Travel stories: Ireland (part 1)

On the last day of August, my friend Murphy texted me:

Shot in the dark. Would you two be interested in Dublin for St. Patrick’s Day? Super cheap flights right now. Five tickets left.

I phoned Husband at work. For a full two minutes, we deliberated over a trip to Ireland with Murphy and Dwight.

Sometimes big decisions make themselves.

We boarded our Aer Lingus flight on March 16, and it delivered us safely to Dublin early St. Patrick’s Day morning. Exiting the airport, the wind’s icy fingers clawed at me, and regret blew in. If only I had swapped out my light jacket for a big winter coat before leaving the house. And as necessary as five pairs of shoes and an extra purse were, why hadn’t I chosen a smaller suitcase? I flicked my gaze at Murphy, but she looked like she nursed only one regret: that she hadn’t left her case of bronchitis back in the States.

A train whisked us to Cork for the day’s festivities. Before the parade, we wandered into The Oliver Plunkett for brunch. A server tossed some “beer mats” (coasters) onto the table, and we ordered our first Irish Breakfast: “rashers” (bacon), “black and white pudding” (pork sausage with and without blood), baked beans, grilled tomatoes, and eggs. Our stomachs full, we got our “document” (receipt) and paid. We “knocked around” (hung out) on the streets of Cork, strolling by both cute shops and “rough sleepers” (the homeless.)

The day was frigid, but the pubs were cozy. The public restrooms were freezing (why heat a room that’s used only briefly?), but our hearts were warm; wearing green to celebrate Ireland with friends always staves off a chill.

 

The next day, the snow fell sideways, but that didn’t stop us from visiting Cork’s Butter Museum to learn a thing or two about our beloved Kerrygold. Afterward, we arranged for a cab to take us to Blarney Castle.

“How are you keeping?” the driver said as we hopped into his ride.

We exchanged pleasantries, and he asked about our travel plans.

“We’re heading to Athlone tomorrow,” Husband said.

“Athlone? Have you family there?”

I smiled at the lilt of his accent, the cheery delivery of his question.

“No,” Husband said. “Just decided to stay there, since it’s centrally located and we’re renting a car.”

“Centrally located?” The cabbie’s face split into a smile, and he chuckled. “I wouldn’t say so.”

Blarney Castle came into view, and my mind turned toward the magic of the stone. If the folklore was true, it wouldn’t hurt to have a little blarney in our lives. We left the cab and climbed the narrow, rugged steps of the castle all the way to the top. The attraction might be cliché, but we would kiss that rock like the rest of the tourists—or develop vertigo trying.

One at a time, each of us sat with his or her back to the stone, reclined, and clutched onto the bars. Smooch! And when it was Dwight’s turn, the stone kissed him back. (Not to worry—the redness and swelling went away fast.)

The girth of my suitcase—and that of the rest of our luggage—may or may not have dictated the size of the rental car Husband and Dwight picked up at the airport after our two days in Cork. We heaved our belongings into the BMW’s trunk and left town, pointing the car down Highway N20 and toward more adventures.

 

*Tune in next week for more of the story and for dining and entertainment recommendations in Ireland.

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

The Gala

Last Saturday night, the honored guests lined the walls of the Grain Belt Bottling House. Speechless, they poured out diverse stories, lights showcasing their beauty. I stood in front of each, listening. And hoping to understand.

Because art has volumes to say, if one has the ears to hear.

Party-goers strolled through the galleries of silent auction items, sipping drinks and chatting with friends and fellow parents, all attending the annual art event to raise funds for artist residencies at Marcy Open School in Minneapolis. Cocking their heads or adjusting their glasses, they leaned in and listened to the artwork too, and I remembered I coordinated the event years ago for exactly this: to bring humans together with creation.

My gaze landed on a piece of art—a framed poster advertising an Edward Hopper exhibit at the Walker Art Center. It beckoned me and spoke:

You and me? We’re perfect together. I match everything in your house. And remember how much you like Hopper? Get me! I’m yours!

All three of our girls had attended Marcy Open from kindergarten through eighth grade, and this was our last kid’s final year. How could I pass up this art? How could I deny school children rich arts-infused learning experiences by not buying it? I snapped up a pen, dangling on a string near the piece’s bid sheet. The starting bid was low, and my hopes were high.

After enjoying food donated by Alma, Brasa, Cocina Latina, Create Catering, and Ginger Hop, I buzzed back over to my piece. But I wasn’t the only one admiring it. In my absence, another appreciator of the work had swooped in, slashed his or her mark on the sheet, and disappeared into the crowd. I narrowed my eyes and struck a new mark. I wandered away, but soon checked back again. In such little time, someone had already been there with their bid. I grabbed the pen and went in. But the most recent writing was Husband’s. Safe. For now.

