Bullies: Part 3

Kay G abandoned the home he had known for three months—the bench in Loring Park—and set out to fight for the Twin Cities. He resurrected Hope Ministries, a street outreach he had first started in Chicago. He ventured out to circulate among the roughest neighborhoods in Minneapolis and St. Paul, stretching out his arms to pray over street corners and people.

“Give the drugs a break and come over here,” Kay G called through a bullhorn to the drug dealers, pimps, and prostitutes milling about on Franklin Avenue in south Minneapolis. “I know where you’re coming from.”

But they had seen him before, and so they ran away. Because sometimes love is frightening.

The locals eyed Kay G’s work. “He’s turning the dope spot into a hope spot.”

And law enforcement watched him blasting out words of healing on some of the worst corners in town.

“If we ever needed you, God, we need you now,” Kay G cried out into the streets as traffic whizzed by.

The officers saw him performing vigils and memorials for victims of violent crimes in the inner city; they showered him with accolades. And he counted the police as his best friends.

But one day in 2007, Kay G’s heart nudged him to return to Chicago—his home and the birthplace of Hope Ministries. So, in his apartment, while his seven-year-old daughter played in the bedroom, he packed his bags, and then strode to the living room to watch TV. He settled into a chair and flipped on the news.

“When four young men were turned away from a house party on 33rd and Humboldt Avenue in north Minneapolis, they shot at least a dozen times, accidentally killing fourteen-year-old Charez Jones…”

Kay G lowered his head. He had heard violent news stories all too often and followed them into the homes of the victims’ loved ones where he prayed with them. But this time, a father in Minneapolis had lost his daughter. Tears washed away Kay G’s plans for Chicago. The thought of his own girl—alive and breathing in the next room—pierced his heart. He stood up and went to her.

“What, Daddy?” She studied his face, her eyes wide. 

Kay G brushed away his tears, picked her up, and carried her to the living room. He sat down with her. "A young girl was shot and killed. They just said it on TV." He cupped her face in his hands. “Baby, you have to help Daddy unpack. I’m not going anywhere.”

After that, Kay G visited Guy Jones, Charez’ father, and stuck with him day after day, propping up the grieving man when he couldn’t stand by himself. In those early days, Guy started a foundation in his daughter’s name, but it was birthed out of pain, and his daily tears blurred his vision. Kay G took up the load and carried the foundation for Guy, and a visit to Charez’ grave each year bolstered his mission to keep preaching on the city's street corners.

On a summer day in 2011, fourteen-year-old Quantrell Braxton was found shot in a north Minneapolis street. Days later, Kay G and three dozen men, women, and children from various churches gathered on the four corners of Broadway and Lyndale in north Minneapolis to remember Quantrell and to pray for a death to violence.

Always on guard for bullies, Kay G scanned the area. Yards away, he spied some teenagers—a guy and three girls—hanging out together at a nearby gas station. At each passing city bus, the guy threw up gang signs.

Kay G shook his head. “That kid needs prayer.”

He motioned for the boy to join them, but the teen ignored him. After a while, the sun sank, and Kay G frowned at the fading daylight. Concerned for the safety of the group, he called for the prayer warriors to come from their spots and gather all together on the bus stop corner.

“Let’s all pull in close and lock arms while we pray,” one man said.

Expand the circle!

“No,” Kay G told the group. “We should hold hands and make the circle bigger.”

The group did as Kay G said. Then he looked over at the teen at the gas station as the kid made another gang sign—this time at a passing car. The boy’s face shifted, though, and his cocky expression morphed into a look of fear. The three girls with him made a beeline for the bus stop where Kay G and his people stood. The boy darted looks around him as he followed them. Soon, the four teenagers hovered near the prayer group. Kay G lowered his head to pray, and in that second, a young man—with a gun—sped by on a bike.

POP! POP! POP! Eight close range gunshots blasted through their circle, and everyone dropped to the ground—except for Kay G. A scream shredded the air. One of the girls from the gas station collapsed into his arms. Unscathed, the gang sign guy sprinted off.

“I’m gonna die!” The girl wailed, blood soaking her clothes. “They shot me! I’m gonna die!”

“No, you’re not.” Kay G carried her to his car, begging God for her life with every step. He yelled back to the group. “Call an ambulance. Now!”

