wasn't Halloween; it was the middle of December, and sidewalk ice kicked Spidey's butt. Spiderman, we guessed, was on his way to the Ladybug Club, 618 North Water St. (hiding in the building with the huge ladybugs adorning the facade), a dance club offering theme nights that opens its doors to those younger than 21 once a week. Not a bad idea; Spidey apparently needed help with his footwork.

Hometown hero: No, I'm not referring to Spiderman. One of my hometown heroes is a Walgreen's security guard working at the store at North Avenue and Martin Luther King Drive (which has since been moved a few blocks south).

The guard saw me withdrawing cash from the ATM inside the store one afternoon. I finished my business — I thought — and was leaving when he stopped me to tell me that I should wait a few minutes. Apparently, that ATM took just shy of forever to ask "Do you want to complete another transaction?" Had I left, someone could have accessed my bank account because I was still logged in.

He knew it had happened to other customers, so he was keeping an eye on the machine. Not his job, but ...

Chivalry isn't dead: Stopped at a ridiculously long red light at the intersection of Wisconsin Avenue and 27th Street one day, I found myself staring at the folks at the bus stop for entertainment.

A tiny, frail, elderly woman with a walking cane and huge handbag approached the packed bus shelter. An ornery-looking teenage boy — think Ice Cube in, well, any of his movies — saw her coming and, without her saying a word, vacated his seat on the bench and helped her sit down. She was all smiles. So was I :)

Brotherly love: I was filling my car with gas one morning when I realized I was surrounded by a crew of taxi cab drivers getting their cars ready for their shifts. One of those drivers locked his keys in his cab while pumping gas — not a good start to his day.

The driver, obviously Middle Eastern, asked a fellow driver, a black man he clearly didn't know well, to open his door in broken English: "Brother, please help a brother out!" (I wasn't aware of this, but apparently more than one driver has the key for each cab ... or maybe there's a master key?)

Observers naturally laughed; his rescuer did not, choosing instead to unlock the door and reassure the cabbie that it happens to everyone. Brother to brother.

If folks keep it up, I'm going to be tempted to believe that we all can just get along =)

Today I sat beside Fear — and I don't much like him

I attended my first-ever unemployment workshop today, and I sat next to someone I remember from a past life: Fear.

I'd nearly forgotten how ugly he is.

Surrounded by a dozen people whose lives have ground to a halt because their jobs have disappeared, I couldn't help but feel incredibly, overwhelmingly fortunate. I may be jobless, collecting Unemployment Insurance benefits for the first time at the age of 38, but Fear doesn't shadow me like he does others.

My children are healthy, and the two who are adults are almost self-sufficient.

I still have health insurance, thanks to my ambitious and always-employed hubby.

I have a house and mortgage insurance that I'm in no danger of losing.

I have — at home — computers and access to the Internet.

I have a car and a valid driver's license.

Even if I wind up eventually losing some of the creature comforts I enjoy, I'll still be able to work a computer.

And I can read and write.

In other words, I'm spoiled.

Yes, it's time to thank the hubby

I know Fear personally — I recognize him by sight and sound, in the faces and voices of those around me — but these days I don't spend much time with him.

Once upon a time, the hubby and I lived paycheck to paycheck, utterly dependent on his jobs in the troubled manufacturing industry while I attended Michigan State University and got my career as a journalist off the ground.

Fear was always by my side, guiding my decisions.

I remember floating checks at the grocery store to buy food and baby diapers.

The children had peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches for dinner more times than I care to remember. The hubby ate ramen noodles for dinner more times than he cares to remember. (We were too proud to sign up for food stamps, although I did take part in the Women, Infants and Children - or WIC - program, which aims to ensure new moms and young children get enough to eat. That formula allowance was a godsend!)

Some months we paid the electric bill; other months we made the car payment. Rent always came first, of course, although it was often paid late. MSU was a good landlord, however, and gave us little grief.

I got to be pretty darn good at juggling the bills, staying just ahead of the shut-offs ... usually. The car was repossessed once; the electric turned off at least twice — maybe three times?

My first two children were born on Medicaid because the hubby wasn't offered insurance through his employer, which hired and kept him on as a temp for years.

I agonized over school shopping. There was never enough money — I remember the requirement of gym shoes, to be worn only in the gym, nearly gave me a stroke.

My children and I got all our clothes at thrift stores — props to Goodwill and, here in Milwaukee, Value Village. We still shop at both, although the girls started buying new clothes once they hit high school and earned their own money.

For the first five years we were married, I never developed a roll of film. I saved up the exposed rolls, taken with a camera given to me as a gift, until I got my first job and started helping out the hubby.

Speaking of that hubby: He never faltered. He worked hard — literally working his way up with muscle, sweat, elbow grease and smarts — and eventually made his way into a different field. He's now in information systems, and he has a relatively secure job.

As a result, Fear no longer shadows me.

The unlucky many

But today I was reminded how lucky I am.

Gloria Mitchell with Job Services at the Job Center of Wisconsin Northeast, who ran today's workshop, didn't pull any punches with us.

"In the 44 years I've worked for the state, I have never seen a job market this bad," she told us, adding that "there's no such thing as a secure job anymore," not even in government.

(Yes, Gloria knew Fear was in the room with us. She also knows she is among the fortunate few who needn't pay him any mind.)

The good news is, in other words, that we unemployed folks aren't alone. In fact, we're in pretty good company — and the party is damn crowded.

The bad news is, well, Fear is a roommate for many of us.

And that's why I'm recommending a stop at a local Job Center for anyone who doesn't have a job right now.

The centers, first and foremost, offer free computers, Internet access, fax and copy services, and phones to folks who can't afford such luxuries at home. Yes, I said free. And, of course, they provide job listings and help folks put together resumes and/or fill out applications so they can apply for said jobs.

They can also hook you up with the right people if you need additional help — say, with food stamps (or the Quest card, nowadays); energy bill assistance; basic job skill training; and so on.

Don't be too proud: The centers were created to help us. We pay for them with our tax dollars when we're employed; we're entitled to use them when we're not.

And they are invaluable, really, if you're trying to outrun Fear.