The flight

“If you’re waiting for hell to freeze over to accomplish that thing, you’re doing it tomorrow.”

That and other memes about the Polar Vortex of 2019 ripped around the internet on January 29. Husband performed the perennial crowd-pleaser that evening, tossing a pan of boiling water into the air in the back yard so we could squeal over the instant snow. Flights were cancelled due to cold, but the following day—a supposedly chillier one—was when I would fly up to Thief River Falls, Minnesota, in an eight-seater airplane.

During coffee with a friend earlier in the day, I told her about my upcoming flight. I delivered the facts, but a shade of worry must have colored my expression.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she said. “The pilots don’t want to die either.”

The next morning, January 30, the temperature gauge registered minus twenty-seven degrees in Minneapolis. The thermometer at my mom’s house on the other end of my trip read minus forty-one. Husband drove me to the airport.

“You’ll be leaving out of Flying Cloud in Eden Prairie now,” the woman at the MSP ticket counter said. “Because of the extreme temps, we had to park the plane overnight in the hangar there. We’ve got a cab for you.”

I tailed her out to a waiting car. A man joined us, and he slid into the back seat with me. The woman said something to the driver.

“How was flight?” the cabbie said, shooting me a look in the rear view mirror. His accent was thick but his jacket wasn’t. A windbreaker? On a day like this?

“Haven’t flown yet today, but I’m flying out soon.”

He shook his head, confusion flitting across his features. Did he understand what was happening and where we needed to go? He fiddled with a dial, and heat blasted us, his choice of coat now making sense.

As the cab driver pulled away from the curb, the man next to me stated our destination: the Flying Cloud Airport. The cabbie mumbled something. The man then set his volume to high and morphed into a backseat driver, doling out verbal directions with hand gestures. And sometimes the real driver even followed them.

“Are we the only two passengers on the flight?” I asked the man during a break in his GPS duties.

“No, it’s just you. I’m the pilot.” He motioned for the cabbie to take an exit off the freeway, but it was too late.

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh.”

The pilot bounced his leg, his gaze darting out the window. More directions from the back seat; more missed turns up front.

While our driver took us on an adventure, I ignored the questions writhing in my mind and texted a few people. Soon the biggest question nudged me hard enough to say something.

I turned to the pilot. “Isn’t it dangerous flying when it’s this cold?”

He shrugged. “We’ll adjust. We just fly a little lower.”

My phone pinged. A text from Mom.

If you have any hesitation, just cancel out. Not worth any risk. Does the pilot feel confident?

He said we’ll just fly lower, I texted back. And if I fly to Jesus, that’ll be okay too. Kidding.

At the Flying Cloud Airport, I climbed out of the car.

“As-salaam-alaykum,” the cab driver said to me before I closed the door.

I probably needed the encouragement. No, I definitely did.

“Peace to you too,” I said.

I clomped into the hangar, my Canada Goose coat and bulky winter boots a sharp contrast to the pristine white floor. A small crew awaited me, their only passenger on the flight. Someone had laid out a red rug the size of a bath mat at the base of the plane’s stairs. So this was how the other half lived. I swallowed a chuckle.

Inside the puddle jumper, I had my choice of seats. The hangar’s doors opened, and the plane rolled out onto the tarmac. The engine revved to life, and while the cabin warmed, the two pilots conferred, twisting buttons and jotting things in a book.  

The pilot from the cab came back to me and rattled off the safety instructions. His only student, I listened and nodded at the right times.

“We ask that you use the restroom only if necessary. Mainly for privacy reasons for you, because we can hear everything,” he said. “And we have to pull out the bucket by hand and dump it later.”

Soon, the plane sped to the end of the runway and lifted, leaving my worries back on earth somewhere. The terrain—white stretching to the horizon and above—tapered to a pale blue thousands of feet above the earth. Maybe I’d live through this one after all. If people could fly to Antarctica, these pilots could fly to northern Minnesota, couldn’t they?

An hour and fifteen minutes later, the plane landed in Thief River Falls. I texted a friend: Just so you know, I’m texting from TRF, not heaven.

Inside the airport, Mom greeted me with hugs and good news: while the wind chill was still minus fifty-six degrees, the temperature had risen to minus thirty-two.

And my visit with her would warm me up even more.

*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.

Love does

In 2006, I dropped out of life.

For months, I retreated into our family’s story to care for my sixty-seven-year-old dad, a post-bone marrow transplant cancer patient. The church we attended at the time was big, but we were small—a family of five among a multitude of others. We didn’t know too many people, I reasoned, so we probably wouldn’t be missed. But through a friend outside the church, word of what our family was doing leaked to the congregation.

And the church ladies came.

One by one over many weeks, those ladies drove to our house and climbed our front steps to drop off tuna noodle casserole, fried chicken, tater tot hotdish, burritos, rice dishes, salads, cakes, brownies, garlic bread, and more. Twenty-six meals in all.

And each bite tasted like love.

Sometimes the ladies called first to let us know they were on their way. Sometimes they knocked on our door to signal their deliveries. Sometimes they deposited their edible gifts—without a word—into the designated cooler on our porch and tiptoed away.

No one left her name. No one paused for a thank you. And no one expected anything of us, strangers to them, caring for our immunosuppressed loved one.

Even though our three girls were tiny and Dad’s care was intense, we didn’t need the meals, I told myself. Those meals should be for those struggling more than we were. Feeling undeserving, I phoned the warm meal ministry coordinator to thank her.

“God must think you really need it,” she said. “The response has been overwhelming.”

No sound made it past the lump in my throat. Instead, I nodded into the receiver, absorbing all of their love through the phone lines.

Because our culture says to, I think of romantic love each Valentine’s Day. But only for a few seconds. Then I remember those ladies who delivered casseroles instead of counsel, salads instead of sermons, and homemade desserts instead of stories of their own pain.