A bullet had grazed one of the men in the prayer group, and the girl—wounded by a gunshot to her hip—later had surgery and recovered. But the rest of the men, women, and children were unharmed. The bullets had zinged between them—through their widened circle—and they were saved.

Over the years, Kay G developed a herniated disc, and in early 2014, the condition stole his ability to walk. The searing pain landed him in the hospital, and there he awaited surgery. But thoughts of his ministry called to him, and so he phoned his boss to come and drive him home. The man did as he said and carried Kay G from the car up to his second-floor apartment.

But minutes later, after his boss had left, someone called, alerting him to the news: A duplex fire had claimed the lives of five children belonging to a single father in north Minneapolis.

"Lord, I have to get to him." Kay G crawled to his walker, pain tearing through his body. He struggled down to the first floor and drove his truck through snowy streets to the man's house for the vigil. In the freezing cold, he prayed for the father who had lost so much. 

Every day in the city, Kay G ministers to those who are empty and mourning. No guns, knives, or bulletproof vests. He doesn’t have money either—or a big church with a beautiful choir. But with the authority of God, he speaks Truth over the bullies of homelessness, prostitution, drugs, gangs, and violence. And he brings his church—and hope—wherever he goes.

The Star Tribune's documentary of Kay G's ministry: https://www.facebook.com/hatin2krazy/videos/224214997630105/?pnref=story 

"The Message from the Park Bench": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YVWmiD6hzzU&feature=share

Follow Kay G on these two Facebook pages: Kay G Wilson and ALL LIVES MATTER MPLS, MN. 2015

*Kay G Wilson is a friend to north Minneapolis, mentor/international peace activist, founder and president of Hope Ministries, spokesman for the Charez Jones Foundation, co-facilitator of Criminals and Gangs Anonymous (CGA) Minneapolis, founder of 500 Man Peace March Minneapolis, spokesman for United in Peace, Inc., Minnesota, and humble servant of Jesus Christ.  

*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.

Bullies: Part 2

Kay G’s weak legs carried him into the center of the circle. He shot a look around him. The students hollered. Were they cheering for him? He spied Charmaine, tucked into the throng of onlookers. His breath caught. He had liked the girl for years—had admired her from a distance—and now she watched him back.

BAM! Tuffy delivered a kick to Kay G’s stomach, and he bunched over in pain. He had to keep his eye on the bully—not the crowd pressing in around him. Focus. Focus! He straightened to his full height, his fists now pulled up to his face. He recalled his foster brother’s instructions: Put him in a headlock and don’t let go!

As Kay G faced his enemy, the truth seeped in: he cared more about others than he did about himself. And this fight wasn’t only about him. He would battle for all the bullied and abused ones who were too weak to protect themselves. This new purpose washed fresh courage over Kay G. He lowered his gaze, zeroing in on his mission.

Narrowing his eyes, Tuffy stared back, twisting his face while he bounced from one foot to the other. Then he threw a jab at Kay G’s face and caught him on the side of the head. The sting of impact injected Kay G with a surge of energy, and he thought of the jeering biblical bully taking on a small shepherd boy. No matter how much he had grown over the summer, he was still the little guy facing his own giant—and the giant of them all.

Put him in a headlock! He threw an arm around Tuffy’s neck, but the bully slithered out of his grasp. He barreled toward Tuffy and slung an arm around him again. This time, Kay G seized him. The crowd screamed—and so did the memory of his brother’s words: Don’t let go! Kay G squeezed the boy’s head between his forearm and shoulder. Tuffy flailed, but like a mouse caught in a trap, he was stuck fast. Kay G tightened his grip. Then his gaze darted to his favorite spot in the crowd. But what was that look on Charmaine’s face? Disgust? Disappointment?

Kay G bore down until his arm was slick with his opponent’s saliva, tears, and mucus, and his thrashing had subsided. He at last released the boy with a shove, and the bully stumbled, coughing and sputtering. Breaking through the ring of students, Tuffy skulked off. The crowd hooted and cheered. Kay G’s arms flew up into the air, and a smile split his face.

His victory that day on the playground in sixth grade reset his course, and after that, Kay G became the protector of all the kids.