While Husband browsed art elsewhere, I continued my surveillance of the piece. And then I saw something else. Nearby hung a large hydro-stone relief sculpture of a man’s torso—with only one bid. But wait. It was scratched out! No bids? On something this majestic? So ancient Rome. So perfect. I jotted my bid number. If it came down to it, I could find a wall for it at home, couldn’t I? And wouldn’t it be fun to be the top bidder and surprise Husband?

The galleries closed; the bidding ceased; the pieces were mine. Husband strode toward me.

“Guess what I just won?” I said, bubbling over.

He raised an eyebrow. “Besides the Edward Hopper?”

I pointed to the stone wonder near us. “This.”

“Seriously?” He shook his head and laughed.

A man sauntered to us, nodding toward the relief sculpture. “What are you gonna do with your man body painting?”

I smiled. When it came to art, I had my plans. I always had my plans.

*****

Images: 1. Exhibit of kids' self portraits (not for sale), 2. A view from above, 3. Me with two of my gala ladies: Wonder Woman (middle) & Superstar (right), 4. Untitled hydro-stone relief sculpture by artist Mauro Possobon Pozzobonelli, 35 x 55 inches. 5. The Edward Hopper print, 28 x 41 inches.

*Also at the party: Fulton, Bittercube, and Stinson Wine, Beer, & Spirits

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Sprucing up

It happens like this every year.

The snow isn’t even gone, and here I am, thrashing out of crusty Old Man Winter’s clutches. I take out my pent up energies on my house, swiping on new coats of paint and tending to repairs we’ve ignored. Does that sound like you too?

Here’s a story—first published on May 14, 2015—about repairs, replacements, and fresh outlooks through new windows. Enjoy!

***

I noticed water dribbling from a line in the basement one day. After listening to my description of the problem, the gas company sent over a technician to inspect our air conditioner, but the unit was fine. I had simply forgotten one all-important task: to change the furnace filter right after we had sanded our wood floors the previous week. Because of my oversight, the filter had clogged, forming condensation on the line, and water had dripped and pooled on the basement floor. Now I stood outside—the technician next to me—staring at the side of our house.

“See? You’re gonna have to do a patch job right there,” he said with a sniff, pointing at a small area on the stucco near the foundation.

I furrowed my brow. “Does this have anything to do with our air conditioner?”

“Naw. I’m just letting you know what you’ve gotta fix at some point.”

He moved on to the next item—a new furnace—on his for-us-to-do list.

“That thing’s gonna conk out soon,” he said, bobbing his head in a series of nods, maybe hoping his steely eye contact would break me. “Better replace it now.”

“We’ll see,” I said, brushing away his intensity. My mind flitted back to a different technician from just a few months earlier who had checked our furnace and pronounced it good. “They don’t make ‘em like this anymore. Don’t replace it until it totally dies,” he had said.

The current technician’s words pelted me, and before he left, I agreed to a duct cleaning. Even though it had first been my idea, his face grew the smug look of a successful hawker.

Not all of the repair people visiting our home were so crafty. Over the years, I noted the differences in technicians. There were those who got the job done in little time with minimal small talk, and then those who wove stories into their work, their visits leaking into my day.

“You wouldn’t believe the stuff I see in people’s basements,” said one technician as she swapped out our old water meter for an updated one.

“Oh? Like what?” I said, not sure I wanted to know.

“A lady I met had shelves lining her basement walls. Kennels of dogs on those shelves. Sometimes even a couple of dogs per kennel.” She pried off a bolt.

I cringed. “That makes me sick.”

“At least forty of them, I’d guess. Maybe more.” She rigged the new equipment in place and tightened the bolts again. “I told her she’d better let them go. Give them away to good homes and all that.” She swiped her arm across her forehead. “I reported her to Animal Control as soon as I left her house.”

“Oh, good.”

The repair woman finished the job, leaving me with a shiny, new meter. But I also had a bad taste in my mouth. Sometimes it’s better not hearing stories from strangers.

 

Husband and I had evaded window washing for eight years, and in 2010, we decided to replace the windows altogether. The installation guys were efficient and meticulous. Along the way, they pointed out the miniscule details of their work—the hidden nooks and crannies no one would ever see. And at every turn, they tidied up after themselves.