Love. It’s everything, which goes without saying. But what I learned from those church ladies was that love does without saying too.

… let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth.

*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.

Hey there, reader!

Hey there, reader!

You’re out there somewhere on the other side of my screen. You live all over the world, I see. Whether I know you or we haven’t met yet, you make me smile.

I write for you—and me—to make sense of life, the neighborhood, and the world. We’ve been through a lot together over these past four and a half years, but I do most of the talking.

I’m brainstorming blog topics today, but can we do it together instead? It’s more fun that way. Grab your coffee or tea, and let’s chat.

What have you enjoyed most about my blog? What would you like to read (or read more of) in future posts?

Here are some new and/or used topics:

1.      Neighborhood stories

2.      Family service to the neighborhood and beyond

3.      Childhood stories

4.      Spiritual topics or faith-based perspectives on issues (examples: fasting, prayer, mercy, forgiveness, depression, disappointment, injustice, anxiety, anger, death, etc.)

5.      Travel stories (example: coverage of our family’s upcoming California road trip, summer of 2019)

6.      Healthy living, eating, and recipes (just kidding about the recipes! I’m not that person.)

7.      Business, movie, or book reviews

8.      Humorous stories

9.      Marriage and/or raising kids (I’m no expert, but I’ve been at it a long time.)

10.   My hobbies/jobs (grant writing, creative writing, modeling, hosting kids in crisis, donating plasma, thirty years of diary writing, etc.)

It’s your turn now. Readers, click here to send me a message. Subscribers, simply hit reply to this email.

I can’t wait to hear from you!

Tamara

No, this is no one we know. (Thank you, Pixabay stock photos!)

 *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.

Blizzard, 1984

Happy Polar Vortex 2019!

If you’re in the cold’s path, reader, stay safe. Protect yourself; you’ll want those fingers and toes when the world thaws.

Let’s look back together to a blizzard long, long ago. Enjoy the following story I wrote (first published on December 31, 2015):

The February wind sliced through our coats as we hustled into the mall in Fargo, North Dakota. 1984 had rushed in with punishing sub-zero temperatures, and the packed snow squeaked like Styrofoam under our feet. My nervousness from the MMTA (Minnesota Music Teachers Association) district piano contests had eased off an hour earlier. In front of the judges, my memory had led my fingers through the motions, but my nerves quashed any passion I could have layered into the song. And so it came out bland but mostly accurate. Oh well. Done for another year. And now was the time for shopping. What more could a thirteen-year-old girl want?

My sisters—nine-year-old Olive and six-year-old Flo—and I milled around to my favorite stores: Lerner, Claire’s Boutique, Stevensons, Vanity, Contempo. As we walked, I tossed a furtive glance at Spencer’s Gifts; I could never go there because Mom thought the place was raunchy—especially the posters and other items in the back of the store. We passed by, and she zipped in to B. Dalton to browse through some books. Later, Flo tugged her sleeve as we neared the Orange Julius. Mom pulled out some cash, and while we slurped the creamy goodness through straws, we looked out the mall’s glass doors at the end of the corridor.

“The snow’s really coming down.” Mom shook her head, wide-eyed. “I should call Dad and see what he knows about the roads.”

She rummaged through her purse for change and then made a beeline for the pay phones. Olive, Flo, and I listened while she discussed the weather with Dad. Terms like black ice and whiteout peppered her end of the conversation. After some minutes, she hung up, and the pay phone gulped down her coins.

“Dad thinks it might clear up if we wait a little longer before heading home.” But Mom’s mouth was a straight line, her brow furrowed.

As we continued to roam from store to store, a voice boomed out an announcement over the mall’s loudspeakers:

“This is the West Acres Mall Management. We are closing the mall due to dangerous weather conditions. For safety reasons, everyone must remain inside. We will keep our restaurants open to serve you, and for those with diabetes or other medical conditions, Walgreens will help you with insulin or other medications. Thank you.”

We girls tittered with excitement. For a 1980s teenager like me, being locked into a shopping mall was like Brer Rabbit being thrown into a briar patch.

“I guess I won’t be driving home on glare ice after all.” Mom’s face softened. “I’ll call and tell Dad the news.”

In the evening, employees tugged their store grates shut, locking them for the night. But one store rigged up a TV and VCR and played Black Stallion for the captive masses.

Finally, it was time to sleep. We curled up on a small carpeted area on the floor in front of Foxmoor. Our stocking caps stuffed with scarves served as pillows, our coats as blankets.

The thrill of the adventure staved off the chill of the hard floor. But we awakened early the next morning anyway, along with the other confined shoppers who were rousing in storefronts near ours. The voice on the loudspeaker invited us to breakfast at a restaurant which fed us the only sustenance it had left: pancakes and water.

At last, the mall management unlocked the doors, and we were free to leave. The morning air stung our faces as we trudged through the drifted parking lot. Our car’s engine sputtered to life, and the stiff seats under us warmed. But the sight of vehicles stuck in the lot and strewn about in ditches and on roadways jarred us as we rolled out of town.

At home later that evening, we watched the news and learned that after that storm on February 4, 1984, authorities found Fargo’s 19th Avenue full of cars—most of them covered in drifts. Drifts as high as speed limit signs. And just outside West Acres Mall—where we had taken shelter—a number of people had lost their lives.

All these years later, I think of our story and shiver. Shopping malls: saving teenage girls from social embarrassment since forever. Who knew they could save lives too?

*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.

Travel stories: The Cayman Islands (part 2)

No extra vacation money for moped rentals. Not enough funds for scuba diving either. But there was something my cousin Jill and I could afford: a snorkeling trip.

The day of our snorkeling excursion, we had the good sense to carve out time for a morning swim before our all-day swimming activities began. After our dip in the ocean, we ate our breakfast poolside, grabbed our beach bags, and hurried to the gate where a tour van awaited us.