Back in his foster home, though, Kay G’s adversaries didn’t recognize his new titles of either victor or protector, and life trudged forward, each season offering the same things it always had. Twice a year—on his birthday and at Christmas time—hope plagued him, and his foster mom allowed him to enter the normally forbidden front room with its plastic-covered furniture. He perched on the sofa before the vast picture window and stared out onto the street as cars zipped by. Maybe one of them would bring what he wanted more than anything else in the world.

Kay G’s foster mom bustled into the room like she did every year—with her notepad and pen—and approached him at his post.

“Now remember, you can’t get what you always ask for.” Poising her pen above the paper, she crushed his dreams with her eyes. “But you can get toys and games. What’ll it be this year?”

He stared out the window. “I want my mom to come and get me.”

Even a victor wants his mother, and Kay G forgave her, even though she had thrown him away, choosing drugs over him and leaving a pit in his life. When he had collided with Jesus at church as a small boy, he had thought God would fill up that hole in his heart, but the space remained. And the emptiness cried out.

One day, after the boys in the foster home had punched him and bloodied his nose, Kay G ran away. Alone on the streets of Chicago, he spotted a group of guys in blue, smoking, talking, and laughing together like brothers. Why were they so happy? He watched their banter and then at last approached them.

“Can I be in your family too?”

The guys zinged looks back and forth between them. One of them took a drag on his cigarette, exhaled, and shrugged.

“Yeah, little man.”

Kay G had always clung to the ideas of Martin Luther King, Jr. and his dream of becoming a preacher. But his new family that day—the Black Disciples—showed him how to hurt people. And his heart twisted him in two directions. He ached for his real mother and for a future as a preacher with a beautiful choir. He fought for the innocents at school, but in the gang, he became the bully. The gang told him he was a part of something, and they showed him the bottle. And the alcohol blurred his memories and dulled his pain, but it didn’t mute the reality of his infected life. And the drinks and drugs didn’t quell his suffering—or his desire to be a preacher.

Years passed, and after being used up by the bullies of alcohol, drugs, and gangs, twenty-four-year-old Kay G remembered the calling he had heard on the playground in sixth grade: he would be a protector of those too weak to protect themselves. Facing his giants, Kay G started Hope Ministries, a street outreach for prostitutes, drug users, and gangbangers in Chicago, and he poured himself into the endless work.

But life’s path trips us when we look down at our feet.

Distracted and again lost in the dark, Kay G fumbled to the end of himself. When God didn’t answer his prayers to let him die, Kay G tried to be his own answer. But he survived himself and kept breathing anyway. Finally, his burdens dragged him out for one last walk and dropped him onto a bench in Minneapolis’ Loring Park.

“God, let me die.” The same cry that had come from the closet in his childhood home to the same God who had kept him alive.

After three months on that park bench, Kay G had melded with nature, and the squirrels used him as their landing pad.

“God, let me die.” Kay G breathed and slept. Slept and breathed. Finally, jarred awake by the unseen One, he looked up at the clouds. “How did I get here?”

You took your mind off Me.

He rolled over, weak with hunger. “Why me?”

You were chosen yesterday for today.

Kay G’s eyes brimmed with tears. “If You give me the strength to get off this bench, I promise I’ll serve You till the day I die.”

Strength rippled through his body, and he sat up. He would stay alive now, because there was work to do.

*Tune in next week for the conclusion of the story about the life of Kay G Wilson, friend to north Minneapolis, mentor/international peace activist, founder and president of Hope Ministries, spokesman for the Charez Jones Foundation, co-facilitator of Criminals and Gangs Anonymous (CGA) Minneapolis, founder of 500 Man Peace March Minneapolis, spokesman for United in Peace, Inc., Minnesota, and humble servant of Jesus Christ.

*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.

Bullies: Part 1

“You’re the ugliest child I’ve ever seen.” She assessed the boy with narrowed eyes, slicing the air with her words. “I see why your mom didn’t want you.”

Of all eleven boys in the foster home in Chicago, Kay G was the youngest. And the ugliest too. Or at least that’s what his foster mom said. While she sold wigs and costume jewelry in the shop each day and his foster dad worked his job at the post office, little Kay G was left at home with the ten older boys. They hated him. He was only five years old when his brothers punched him in the face for the first time and locked him in a closet.

“God, let me die.” He groaned the prayer in that dark, small space.