Spurred on by the call of hospitality, eleven-year-old Flicka whipped up a baked treat for the workmen, since they were doing such a good job. I was out plucking weeds in the garden when she later emerged from the house and delivered a small plate of fresh goodies to one of the men. She stood there—awkwardly fiddling with the edge of her shirt—eyeing him as he chewed.

“Wow,” he said, smacking his lips. “These are good.”

I smiled and ducked into the house to taste one of her treats. The hot, fresh mounds looked like muffins, but they tasted so bland I skimmed through her recipe, wondering if she had forgotten the vanilla, cinnamon, and sugar too.

But all around, it was a job well-done. The windows were beautiful and clean, the fastidious workers were gracious about the baking, and Flicka honed her hostess skills.

 

Four years after the new windows, we eagerly awaited the installation of a new metal roof. Early-morning pounding on the house—the perfect pairing with my French Roast—had never sounded so sweet. I spoke with the workmen, but my questions were met with only smiles and shrugs. I soon learned the only English-speaker on the job was the supervisor.

My mind skipped back to the roofers of my childhood. Their overly-tanned skin—slick with sweat and oil—melded with the hard rock, Hair Band anthems thrumming from their boom boxes. But the workmen on our roof in 2014 kept their shirts on—a lesson or two learned about the ozone since the 1980s, I suppose—and blasted Vivaldi, Corelli, and Handel.

While I scratched my head at the choice of music, Ricka and Dicka were focused elsewhere and saw the chance for some entertainment. They scrambled upstairs to their bedroom, slid open their window, and peeked out at the workmen tearing off the old roof.

“Yoo hoo!” they called, then ducked under the window when the workmen looked their way. After repeated teasing from the girls, one of the men at last threw a tarp over their window. The girls inched it aside to again chirp at the workers before crumbling to the floor in laughter.

“Oh, girls,” I said, shaking my head. “You might be getting on their nerves.”

But just then, one roofer lifted the tarp and warbled back at the girls.

No one watched any television during that three-day job. And I heard more classical music than I had since my childhood piano recital days.

 

Interesting people are tucked away everywhere. We venture out and see them in stores or on the streets. We learn from them in different settings. But sometimes fascinating strangers come right into our homes and add spice to our lives. And if we’re lucky, they’ll fix the air conditioner while they’re at it.

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

The weather

“Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.” Charles Dudley Warner

 

The Marcy Open School Plant Sale flier mocks me from its place on the buffet. I want everything the online order form offers, but I live in Minnesota where a six-month winter is a possibility, and this year, a reality.

A garden? Pfft! Riiight.

One year ago, the average temperature for April was fifty degrees, with a high of seventy-three. It’s still cold this year, and I look out the window, scowling. The snowbanks in my yard are creeping away, but I don’t believe them. And Husband’s phone call from work doesn’t help their credibility.

“Did you hear about the twelve to eighteen inches of snow we’re supposed to be getting this weekend?” he says, chuckling. “And the 45-mile-an-hour winds?”

It’s not funny.

I’d like to think I’m immune to the weather forecast and its fallout. But I’ll admit my physical makeup sets my post-Christmas outlook to bleak and my attitude to droopy. And while March twentieth (or so) might declare a new season, the weather in Minnesota rarely practices what the calendar preaches.

I search for the shiny side—because there must be one—and in time, I find it: the persistent snowcoldgrey has numbed me, muffling my responses to adversity.

“Mom, I bumped into a parked car when I drove around the corner,” one of my teenagers says on an icy day, “but it’s just the front corner of our car that got bashed in. The other car is fine.”

My pulse stays at resting rate. “Oh.”

“Mom, I just vomited,” my middle schooler says over the phone from the nurse’s office at school.

My heartrate is even. “On my way.”

“Mom, the U of M might have waitlisted me because I got my application in so late,” another teenager of mine says.

No hitch in my breath. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“There’s another winter storm on the heels of the one that’s going to slam us this weekend,” a friend says.

I level my gaze at him, feeling nothing. I’m probably not ready for flip-flops and watermelon anyway.

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Relics

The April sky layers the cold, white stuff onto my life and maybe assumes I didn’t get the message with the first couple of inches, because here comes more to drive the point home: There’s nothing outside for you to do. Deal with your baggage.

It’s literal baggage this time, and I know right where it is.

I descend to the basement where the years are snapped away behind plastic bins I said I’d deal with later.

And ‘later’ stares at me now.

Of all the containers, there’s one I can’t face. It holds history and smells like the years and the struggles of immigrants—and my guilt of stowing it away for so long. But its contents are too rich to flaunt, too delicate to display, too precious to use, and let’s face it: I’ve never lived in a museum house.