Two locals headed up the tour, and they navigated the boat onto the sea, the sun glinting off the aquamarine water surrounding us. At our first stop, one of the guides killed the boat’s engine and perched a transistor radio on the deck.

“I shot the sheriff,” the other guide crooned along to Bob Marley, “but I did not shoot the deputy.”

And even now—more than twenty-seven years later—whenever I hear that song, I remember Jill’s face splitting into a smile and the Caribbean sun warming my skin.

The tour guides gave us instructions, and we jumped into the sea to look for conch that would become a part of our lunch. Successful, we sailed on to the next stop: Stingray City. And that’s where we met dozens of curious and gentle stingray, swishing by us and sometimes brushing our legs. The water was shallow way out there, and the flapping sea creatures played near us.

“Wanna hold one?” a guide asked me.

Of course I did. And Jill clicked a picture of me—a rubbery fish in my arms—and captured my laugh for always.

At the noon hour, the skies darkened to navy blue, and rain sprinkled our turquoise waters. We stopped at Rum Point for lunch. One of the guides had marinated the conch we caught, and we enjoyed it raw on Ritz crackers, along with other seafood delicacies.

We finished our snorkeling tour and caught a ride back to the bed and breakfast with a honeymooning couple from London. Exhausted, we fell into our beds for late-afternoon naps.

I awoke from my nap dizzy. I sat up, every inch of my body achy. I palmed my forehead. Definitely a fever. Maybe even a high fever. “Whoa. I don’t feel so good.”

“Same here.” Jill inched her head off the pillow, then let it plop down again. “Must’ve been the conch.”

We lounged, listless, for a long while.

“I have to call and make sure we get on that 8:00 a.m. flight tomorrow,” Jill said, staring at the ceiling. She flopped her legs over the side of the bed and stood, bracing herself. She shuffled over to the phone across the room and dialed.

She spoke to someone at the airport, specifying our need to get on the early flight to Miami. Silence. “Is that so?” Her expression went flat, and she looked over at me.

Feeling more like a nursing home patient than a coed on a tropical vacation, I struggled to sit up, my gaze trained on Jill. She finished the call.

“So, I made a mistake,” she said. “Tomorrow’s Thursday. That 8:00 a.m. flight leaves here only on Mondays, Saturdays, and Sundays. If we get on the afternoon flight for Miami, we miss our connecting flight to Minneapolis. We don’t have money to stay anywhere.” Her mouth flat-lined. “Maybe we’ll have to sleep at the airport.”

Despite my fevered brain, I knew spending the night on the floor in the Miami airport wasn’t our best idea. But we’d come up with something. We had to.

The next morning, we overslept breakfast, but Grandma Madge fed us anyway. She served us our last platter of fresh fruits on the island, informing us lightning had struck the exchange in the night. As a result, no phones were working. And after she dropped us off at the airport, we learned all the computers were down too.

“Here,” the woman behind the desk said. “I’ll fix your tickets.” She rewrote them to route us from Miami to Memphis. “And you can probably get on a flight from there to Minneapolis tonight.”

And she was right. On our flight from Memphis back to Minneapolis, our “Open seating” tickets not only snagged us spots in First Class with steak kabobs for dinner, but they also offered us a front row view of the launch of the space shuttle Discovery.

If all these years later Jill were to ask me to go with her to the Cayman Islands again, I’d say yes. But this time, I’d probably obey the “No skinny dipping!” signs and pass on the raw conch.

Or maybe I wouldn’t.

That's my head poking out of the water.

Our new friends.

The tour guide prepping the conch for lunch.

Holding a stingray. (On the left is one of our tour guides.)

Such shallow water; so buoyant! See the stingray on the left?

*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.

Travel stories: The Cayman Islands (part 1)

Once upon a time, if one were to research possible vacations, one would have to do it in a place called the public library. So, in 1991, when information was scarcer and money was the scarcest of all (we were college students), that’s what my cousin Jill and I did.

Jill’s dad, my Uncle D, worked for Northwest Airlines as a technical instructor. Because of his position, Jill could fly for free. And he gave me a buddy pass, so I could fly for free too, escaping my books and worries for an adventure with my cousin. Our chosen destination? The Cayman Islands.

On September 9, 1991, Jill’s Chevette was in the shop for a lemon squeeze (a.k.a. the installation of its fourth starter), so her mom, my Aunt A, drove us to the airport to catch our flight to paradise. Jill had recently returned from teaching English in Japan, and her international travel savvy came in handy. On the flight to Miami, she chatted in Nihongo with a Japanese man, and on the flight from Miami to the Cayman Islands, she helped a flight attendant translate emergency procedures in Spanish for a woman named Maria who sat next to us. I chimed in with my limited high school foreign language skills, and the woman’s eyes sparkled as she nibbled away a smile. Maybe we helped Maria; we definitely entertained her.

From our limited understanding, Jill and I learned Maria was a follower of Hare Krishna. For religious reasons, she couldn’t eat certain things. She pointed to an ingredient in her lunch, vegetable oil, saying, “No.” Was what we were hearing true, and she could only consume Coke and cheese?

“Give her your cheese,” Jill whispered to me.

I shrugged, handed my cheese to the woman, and she gave me her entire lunch in exchange for it.

Maria talked about her life while we ate. She wore a “NWA WOVT” badge (was she being deported?), came from Dominica, had traveled to the United States to visit her brother who worked for a Spanish newspaper in New York City, had seen (or wanted to see?) her ex-husband and two teenage children in Atlanta, lost her luggage somewhere along the way, and was now headed to the Cayman Islands for vacation—although she already wore a shirt with a Grand Cayman restaurant logo on it.  

We scratched our heads and did our best to absorb Maria’s life story until the landing gear dropped and our ears plugged. The plane came to rest at Grand Cayman’s small airport. After the trek through Customs, Jill and I fetched our behemoth suitcases (did we really need all those clothes for a brief tropical vacation?) and strode to an information desk. The woman behind the counter phoned to reserve us a room at Grama’s Bed & Breakfast, then called us a taxi.