The next time the brothers dragged him to the closet, they dumped a jar of bugs onto his head first, before shutting him up in the dark with the crawly creatures.

Again, his prayer punctuated the darkness. “God, let me die.”

Another time, they tied him to a pole in the basement and beat him.

“Take me to work with you,” he begged his foster dad. “I’ll be quiet and even sit in the truck all day.”

“You’re okay.” The man looked at Kay G with soft eyes, patting him with a tender hand. But since he didn’t know what lurked in his own house, he left the little boy home again with his older brothers.

Each night, Kay G’s foster mom made him kneel by the bed and recite his prayers.

“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Then the boy scrambled into his bed and pulled up the covers. When the woman left the room, he tossed the blankets aside and slid out of bed, again sinking to his knees on the floor.

“God, this is my real prayer this time.” He squeezed his eyes shut, but tears leaked out anyway. “Don’t let me wake up.”

When Kay G took a bath, the world outside the bathroom door melted away. He positioned his friends—Mr. Bubble and Mr. Potato Head—near him on the bathtub’s ledge.

He rearranged Mr. Potato Head’s features again and again. “There’s no way he’s ugly to me.”

Then he lined up his green Army men—his protectors—in formation on the side of the tub. Their guns were aimed at the door.

One day, Kay G dressed up and went with his foster family to a place called church. Everyone smiled there—even his foster mom and brothers. A powerful man wearing robes stood behind a big box and spoke. As little Kay G listened, peace floated down and settled on him. And in that instant, he knew he was born for it: he was born for love. And more than anything, he wanted to be a preacher with a beautiful choir, and he wanted to heal people.

After the service, smiling women pressed in around Kay G, the new foster kid. “Well, isn’t he the cutest thing?”

But he darted past them and ran as fast as he could to the pastor. He grabbed onto one of the man’s legs and wouldn’t let go.

“Well, hello, little guy.” The man leaned down and patted him on the head. His foster mother scurried over and after yanking on the child, she finally pried him loose.

“What’s wrong with him?” said the preacher, his voice low.

She smoothed her hair and waved away his question with a gloved hand. “That’s how they all act.”

After that day at church, Kay G loved Jesus until his heart hurt. He played preacher back at the house, but everyone hated him even more. And on the school’s playground he had “Foster Kid Disease.” No one came near him. And so he perched on his own slide to watch the other kids play. Sometimes an errant ball flew his way, and he snagged it from the air and kept it. If he had touched it, no one would’ve wanted it back anyway.

In third grade, a kid named Tuffy rose to the top of the bully ranks. Everyone was afraid of him, but he set his sights on Kay G. Tuffy kicked him, punched him, stole his lunch, and grew more demanding each day.

“I don’t like this. I want an apple fruit pie.” His face twisted into a grimace, and he spit out some profanity. “Bring me an apple fruit pie tomorrow.”

The bullying kept on for three years. But during the summer before sixth grade, Kay G became friends with one of his foster brothers and confided in him. His brother gave him a solution: he taught him how to wrestle.

“You gotta stand up to him,” his brother said, his eyes intense.

And when school started again in the fall, that’s what Kay G did.

“Gimme your lunch,” Tuffy said, contorting his face. Just like old times.

“No.” Kay G, now much taller and bigger than Tuffy, pulled his lunch bag to his chest, crossing his arms over it.

The bully’s eyes turned to slits. “What did you say?”

“No.”

“Then we’re fighting out back after school.” He sneered. “You better be there.”

The slow march of the clock on normal school days sped up that day for Kay G. Too soon, the final bell rang, reverberating throughout the neighborhood, announcing the fight to the world. The students stampeded outside in one great herd for the coming attraction and formed a large circle on the playground. In the center of the circle was Tuffy, kicking and chopping at the air, practicing his warm-ups. Back in the classroom, Kay G hovered near his teacher.

“Why are you still here?” She peered at him while squaring a stack of papers into a neat pile.

He snatched some scraps of paper from the floor and threw them into the trash. “I thought I could help you clean up today.”

She furrowed her brow and then glanced out the window at the playground. “What—?” She scuttled closer to the glass and squinted at the scene outside. “Ah, I see.” She turned to Kay G. “You don’t want to fight, do you?”

He shook his head.