We’re always taught things go away, but people last for eternity. As I peel back the tote’s lid, though, I only see the opposite: Grandma Dyrud is gone, but her possessions remain.

I sift through the contents again: a Bible in Norwegian, measuring five inches thick and pushing eighteen pounds; a rolling pin made in Fitjar, Norway, in 1909 for Great-grandma’s new life in America; a confirmation portrait of Grandpa’s sister; a wooden cheese board and knife; the White House Cook Book, published in 1911, with newspaper clippings and a pamphlet of wartime recipes tucked into its pages.

When Grandma handed me these antiques in the early nineties, she hoped I would share them with my future children. But Grandma’s world was durable, and my girls’ world is disposable. The Bible is portable now. I have a new rolling pin, dishwasher-safe cutting boards, and sharp knives. And my girls don’t need recipes geared toward conserving flour, butter, sugar, and eggs.

I replace the lid on the box. I’ll phone some relatives today. Someone will want to learn something new while holding something old. Someone will want to breathe in history and imagine a young woman and her rolling pin in a boat, sailing across the ocean for America.

Someone new will turn the relics back into treasures.

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Visitors

“I keep thinking about Keyondra and Antoine,” Husband said one day at the beginning of March.

His thoughts seemed out of nowhere, but I knew better. When it came to the neighborhood kids, every encounter meant something.

Keyondra and Antoine. For years, the kids came over to our place to play basketball. Their presence had carved grooves into our souls, and we never fully recovered.

But now I worried my brow. It had been months since we last saw them. Were they okay? Or was life scuffing their efforts, battering them—even right this minute?

Together we lifted them in a quick prayer.

A memory from six months earlier zinged me. A knock had sounded at the back door one day. My hair was gooped with hair dye at the time and piled on my head, a ratty bath towel circling my shoulders. Of course I couldn’t entertain a visitor in my condition, smelling like a science lab. But curiosity nibbled at me, and I peeked through the kitchen window anyway.

Keyondra.

The girl shifted from one foot to the other and waited. At almost twenty years old, she didn’t pop over often anymore, but here she was. I glanced at the timer; twenty minutes left to cover the grays. And enough time to see our kid.

I opened the door. “It’s you!” I pulled her into a hug, taking care not to drip on her. I pointed to my head. “Sorry about the stink. Hair dye.”

Her smile broke loose, then she swallowed it again. But her eyes kept dancing like they always did.

Husband came up behind me and grinned at the sight of our guest. “Hey, what’s going on?”

We learned about Keyondra’s new life in Wisconsin, her living situation, her romantic relationship. And then I rolled out all the things I needed to say in case I never saw her again: I miss you. You make me happy. You’re a good kid. I love you.

She eventually sauntered away that day, and I watched her go through the back gate, a pang ripping through my chest.

I mulled over Husband’s words—his thoughts about the kids—and they were contagious; now I kept thinking about Keyondra and Antoine too.

Two days later came a rap at the front door. I peered out the picture window.

Antoine. And a girl.

I called to Husband, a smile curving my words. “Come see who’s here.”

I opened the door. “It’s you!” I hugged Antoine.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Husband clapped the boy on the back. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

 We turned to his friend.

“This is my girlfriend,” Antoine said.

We learned the girl’s name and about her dream of working with little ones in a daycare, and we heard all about Antoine’s new job.

“How old are you now?” I asked our kid.

“Nineteen.”

“And you started coming over to play basketball at what—eleven?”

He nodded. “Something like that.”

Then I rolled out all the things I needed to say in case I never saw him again: I miss you. You make me happy. You’re a good kid. I love you.

Antoine and his girlfriend eventually strode away, and I watched them walk down the sidewalk, a pang tearing through my chest.

 

We’re not the parents of our visitors, so there’s no obligation for them to see us. We don’t have their contact information, so there’s no way to get in touch. But when thoughts of them come, we hold them up. And when they knock at our door, we answer.

(For past stories about Keyondra and Antoine, click here and here.)

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

 

Lala's favorite things

Time was short this week, so I gave Lala, our dog, my cell phone, and she snapped some pictures for the blog. I jotted down her thoughts: 

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

More dreams

Last week, I asked my readers about their nighttime dreams. Here’s what you wrote:

*****

I have a dream where I’m outside, and I’m sprung off the ground and into the air. I go super high—probably too high—and I realize eventually I’m going to have to come down. I start to fall, but like I’m flying down. I don’t hit the ground, but sometimes I get really close and I kick off and keep flying. I almost hit the tops of houses or big cement beams by a body of water. There’s usually a dock on that body of water where someone I know is standing, but I keep flying. And then it’s kind of over.