We stepped out of the airport into paradise, squinting in the early afternoon sun. Ernest, our cab driver, waved to us. While he heaved our luggage into his car, Jill and I gazed at our surroundings. Could it be we had made it to heaven without dying first? It seemed so. Lush blooms dripped from trees, and the air draped us in balmy sweetness.

But was that an animal sunning itself nearby in the airport’s grass?

“What is that?” I said to Ernest, pointing toward the creature.

“It’s a cow,” he said, his accent reminding me we were in a place where the turquoise waters and strong sun could make us forget everything—maybe even the word “cow,” if we stayed long enough.

Ernest drove us to the bed and breakfast owned by Graham and Madge Ebanks. The daily rates were fair: “US $60.00 with ceiling fans; US $65.00 with air conditioning.” With our light wallets, ceiling fans would do just fine.

Grandma Madge showed us around the homey property, her place as welcoming as our own grandma’s house. We unpacked with haste, our eyes fixed on the azure waves on the horizon. We tugged on our swimsuits and scrambled down to Seven Mile Beach. The sand—as white and soft as table salt—edged the aquamarine sea, the color of its water rivaling that of a swimming pool.

We frolicked on the lonely beach, basking in the island’s off-season emptiness. So what if it was a less popular time of year due to hurricane season? We owned the place, and we would enjoy the bliss the others had left behind.

We swam in the shallow blue-green sea, marveling at the clarity and warmth. We were too young and free to be held back by something as pesky as spandex, though, so we hatched an idea. All bets off—and our swimsuits too—we floated for an hour in the world’s happiest bathtub, our smiles as bright as the sun.

Jill drew in a deep breath and dove to the sandy bottom to explore. She resurfaced seconds later. “Hey, look what I found.” Grinning, she held a snorkel in the air. “Just what I needed.”

Starving from our long swim in the Caribbean Sea, we finally got out of the water. A sign jutted from the sand near our beach towels: “No skinny dipping!” So, we pulled on our swimsuits and walked home. 

That evening, Grandma Madge dropped us off for dinner at Liberty Restaurant where Jill and I dined on conch fritters and turtle steak. Turtle—one of Cayman’s national symbols—is red meat, and this one came with a gamy flavor and mealy consistency.

Sated, we strolled back to Grandma’s to the slow beat of the islands, passing a few salamanders who were savoring life and making their way home too.

The next morning, we showed up for a poolside breakfast in swimsuits. But like little kids too distracted to eat a meal in one sitting, we munched on fresh papaya from the platter of fruit Grandma Madge served us, then jumped into the pool. We splashed around for a while before climbing out for mango and bananas.

After breakfast, we caught a van bound for Georgetown in the heart of the island. On the way, a woman with a baby got out. The driver waited for her as she entered a little pink cottage. A few minutes passed. He honked. She reappeared—this time without her baby—and sauntered back to the van. She boarded, and off we went.

At the next stop, two boys waited by the road, one holding a fish. The van driver pulled over.

He lifted his chin toward their scaly companion. “It’s really fresh, isn’t it? So it won’t smell?” The boys nodded. “If it does, hold it out the window.”

“We don’t have any money, but we’ll give it to you later,” one of the boys said, hope flickering in his eyes.

“Sure, I’m easy.” The driver motioned for them to get in.

The boys sat with their prize, the driver mashed the accelerator, and the van rolled on. Caribbean breezes billowed through the open windows of the van, tussling our hair. And on the drive, we could hardly smell the fish at all.

In Georgetown, we shopped for souvenirs and lunched on trail mix and tuna we had brought from the United States to save us money, and a grocery store along the way provided us with cheese, crackers, and plums that we washed down with a tropical barley glucose drink we realized was carbonated after we shook it.

A vacationer to a sunny location can’t go more than a few hours without swimming. Or was that just us? Good thing we had worn our bathing suits under our clothes on our day trip to the east end of the island. We hustled to the beach, and in our freedom, we plunged into the crystal blue.

On the way back to our towels, another “No skinny dipping!” sign greeted us.

Next time, we’d do better. Or at least we’d try.

*Come back next week for the second (and final) installment of the story.

Jill

Me

*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.

Biter

I cut through the alley, my hands empty and my heart full. My girls had accompanied me earlier in the afternoon to deliver the bulk of the Christmas cookies to the neighbors, but they were gone with friends now, so I dropped off the last plate of the season alone. The task accomplished, I smiled.

Tree leaves lay in damp clumps in the yards I passed. One might think it was November 1 instead of December 21, but as I strode back home, I had enough holiday cheer to fuel my day, and the stubborn grey skies and lack of snow couldn’t dampen it.

I walked on. Only a span of two more back yards and our own gate would spring into view.

A rustling to my right. Guttural noises, then quick scuffling. I darted a look over my shoulder. Two dogs I had never seen before—one tan, the other dark brown—charged toward me, the chain link fence the only thing separating us. This variety of canine surveillance always ratcheted my heart rate up a notch. At least the fence was there—

But the animals crashed through it like it was invisible, trampling the chain link like tin foil. Now loose and snarling, they hurtled toward me.

Oh no! Help me, God! Help me!

I broke eye contact with my pursuers, hurrying toward home.

But the tan beast jumped at me and chomped onto my thigh. Panic shot through my veins. How would this end? Hadn’t mail carriers been shredded to bits this way?

“No!” I hollered, but Biter stayed clamped on.

In that moment, two things tore through my mind: 1. no good deed goes unpunished, and 2. while I believed it was wrong to kick an animal, if this one ripped a hunk of flesh from my leg and kept going, I might change my thinking.  

I shouted again, and this time Biter startled. He and his spectator friend barreled back onto their property, and I jogged home, my heart hammering.

And it hammered for longer than I ever thought it would.