She planted her hands on her hips, her eyes wide. “Well, you better deal with him. He won’t quit if you walk away.”

As Kay G plodded the path to the playground, his legs turned soft and his knees wobbled.

“No one’s on my side,” he whispered, swallowing hard.

All eyes were fixed on him. When he at last neared the gathering, the circle of students broke open for him to enter.

*Tune in next week for the continuing story about the life of Kay G Wilson, friend to north Minneapolis, mentor/international peace activist, founder and president of Hope Ministries, spokesman for the Charez Jones Foundation, co-facilitator of Criminals and Gangs Anonymous (CGA) Minneapolis, founder of 500 Man Peace March Minneapolis, spokesman for United in Peace, Inc., Minnesota, and humble servant of Jesus Christ.

*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.

Foundation

One day while wandering through the magical world of Pinterest, I saw it: the best retaining wall in the world. I had never seen anything like it. It was constructed of cinder blocks, with some of the blocks turned now and then—jutting out of the wall—for use as planters. The unique idea was us. If we made this wall in our yard, no one would own one quite like it or like it enough to want one. But Husband and I had never been accused of fitting in, and I had long ago lost the taste for it anyway.  

“Check this out.” I showed him images of the cinder block wall. “Isn’t it cool?”

He nodded. “I could do that.”

We proposed the idea to Dallas and Glenda, our neighbors on each side. After all, it would be their wall too. We explained that they wouldn’t have to worry: we would build it but still keep intact the existing chain link fences that separated us. Both neighbors gave their approval, and Dallas even jumped in with both feet, inviting us to go ahead and tear out the chain link between his yard and ours.

The next summer, we ordered the cinder blocks—600 of them—and they were delivered on pallets by semi-truck to the cement slab by our garage. I eyed the stacks of fifty-pound blocks, and hopelessness crept in. Each block would need to be lifted and then transferred—a few at a time—by wheelbarrow as far as sixty feet into our yard.

Husband began the painstaking work of building the wall. He dug an eight-inch trench by hand around our back yard, and after that, shoveled in a layer of sand. Then he laid the first course of blocks, pounding them down with a rubber mallet and checking his work every few minutes with a level. The pace was grueling, the task arduous. As I watched him, I remembered our beginnings. His slow, meticulous work habits had both initially attracted me to him and later shown me my humanity with all of its glaring flaws. Impatience again thrummed inside of me.

After weeks of work, Husband completed the wall—sixty feet long and four feet high—on one side of the yard. At the end, however, he discovered it had gotten out of whack somewhere along the way, and the corner pieces wouldn’t fit properly. He dismantled it all—block by block—and started over. I breathed in slowly through my nose and out through my mouth, forcing my thoughts away from the ordeal in the yard. In the grand scheme of things, did it matter that our project would now span months instead of weeks?

For half the summer, the pallets of cinder blocks obstructed our driveway basketball court, and the neighborhood kids grew antsy.

“I can help you move these into the yard.” Keyondra pointed at the stacks of blocks.

“Sure.” Husband handed her a pair of work gloves, and she dug into the task. Peanut joined in too until the two basketball players had cleared enough space by the garage to once again shoot hoops.

Before Husband was done, the winter snows blustered in and covered the wall. And so we waited. The second summer, he finished the construction on all sides of the yard, each block having been secured with concrete adhesive. Then, he drove rebar down through the blocks’ holes every six feet and reinforced it with cement. Last of all, he topped off the wall with concrete capstones.  

We then hired steel artist Andrew MacGuffie—whose work adorned the Northrup King Building’s landscaping—to install curved steel borders for raised gardens next to our wall. But the snow flew in once more and drifted over our work. And so we waited again. By the third summer, we hauled in dirt and finally planted our gardens, the flowers softening the steel and concrete with their explosive blooms and beauty.

I stood back with my soil-covered hands—unable to peel the smile from my face—and surveyed the sight. Blossoms spilled from the wall’s block planters, and green vines trailed over the edges of the steel borders. Near me, Husband puttered around in the dirt. Three summers of blistering work was his gift to me—simply because I had one day admired some pictures on Pinterest.

I contemplated the man behind the project. Husband lived life like he built that wall: level and grounded with a sturdy foundation, unyielding to the elements, and able to bear a crushing load without crumbling.