Inga, Minneapolis, MN

 

*****

As a child growing up, our Gramma lived in a big old house in rural Stearns County. When they were all younger, during the War and post-war, there were 8 kids 2 parents in that house. When my generation came along she was living on her own. Big house, lots of empty. Very old things. Military uniforms, high school letter jackets, and lots of cardboard boxes. Mysterious but not scary. 

Flash forward to college. Huge house, 10 guys living in it. Classic 3-story structure. A wealthy Doctor once owned the house and raised a large gaggle of kids there. Now was the time for undergrads to slowly ruin it. My recurring dream is this. 

In my dream for some reason I keep going back to grad school to finish off my advanced degree. It started when I was in my early 20's. I keep meeting new young people, but I keep getting older. The first couple of years I could hide the age difference. Then it becomes obvious. Now at age 55 it's.......... part nightmare. In this dream I've convinced myself that I can finish this grad degree in a snap. The ridiculousness of moving into the college housing scene with young students never sways my mind. I 'logic' and rationalize the attempt. And of course, I don't complete the task. So the next time I have the dream, my subconscious is aware of the failed previous attempts. And each time I have this dream, parts of both houses from my past figure prominently in the story. Kind of a merged house. I'm living in them, or parts of them. Then my subconscious takes me off to another dream. 

Craig, Minneapolis, MN

 

*****

My current reoccurring dream is traveling. Always trying to get somewhere. Sometimes on foot in a big city, sometimes on a freeway in a car, many times in rural areas. There are always detours and distractions that keep me from getting to my destination. Sometimes the destination is known, such as Bible Camp or a conference, and sometimes it is unknown. In one of the latest I was in a forest with my son. The road became sandy and forked. Either way we would get stuck with our Buick. We were already stuck. We thought about walking, but 5 young (teenage) black bears were playing on the road ahead, and I worried about the mama bear being around. My boy was trying to give me a solution, but I wasn’t listening because of my fear. Later, after waking, I asked him what he thought he would have said. He said, “Wait until the bears leave, then we can walk.” (And for the record, I think the bears are his final subjects in homeschool, which are a trial for him as he just wants to be done! I may be wrong. Lol)

Linda, Eben Junction, Michigan

 

*****

I have a reoccurring dream—different scenes with the same concept. I’m driving somewhere. I’m on a wide road like a highway. I want to go one way but I end up going the complete opposite. I end up going over a bridge—it’s always over water. The bridge then turns into a county road, which turns into a dirt road, which turns into a wagon wheel road, and I’m stuck out in tall grass.

Then I have reoccurring dreams of zombies, and I’m the hero in every episode.

Shantell, Corcoran, Minnesota

 

*****

There are two dreams I have regularly. The first is that I’m in a warehouse, and I’m being chased by a bunch of clowns—five to ten of them—that look like the Insane Clown Posse. So not friendly-looking clowns. I’m running down the halls and I’m getting very tired, and I can’t seem to get away from them. I run around the corner, and there’s an elevator at the end of the hall. I run into the elevator—that turns out to be L-shaped—and I’m trying to close the door, but somehow all the clowns are able to make it in with me. The door closes and they attack me. But I always win. The End. (But it never really ends.)

The other dream I have is even more of a nightmare. I dream that I wake up to realize that I left the garage door open, and sometimes I catch the people stealing stuff out of my garage, and sometimes I just go out and find my garage completely empty.

Scott, Minneapolis, MN

 

*****

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

 

Shelter

We humans either have it, or we don’t. Either way, the issue permeates our lives—if we’ll see it.

We’ve tried to make a dent in the needs around us, writing housing grants for young adults who have aged out of foster care, or temporarily hosting children whose parents lack a front door of their own to lock each night.

A wave of gratefulness soaks me again today. The roof over our heads never gets old.

Shelter.

Here’s the story—first published on September 25, 2014—of how we found ours.

*****

On a glowing recommendation from my sister, we hired Mr. Brylcreem—a chain-smoking, sixty-something realtor with a high tolerance for hood living. Mr. B lived in a grand, old Victorian in a sketchy neighborhood in south Minneapolis, so he knew what he was doing. Right away, I liked his blue eyes and warm, fatherly manner. 

Husband and I sat down with him in a coffee shop in April, 2002, and told Mr. B our real estate hopes and dreams. I wanted to stay home with the little ones, and Husband supported me, so we would have to swing this thing on one salary. We gave him our price range—an easy mortgage for us. We wanted an old house, an inner-city experience too, we said, and would he please restrict his search to Minneapolis proper? Mr. B was happy to comply and started sending us leads immediately.