I yanked off my pants and assessed the damage. The dog’s teeth had pierced holes in my jeans, but hadn’t torn them. The area of the bite was already puffy and red, but the skin was intact. No threat of rabies. With that welt, though, I wouldn’t be exposing my bare legs anytime soon, but in December, that was probably okay anyway.

In the following days, I watched the injury turn into an ugly three-by-six-inch piece of art, my body working dazzling reds into deep purples, smoky browns into sunny yellows.

Husband returned from a work trip on day three of my leg’s developing “masterpiece.” Impressed, he clicked a photo and strolled over to Biter’s human to show the man what his little artist had made.  

When Husband returned home from his visit to the neighbor, he relayed the story. “The guy offered to pay for any medical expenses, but I told him none were needed. I said I didn’t want to get him or the dog in trouble, but what if a little kid had been in the alley? I guess he’s been meaning to install a privacy fence, so the dog can’t see people going by, but he’s putting the house on the market soon anyway.”

I narrowed my eyes and thought of future trips to the garbage and recycling bins in the alley. My heartbeat picked up its pace.

If most stories have lessons, there’s probably one here somewhere. Like maybe I need a bodyguard from this day forward. Or maybe I should avoid the alley on foot—at least as long as that dog lives across the way. Or maybe the lesson is something better, like if the world wants to take a bite out of us in 2019, let’s still deliver the cookies.

Yeah, let’s go with that one.

*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.

Words for 2019

I know I’m on the cusp of something. Something good. So, my word for 2019 dropped into my mind as naturally as a memory.

EXPECTANCY.

I shared it with my girls. They nodded.

“It’s like anticipation, but without the anxiety,” Flicka said.

Yes.

In 2019, I won’t live in wishful thinking, but I’ll walk in EXPECTANCY. And I’ll keep you posted.

Last week, I asked you, my readers, what words you had chosen for yourselves for the new year. Here’s what you told me:

KINDNESS: Kindness is lacking in far too many people’s verbal and physical vocabularies. People need to be consistently taught, retaught, and reminded of its importance in the treatment of everyone.

Linda, Lake Stevens, Washington

*****

BREATHE. Anxiety, fear, worry... they all make me hold my breath. In the moment, I don't even realize it, but 'not breathing' has been with me since I was a kid. My past words- Release (I kept that one for several years) and Grace both came from a desire to let go and to live life with thoughtfulness and peace. With the same intention, this year, I will remember to breathe.

Trixie, Hudson, Wisconsin

*****

TRUTH: The truth in God’s word. I’ve spent WAY too much time being fearful. The only thing that changes fear is God’s truth instead of how I feel.

Sharon, Great Falls, Montana

*****

INVEST: In my health. In my wellness. In my family. In friendships. In my jewelry-making business. In my faith. In continuing my education. In building a career I love. In my essential oil team. In my communities. In my family’s future. In my home. In giving back. In getting my SPARKLE back... again (my 2018 word; I lost it again when my Dad died in June.)

In 2019, I will INVEST.

Sheila, Bloomington, Minnesota

*****

WELCOME is my word for 2019. Several years ago, I went back to work full time. I have focused my energies on being the best teacher I can be. I have allowed connections in the other parts of my life to weaken because of my lack of effort in maintaining them. I have also done little to expand my creative self. WELCOME will serve as a reminder to me to open myself to new experiences, people and opportunities. It will also remind me to invite all those I love and cherish to join me in the here and now and celebrate today.

Kristan, Golden Valley, Minnesota

*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.

What's your word?

I mulled over the Word as I blended the dough for the Sandbakkels, watered the Scotch pine, and brewed the Trader Joe’s gingerbread coffee. I dwelled on the Word as I wrapped the presents, waited my turn at the post office, and crooned along to the season’s music. I thought of the Word as I slipped into new high heels, snapped the festive photos, and held lit candles at two services.  

Christmas is over now, but I still contemplate the Word—the Word that became flesh.

But as the new year approaches, I think about other words too. I’ve already chosen my special one for 2019—a word to remember when my faith is flagging, my hope is sagging, my heart is dragging.

I’ll share it with you next week.

Do you choose a word each year too? A word that focuses, guides, and encourages you?

What’s your word for 2019?

Send me a message here with your word and why you chose it, and I’ll publish it in next week’s blog. (Subscribers, simply hit reply to this email.)

The Word became flesh and made His dwelling among 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.

Advent

Advent: a time of expectant waiting and preparation for the Promised One.

This week, my thoughts flitted back to Husband’s health crisis at the end of 2015—already three years ago. While many waited for Christmas that year, we waited for answers.

And maybe you’re waiting for answers now.

Here’s the fourth (and final) installment of our story from back then. (Find the first three installments here: The waiting room, Grateful, and The box)

*****

The waiting season

We checked in at 9:45 for Husband’s 10:00 appointment. I sank down in the vinyl seat next to him in the waiting room and reminded myself he was in the best hands in the Twin Cities. Not only was the doctor an oncologist, but he also specialized in shoulders and arms. Then into my brain zinged the receptionist’s favorite word from a week earlier: URGENT. At least today we would hear something. At least today we would learn if it was cancer or not—and maybe even form a plan of action.

10:00 came and went. Then 10:20. At 10:30, I wondered if I had time to visit the ladies’ room. By 10:40, I believed Husband was the ugly Christmas sweater: grabbing attention once a year, but out of mind the rest of the time. Finally, at 10:50, a nurse called his name, and we followed her down a long hallway.

“Sorry about the wait.” She spritzed the apology into the air like a room freshener; the scent was sweet, but I knew it was meant to disguise a stink.

Husband shot me a side-glance and whispered, “Are you okay?”

I shrugged. The extended waiting room time—an unnecessary poke at the bruise—had stunned me. But fear rose up again and beat down the awakening anger.