Husband and I printed off the first four listings from Mr. B and got in the car to go and take a look. After ten years of marriage, we were excited to hunt together for our first house. I gazed at Husband’s profile as he drove, committing the moment to memory.

We pulled up to the first listing—a house right off 35W. I liked the vintage. Then we drove through the alley to inspect the unattached garage. Gang tagging marked its side, and the word “blood” was in all caps. We sighed and crossed it off the list.

My stomach leapt with excitement at the second house on our hunt. Charming, old, and near Uptown. Perfect. Until we got out of the car and read the sign affixed to the door. UNFIT FOR HUMAN HABITATION: Condemned due to lead paint. Undaunted, I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the front door’s beveled glass window.

“How long until it becomes fit for human habitation, do you think?” I said to Husband.

“Too long. Let’s go.”

We got in the car and drove to our meeting spot with Mr. B. He had the keys for the next couple of houses we’d see.

The house in listing #3 didn’t have any discernible right angles; the floors slanted in every room. The pedestal ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts. The mirrored ceiling tiles in the kitchen were impressive, but what about greasy spatters? I pictured tomato sauce accidents or heaven forbid, the explosion of a pressure cooker. What if one of the mirrors broke, and a shard of glass impaled me while I washed dishes? We shook our heads and moved on.

I liked what I saw when we pulled up to the curb in front of house #4. Old charm again. This time, a Tudor style. I envisioned Christmas lights twinkling through the windows, a snow-covered sidewalk, and a wreath hung jauntily from the door in December.

I heard a dog bark as we climbed the front steps. Mr. B wiggled the key into the lock.

“I hope they put the dog away when they left,” he said over his shoulder.

He pushed open the door and took a few steps into the living room. Like two eager kids, we followed close on his heels. A snarling Rottweiler appeared in the kitchen doorway a room away. In a split second, the animal clawed his way, lips flapping, across the expanse of the living room’s wood floor, bent on meeting us as soon as possible. Just before the dog could introduce himself, though, Mr. B hustled us out, yanking the door shut. He secured the lock and smoothed his hair.

“So that house’s out,” he said cheerfully.

We got back in the car and called it a day.

Husband resumed his work schedule for the week and continued his temporary living arrangements, couch hopping between my brother’s and sister’s houses in south Minneapolis. Homeless, I headed back up north to Mom and Dad’s. With both little ones in diapers and one breastfeeding, the six-hour trip took eight.

Husband fielded house listings from Mr. B. I couldn’t hop on the road for home tours at the drop of a hat, so he would weed out the undesirables and tell me about the promising ones, which we noticed were immediately snapped up. I told Husband he knew what I liked and to just pick one and make an offer if he got the chance.

Early in May, Mr. B contacted us with another lead. This time, the house wasn’t going to be advertised. It belonged to his son’s best friend, and he’d consider selling it for the right price. Husband made an appointment to see it. Afterward, he called me.

“It’s good,” he said.

“As in, I’d like it?”

“You’d love it. Might be your dream house.”

His description sounded like the house my grandparents had owned in south Minneapolis’ Seward neighborhood. He sent seventeen pictures by email, and excitement bubbled up in me. A small Craftsman-style meets bungalow. The kind Sears Catalog sold back in the day as a kit house. And yes, my dream house. I urged him to make an offer, and he did. The homeowners accepted.

Soon I was making the trek back down to Minneapolis. Husband and I parked the car in front of our future house. The homeowner, Brian, fresh scrubbed and smiley, walked us through it for Husband’s second viewing and my first.

“My wife had two babies in this house,” Brian said. “I mean, in this house. Don’t know what’s so bad about the hospital.” He showed us the two main level bedrooms that had hosted the home births.

“Wow,” Husband said.

An overloaded coat rack obstructed the view through the living room window and a massive dog kennel blocked movement in the tiny kitchen, but none of that tainted my first impression; I could envision our future there. Back again in the car after the tour, my heart was on fire.

By the end of May, we signed the papers. We were homeowners. And on June 1, having moved all our furniture and boxes in, we looked out at our north Minneapolis neighborhood from windows that belonged to us.

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Finding Boaz

Husband snipped the ends from a dozen roses and divided them into four vases. He placed chocolates next to each, then strode to the kitchen, ready to spend the next four hours preparing a surprise Valentine’s Day dinner for the girls and me.

Curry chicken with garlic cooked over the fire in the pit in the back yard. Then came oysters with chorizo butter, mashed potatoes and gravy, and an assortment of cheeses and olives. 