In the exam room, the nurse indicated seats for us, and then she approached the computer. I scrutinized her face as she clicked away at the keyboard. Did she already know the truth? But her demeanor revealed nothing, and soon she left the room.

Ten minutes later, the doctor breezed in, introduced himself, and sat down. “So what brings you in today?”

What? He didn’t know? He hadn’t received all the messages from the orthopedic surgeon? He hadn’t reviewed the bone scan yet? Husband filled him in on the details, and then the doctor swiveled his chair toward the computer and peered at the screen. “I see you had an MRI on October 22.”

And today was December 10. Inside, I seethed. Had Husband been forgotten? Had each medical professional along the way dropped the ball?

The doctor perused Husband’s file, studying the x-ray, the MRI, the bone scan. He explained the risks of a biopsy and why he wouldn’t recommend it, and then he turned to us. “It would be low-grade if it’s cancer.” There was that word again, dangling in front of us like a moldy carrot. “I’ll consult with the radiologist and get back to you.”

“How long will that take?” I inserted the question, hoping it would remind him we were humans who had feelings and wanted answers.

“We’ll call you with the results in a couple of days.”

I suppressed a dubious look. “By the way, your receptionist told us it was urgent we see you. In fact, she said it three times in one phone call.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Your doctor had noted it was urgent for you to get my opinion. It didn’t mean urgency of the condition.”

Which you don’t even know yet, I wanted to add, but instead I nodded. “Okay.”

When the appointment was over, I exited the exam room, my shoulders drooping. Husband—his expression neutral—strode next to me.

In the lobby, he hit the elevator’s button down to the parking ramp. “I didn’t really expect answers. Did you?”

My chuckle had sharp edges. “Let’s just go out for lunch.”

Three days later, I attended the Christmas party for my writers’ group. I socialized, helped myself to some holiday treats, and then slipped into a seat at a table. Across the room, I spotted Pearl, a fellow writer who described herself as “no spring chicken.” She shared my admiration for Stephen King’s book on writing, and her common sense sliced through life’s murkiness. Aided by a cane, Pearl worked her way across the room and settled into the empty chair next to mine. She asked me about my life, and I told her about Husband’s recent medical adventures.

She waved away the nonsense. “I stopped going to the doctor a year ago, and I’ve been healthy ever since.”

“So that’s the answer.” I laughed but then let my smile go. “It’s been a long wait. A really long wait.”

“Ah.” Pearl held a finger in the air. “The Advent season is all about waiting.”

Six days had passed since Husband’s appointment, but only silence marked the time. I dialed the familiar number. With flagging hopes, I left a message. Hours later, the phone rang; the long-awaited call had finally come.

“First, I should apologize.” The oncologist cleared his throat on the other end of the line. “We got your husband’s results days ago. I thought the nurse had already called you.”

I pulled the phone closer. “This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

“The radiologist looked at the bone scan and the rest of the tests, and we both agree. We don’t think it’s cancer, and we don’t believe it’s something aggressive. We’d like to do another MRI in three or four months, but there’s no cause for worry.”

Since October 22, I had lived in expectation—an active but motionless posture alternating between numbness and vitality. And now the answer had finally arrived; the phone call signaled the end of the wait. But I thought of others, still dragging along in their own seasons of waiting—anticipating the outcome of a job interview, the homecoming of a loved one, the next paycheck, a friend’s phone call, or for their dreams to materialize and their futures to bloom.

Then Pearl’s words rushed back to me, and I remembered an ancient people waiting thousands of years for the One—the same One who sat with me in the waiting space those many weeks. And He was already here with all the answers I would ever need.

Immanuel, God with 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.

The lamp

Nothing says Christmas spirit of giving like driving to a thrift store to buy oneself something fun when one should be shopping for others.

As I parked in front of the Salvation Army downtown Minneapolis, any guilt I might have felt skittered away like an errant snowflake on a sunny day. This excursion would be quick. Just one sweep through the store to check out the goods. Only five minutes needed to see if they were selling the table lamp I wanted, then I would focus on everyone else again.

My desired lamp was of the statue or sculpture variety—the kind with characters on the base doing something interesting—and in a pinch, even cherubs could work. The item would include (but was not limited to) the following specifications: off-white ceramic, a neoclassical look, kitschy.

Inside the front door of Salvation Army, I sniffed. People often likened the odor of a thrift store to a musty basement. But to me, the cast-offs of strangers smelled like inspiration, adventure, and today, the hope of heaven in a light fixture.

Once past the kitchen wares, I made a beeline for the lamp section. So many options, so little time. But wait. Could that be what I thought it was up there on the top shelf? Was it even possible? Yes.

The lamp. Soon my lamp.

A cream-colored ceramic sculpture of a boy holding a basket formed its base. A wonderfully gaudy piece. Perfection.

I clicked a photo of the prize and shot it to Flicka via text. What do you think of this?

Her response was immediate. I’ve always wanted one like that. How much?

$15.

Oooh. A steal.

Hers was all the encouragement I needed. I eased the lamp—heavier than I expected—off the top shelf. As I pulled it into my arms, however, its cord tangled with that of another, and down came the light attached to it. Crash!

On the store’s carpeting—too skimpy to have cushioned the impact—lay shards of glass from the lamp that had once lived next to mine.

Oh no.

Cradling my treasure, I found an employee in another aisle. “I broke a lamp. So sorry. Of course I’ll pay for it.”

“No big deal,” he said, following me to the scene of the accident. He crouched to scoop up the pieces. “Happens all the time. You don’t need to pay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, for real.”

I thanked him and strode to the nearby testing station, screwed a light bulb into my baby, and plugged it in. It glowed, and I think I did too.

As I paid, I thought of my new lamp and what our bright future might look like together. As I walked out to the car, I pictured Husband rolling his eyes at my dreamy find but my girls smiling. They would definitely smile.

I stood the lamp on its base in the back seat, propped a bag next to it, and drove off. My thoughts skipped back to the Christmas shopping list, the few things I still needed to purchase for the family, and when I could wrap the gifts I would buy.

I rounded the final corner to our house, but something in the back shifted. A rustle of a bag. A light scratching. Thump!

I put the car into park in front of our house and hopped out. I opened the back seat’s door, reached for the bag and—

Oh no.

My new lamp had tipped over—why hadn’t I laid it down?—and there on the floor in the back was sculpture boy’s head and basket, separated from his body. No!

Maybe there was still hope. Maybe I could glue it. But the beheading had sprinkled tiny ceramic chips everywhere. All was lost. I sighed.

The only time my secondhand delight spent in our house was the time it took to pass through it to its big black grave in the alley. I snapped a picture of the deceased before dropping the lid once again.

Two lamps broken in one day was no fluke. Was there a moral to this story? Of course there was. And in my heart I already knew it: one should be more careful transporting breakables when one shops for oneself at Christmastime.

 *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 song

The Christmas tree glows in the fresh hours of the morning. Everyone else is still sleeping. It’s too early to turn on music for the house, so I plug headphones into my ears and scroll through a music app on my phone. It’s just the dog, me, and a blanket on the couch. Transcendence is a tap away. I click.

Through the headphones, the beloved song about a small village in a faraway land two thousand years ago soothes me.

O little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie!

Nothing still about our part of town. Too recently in North Minneapolis, gang members crossed into their enemies’ territory to settle a score. The sounds of gunshots reverberated off houses four blocks from ours, and before it was over, five men were shot. Ambulances rushed the injured ones to North Memorial.

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by;

That night before sleep could steal me, I gazed at the dark ceiling of the bedroom, listening. No emergency vehicles screamed by our windows. Only distant sirens sliced the night.

I thought of that day’s shootings, but no emotion stirred me. In fact, I hadn’t even heard the news until a friend, ragged with worry, called to check on us. And then too, I felt nothing; no twinge of pain, no lurch in my heart, no tug of mercy—not like in the early days in our neighborhood when I was all feelings, desperate to do something.  

Why didn’t this kind of news affect me anymore? Because this was gang violence and to be expected? That’s what many people believed. Were they right?

Alone the next day, I sank to my knees on the living room rug—in that favorite spot of mine where eternal meets temporal—and I raised it up: Let me feel something again. Let me see what You see.

Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting Light:

Now this morning, with headphones on, I draw a deep breath and let it go. Maybe that ancient village wasn’t so unlike mine. The streets were dark there too, weren’t they?

Blurry faces tied up in gangs and drugs and violence in my mind now morph into clear ones—the faces of the ones I love. The faces of the young kids in the neighborhood who once played basketball on our driveway. The faces of the ones we opened our door to—and always will. The faces of the ones I worry have picked the thorny path, the ones who might have already chosen the way of death.

What if some of my loved ones in the neighborhood have witnessed hatred blast their friends or family members from this world? What if they’re survivors with PTSD because they’ve glimpsed hell and have to walk with it? Or what if they’ve made the violence and have to live with it?

But there’s a Light. An everlasting Light.

And even in the darkness it comes to pierce their hearts—and my own again.

The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

This song of the season whisks me away now—and my fears with it—its message vaster than its lyrics. It reminds me we’re not from here, and it’s not where we’ll stay either. All of us were made for something higher than our fears, even higher than our hopes.

The song lifts us above the earth this Christmas season, so we feel again. And for a while, we fly free too. Together.

*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.

Rejoice

Rejoice with those who rejoice.

I’ve heard this twice now since Thanksgiving, and today a writer friend sends me an article about being grateful for what I don’t have (but others do), making this the third time the message has floated to me in one week. Be thankful for the good things that come to other people, the article says but in prettier words. Rejoice.

It’s a new facet for the gratitude journal; I could commit whole pages to thankfulness for what I don’t have but wish I did.

I mull it over with my coffee this morning and the same old thought patterns flicker like the lit candle next to me. How long will I wait for:

the thing I’ve bathed in prayer for over two decades?

the dream I offer up to the One who gave it to me in the first place?

the identity I think is for me, yet isn’t something I wear today?

But the Advent season, now upon us, is all about waiting—waiting for the One who hears petitions, the One who plants dreams, the One who is bigger and better than any version of us.

I’ll keep waiting. And I’ll rejoice in the not yet for me, but the right now for others while I’m 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 gratitude journal

Negativity slithered through our front door this fall, bringing darkness with it. We didn’t see it coming, of course, because that’s how it works.

But one day in late October, the dreariness captured my attention. How long had it been this dusky inside the house? I could hardly see the truth anymore for all the shadows.

“Not this again,” I said to no one in particular.

But I wasn’t the only one letting negativity’s gloom into our living quarters. Other family members had opened the door for it too. And we all seemed to entertain it most during our mealtimes together, venting our frustrations and irritations until the light over the table was as dim as a Minnesota morning in the fall before going off daylight savings time.

We were justified in our complaints, though, weren’t we? We were only discussing what was happening, right? There wasn’t any harm in it, was there? Facts were facts. And we could all agree there were too many hoops for Flicka to hop through in college, too many unanswered questions about Ricka’s life post-high school, too many worries about volleyball club teams for Dicka, too many schedule changes for Husband at work, and too many demands layered into my own days.

While the discussions stimulated me at first, negativity soon sucked away my energy.

Finally, I was done with it. So I resurrected an ancient solution for me—and for the family.

Gratitude.

“Here’s what’s happening,” I said one night at dinner, plunking down an old spiral notebook and pen. “We’re going to start a gratitude journal. It’ll stay right here on the table. Add to it whenever you think of something.”

I acted as scribe that first time, pointing my pen at each family member in the circle, forcing answers out of the whole lot of them until each had said something—anything.