The five of us at last settled into our places at the table. I surveyed the feast, moved by the effort.

“This is delicious,” I said to Husband. “But you’re not a fan of curry.”

“I’m a fan of you.”

He reminded me of someone just then, and I wanted the girls to hear it—again.

“Girls, I have a story for you,” I said.

Between bites, my three teenagers watched me.

“There once was a very kind man. He was a respected landowner too. One day, a young immigrant woman came to his field during the barley harvest. Poor people back then were allowed to pick up the grain left on the ground by the harvesters. So that’s what she did.”

“Mom, we already know this story,” Ricka said, resting her fork for a beat.

I nodded and kept going. “The man asked his employees about the young woman. They said her name, Ruth, and where she came from, and it was a country most people despised. So she was an outsider from a hated place. Then they told him Ruth had lost her husband, and she lived with her mother-in-law who had also lost her husband. She was taking care of the older woman when she could’ve just left her. Two women living together, trying to make ends meet in a time when widows had no options.

“The landowner caught up with Ruth. ‘I’ve heard about how kind you’ve been to your mother-in-law. I hope God blesses you for everything you’ve done. By the way, don’t go to another field. Stay here and you’ll be safe. I’ve told my men not to touch you.’

“Later, he invited Ruth to rest and have lunch with him. When she went back to work, he pulled his men aside. ‘Leave extra grain on the ground for her to pick up, okay?’ he said. And that’s what they did.

“Ruth went home that night and told her mother-in-law all about her day, and the older woman said, ‘That’s Boaz! He’s a relative of my husband’s. You should go back again.’ And so she did. Eventually the kindness of Boaz won Ruth, and she did something daring: she asked him to be a covering for her. ‘You’re my family redeemer,’ she said one night.

“Boaz accepted and lavished her with honor and compassion, and they married. The End,” I said, my vision going blurry.

“Oh, Mom,” Flicka said, tilting her head, her eyes soft.

If prayers travel a path to heaven, mine—that each of my girls would find her Boaz—have worn the trail smooth by now.

Last night we celebrated the pink and red plastic holiday a greeting card company invented by enjoying a fancy meal together. But true love doesn’t waltz in for one day in February. Instead, it sticks with the mourner. It leaves extra grain for the immigrant. It cooks a curry dish when it doesn’t like curry.

And it covers another with its own life.

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

The Loppet

“Should I register our family for this?” Husband asked, pointing at the Luminary Loppet event on the computer screen. “We’d do it on snowshoes, of course.”

Different sizes and shapes of candlelit ice sculptures and lanterns illuminated a magical winter race on frozen Lake of the Isles, one in Minneapolis’ chain of lakes. The video showed cross-country skiers gliding past glowing pillars of ice in the purple dusk. The beauty washed over me.

“Absolutely,” I said.

As the event neared, though, I checked the weather. The forecast said the temperature would hang around fourteen degrees on February 3, the day of the race, and the wind chill would be dangerous. Frostbite could occur in minutes. Would my Canada Goose jacket cut it? I’d wear snow pants too, of course, and all the extras, but would I survive this supposed-to-be-fun time with my family?

Two days out, we scrambled to order ourselves face masks and ski goggles. Husband picked up a box of hand warmers. We lined up our five pairs of snowshoes. When the evening of the event arrived, we donned many layers of clothing for our romantic date with Mother Nature.

At Lake of the Isles, we stepped into the excitement of a winter festival. Vendors smiled out from tents, strung with lights, at the check-in. We met up with our friend Joe and together the six of us struggled past our bulk to wrestle on snowshoes. At 7:30 p.m., our trek began.

The word ‘race’ is a strange word for our wintry wanderings with hundreds of other outdoor enthusiasts across a frozen lake. No one tried to blow past anyone else. We snowshoed or skied or walked together, enjoying the luminaries. Our clothing was warm, and the winds backed off. Instead of water pit stops, this “race” had a hot chocolate stop. The sky—never completely dark in a city—whispered, What about me? And I acknowledged the loveliness of her muted orangepurplegrays.

After several miles, when our legs and hips told us it was time, we headed in the direction of the car, crossing a portion of Lake Calhoun on the way. This lake wasn’t lit up like the other. I shivered at its haunting magnificence, most of its snowy expanse untouched by humans.

And that night, we all won the race.

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Breakfast

A knock at the back door.

From the other room, I hear Husband’s footsteps pass through the kitchen. The deadbolt clicks, then our alarm system’s computerized female voice announces, “Back door,” to let us know it’s open. A real woman speaks now and Husband answers, their voices muffled by walls. Curious, I saunter into the kitchen.

“Hang on,” Husband says to our visitor. He grabs an empty plastic Target bag from the dispenser and heads for the fridge.

When adults come to our back door it’s usually an emergency, like the time a woman pounded on the glass, begging us to quick call the police. But she didn’t need to say it; her bruises and blood quickened my steps to the phone.

I glimpse the woman outside our door now. This one isn’t bloodied, but she shifts her weight from one foot to the other like she’s struggling to balance on a paddleboard, on waters that are too bumpy. She darts looks around her. Her mouth sags.

“Where’s the peanut butter?” my man asks me.

I pluck it from the cupboard and hand it to him. He bags a partial loaf of bread too, the remainder of the milk, a fistful of granola bars, and a few apples from the bowl.

He gives the bag of food to the woman, and she passes out of our lives by way of the back yard’s gate.

Husband pours himself a cup of coffee.

“So?” I say. “That lady? Was she okay?”

“She didn’t have food for her kids for breakfast.”

I nod and pour myself a cup of coffee too.

We don’t talk about the event again, because life is made up of small things, and this is just another one.

Sometimes the blaring needs around us turn into white noise. We treat the symptoms of pain when they knock at our door, or when they cross our path outside our property lines. But they don’t go away.

We can’t fix people—I can’t fix people—but we try anyway when the invitation comes. Now I imagine what an emergency room doctor feels like: serving the injured but not seeing the healing—if there is any—after the patients return home.

I could live a different life, one where I don’t see wounds as often as I see breakfast. But that’s not real, so I’ll stick with this one.

And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Snow day

The wind rattled our Ranch-style house in Middle River. Had our place been a victim of a snowball fight in the night? It appeared so; great clots of snow stuck to my bedroom windows, obscuring the view.

I flicked my gaze to the clock. 5:35 a.m. The blankets on my bed usually kept me in their cozy clutches on a school morning, but not today. Maybe they sensed my excitement at what was to come.

I padded into the kitchen. Outside the window whiteness swirled, and the crabapple in the front yard was an apparition in the dim light. A gust picked up a load of snow from the roof and flung it off, blotting out any sign of the tree. My siblings and I wouldn’t be expected to brave these conditions to go to school, would we? Was fifth grade really that important for me to risk my life getting there?

I scurried to my parents’ room. The only one in the world who had the power to call off school that day was still in bed next to Mom, his arm curled around his transistor radio. The brown, leather-covered box crackled out weather updates, and my heart lurched with hope.

“Dad, Dad,” I said, making prayer hands, “please call off school today. Please.”

The superintendent of three small schools in northern Minnesota, wearing boxers and a v-neck undershirt, threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood. “We’ll see.”

I pranced back to my bedroom, a smile splitting my face in two. The day was mine—I just knew it. Adventures beckoned, and I tugged on my snowsuit.

 

On Monday, January 22, 2018, I navigated a snowy city to collect my girls. I thought of Dad calling off school decades earlier when blizzards blasted our tiny town near the Canadian border. On stormy days, he got dressed in the wee hours and drove the country roads a few miles in each direction to see if they were passable. He would make a decision about school and report it to KTRF, the radio station in the neighboring town of Thief River Falls.  

Winds whipped up the falling snow as I sat in the Honda at Target Field waiting for my high schoolers to emerge from the train. I scrolled through my phone for weather reports. The girls soon tromped through the precipitation to the car. When they opened the doors, snowflakes and exuberance blew into the warm space.

“I asked Mr. Aponte if we could have a snow day tomorrow,” Ricka said.

I chuckled. As if the principal of one city school could alone make the decision. “And?”

“He said, ‘We’ll call you.’”

Nature worked hard that night to put a halt to our plans—to pull us into an adventure. And true to Principal Aponte’s word, they called us.

After the shoveling the next morning, the girls donned bikinis and bolted into the back yard for The Snow Dive Challenge, which wasn’t a dive at all, but instead a quick roll through the nine-inch deep accumulation. Drawn by all the shrieking, the dog zipped outside too, probably hoping to join in on all the reindeer games. Within seconds, though, it was over. The girls dashed back inside, leaving the animal cocking her head at the back door.

 

Dad and the local radio station announced the weather cancellations of my childhood; robocalls and the internet announced my girls’. A hallmark of my snow days? Snowsuits. A sign of my girls’? Swimsuits—at least this time. But whether announced by airwaves or on a website, whether we’re bundled up or bared, a snow day is a free day.

And there’s always adventure.

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.