At first, our gratefulness was staid: friends, family, volleyball, the dog. But as the days went, it broke free: Life Cereal, Dad telling his own embarrassing stories to comfort us, Dicka’s quick metabolism, God’s concept of time and money, when that car didn’t crash into Ricka in Uptown, candles, ChapStick, Flicka’s fast-growing hair, bagels, snow tires, the sun…

The concept of gratitude has existed since darkness was separated from light, and a person documenting his or her thankfulness has been around for eons too. Even so, I shared my not-so-creative-but-fresh-to-me idea of a gratitude journal with some loved ones.

Several had already tapped into the power of putting it on paper.

“It’s a life changer,” my sister said.

“It’s a game changer,” my friend said.

“It changes everything,” my neighbor said.

Hmm. So much change.

A week later, Ricka entered the house from school, her cell phone in hand. She tapped on it. “Mom, I took notes today about things I’m thankful for. Wanna hear them?”

She rattled off her list to me, and I transcribed the items into the gratitude journal. Taking a closer look, I noticed others had been in our notebook too—others beyond our family—scratching down their own notes of gratefulness.

That night at dinner, the dining room table looked different. Something had changed. I could see the food better—and my family too.

Was it just me, or was it brighter in here?

*Question for you, reader: If you started a gratitude journal today, what things/people/etc. would make your top ten?

 *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.

Business review: Vintage Nail & Spa

My girl Dicka and I climb the stairs inside the historic building on the corner of 42nd Avenue North and Lyndale in North Minneapolis. We want to be called regulars at this neighborhood nail salon, and since this is our second visit, we decide we’re well on our way.

Today, access to Vintage Nail & Spa is easy. But last summer, the messy roads forced us to park several blocks away and cross 42nd Avenue on foot. Road construction plunged the appearance of the street back to the 1800s, and we gingerly lifted our long skirts and crossed the abandoned dirt road on foot like two proper ladies heading into the mercantile to sell our baskets of eggs.

(We weren’t really wearing long skirts.)

Today, we enter the nail salon, situated on the second floor in what was once an old ballroom. Teng, the owner, calls to us from across the expansive space. She’s with another customer, she says, but she’ll soon take care of us. I smile, remembering her friendly face. And just like last time, her eyes sparkle like she’s thinking of a joke but now isn’t the right time to tell it.

One of Teng’s employees, an older gentleman, guides us to side-by-side massage chairs and stirs something blue and fizzy into the water of our foot baths. Dicka and I settle in, dipping our feet into the warmth.

The chair kneads my back. I draw a deep breath and release it, letting my eyes flutter shut.

My phone rings. I fish it out of my purse. My friend Trixie.

“Are you guys okay?” she says, a little winded, her voice edged with worry.

“Yeah. Why?” I meet Dicka’s frown with one of my own, plus a shrug. “What’s up?”

“Well, the multiple shootings that happened right now by you.” When I say this is news to me, she tells me the cross streets of the incident and that her husband Todd has been trying to reach Husband with no success. “Todd says one of the houses on the news looks like yours.”

“That’s four blocks from our place.” I say it like it’s a planet away—maybe even a galaxy away—from us.

“Oh. At least you’re okay.” I hear the relief in her tone, and she exhales.

Our call finished, I focus on the leg scrub.

My phone pings. Aunt F.

I open her message: I just need to know you’re okay. Saw breaking news on KARE11 that there was a shooting a few blocks from you and several (maybe five men) are in the hospital. Give me a sign, please.

I tap out a response, putting Aunt F at ease.

The man sands away at my heels. The previous minutes melt away, and I wonder why news of shootings hits me with the same urgency as I feel when I listen to the weather report.

(I file away an idea for a future blog post, because this one is a nail salon review.)

Tia, the resident massage therapist, is helping with pedicures today. She finishes Dicka’s foot treatment, and the man at my feet leaves his stool so Teng can take over. She inspects his work, then swipes the base, nail color, and top coats onto my toenails. Next is Dicka’s turn.

Afterward, we move over to the manicure area, and Teng does her magic.

Tia wanders to a table laden with crock-pots and dishes on the far side of the salon. She lifts one of the lids, a delicious aroma wafts out, and now I’m hungry. She fills a bowl with something from one of the crock-pots, then slurps up a spoonful of the steaming substance.

“What is this?” She’s choking a little. “This orange stuff?”

Teng shakes her head and smiles. “‘Orange stuff.’”

“I mean, are there ghost peppers in here, or what?”

“No, no.” Teng laughs. “Nothing like that.”

Tia takes another taste and coughs. “I can’t do this.” Her face pink, she rushes her bowl toward a back room and disappears.

Teng chuckles again and brushes a coat of polish on Dicka’s nails while I sit under a dryer for three minutes. I think I want to be friends with Teng. I also think about the food Tia attempted to eat, and my stomach rumbles.

“Where are you from?” I say, trying to ignore my desire to sample the ‘orange stuff’ too. 

“Laos,” Teng says.

I mean to ask her what her crock-pots hold, but we talk about business on the Northside instead. It’s nearing eight o’clock now—almost closing time—and hip-hop blasts from the downstairs business, rattling Teng’s salon.

She grins. “Every night after they close up, they have a party down there.”

A party. Feels like a party up here too, but it has nothing to do with the music.

Happy with our nails, I pay, accruing more holes in our punch cards. If we prioritize the condition of our nails over the next year, we could fill our cards fast. And have more time to hang out with Teng.

Because manicures and pedicures at Vintage Nail & Spa are so much more than getting your nails done.

Notes about the salon:

• A regular manicure is $15.00; a regular pedicure $25.00.

• A mani/pedi combo is $35.00, but on Tuesdays and Wednesdays it’s on special for $30.00.

• Don’t forget your punch card!

• If you chip a nail within 3 days of your manicure or pedicure, Teng will repair it for free.

 Vintage Nail & Spa, www.vintagenailandspa.com, 705 42nd Ave. N., Minneapolis, MN  55412, 651-387-8022

*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.