“Come here,” I said. He straightened up from potting a celosia and strode toward me. I looped my arm around his waist as we gazed at our land together. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”

I recalled his soil-stained hours and sweat-soaked shirts. Countless loads of blocks, sand, dirt, and trips to Home Depot. Mistakes that cost him weeks. The painful mission of a solid foundation.

He tossed me a half-smile, his eyes soft at the edges. “Hey, no problem.”

*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.

Ashes

Over our backyard fence one day in the summer of 2013, my next door neighbor Glenda told me about the tragedy. Gloom shadowed her face.

“Someone set fire to my church last night.” 

The previous night, a couple members of Community Covenant Church—a church of two-hundred people in north Minneapolis—had gone to search for a lost key in a nearby field. Suddenly, they spotted smoke pluming from their place of worship, and they phoned for help.

After the fire was extinguished, the emergency crews discovered arsonists had broken in through a window, doused an accelerant on the beloved grand piano and torched it, leaving it in ashes. The blaze had melted the electronic equipment, damaged the pews, chairs, and altar, and soot blackened the walls. The water the firefighters had sprayed to drown the flames flooded the first floor. The congregants—seventy percent of whom were African American—also found vulgar racial epithets scrawled in spray paint on the building.

Twenty years earlier, the congregation had worked hard to raise the money to refurbish the piano. And the altar, having been found in an alley and rescued from the trash heap, had its own story. Both had been reclaimed—like the lives of the people who attended Community Covenant Church.

I grieved for Glenda—a new member—and for my friends Lynnea, Ivory, and Danielle whose voices rang out in song each Sunday in that house of God. The kids’ Vacation Bible School wrapped up their week the day after the fire, the leaders explaining to the children why they would now have to meet outside on the field next to the church. Lynnea, a Zumba instructor, relocated the church basement’s Saturday morning fitness classes to the Phyllis Wheatley Community Center across the street. And on the same field the VBS kids had used, the congregation gathered for worship the following Sunday.

“A church is not a building,” Pastor Luke Swanson of Community Covenant Church later told news sources. “A church is people.”

Five weeks after the tragedy, Minnehaha Academy hosted the Fire Relief Benefit Concert for the church. Our family sat in the auditorium with Glenda, savoring the choir’s music. Though small in number, its voices were as big as The Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir.

“No matter what the test, whatever comes our way,” the choir trumpeted through song, “with Jesus on our side, we’re gonna make it.”

Pastor Luke stepped up to the mic, his hands rising along with his voice. “We serve a living God. And what I’m told is, He’s pretty good with ashes.”

Swept along by a holy fire, tears stung my eyes.

An outpouring of support raged for the small, inner-city church in a low-income Minneapolis neighborhood. A college preparatory school down the street loaned their building to the homeless parishioners, workers repaired the sanctuary, and someone donated a new piano.

Beauty from ashes.

Two years later, I remembered the fire, along with my friends.

“What was meant for harm, God intended for good,” Danielle told me.

Passion ignited Lynnea’s words. “God’s not tied to a building or our stuff. He’s sewn into our hearts.”

Then Ivory added, her eyes bright, “We were shaken, but our mission is still the same.”

Arsonists had tried to char the church’s message in the 1960s too.

“They didn’t like our congregation then, and there are people who don’t like it now,” Pastor Luke said.

But five decades earlier, evil hadn’t won either. Because like that day in 2013, there’s a Consuming Fire, and an arsonist’s flame is no match for His.

*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 lefse stand

Note: The lefse stand attracted some notice. Read the news article here.

“Let’s do that lefse stand tomorrow before the summer runs out,” I announced to the girls. They had concocted the plan months earlier and were waiting for the green light. 

“Yes!”

Excited about the Norwegian treat and its advertising, they whipped up flyers within an hour and delivered them all around the neighborhood.

Then I was curious. How many Scandinavians lived in north Minneapolis? 49.7% of the population was African American, 24.5% was White, 13.8% was Asian, 1.6% was American Indian, Hawaiian/Pacific Islander comprised 0.1%, two or more races made up 6.0%, and 4.3% was classified as “Other”.* While north Minneapolis was home to Olsen Fish Company, the world’s largest lutefisk processor, how many people on the Northside had ever eaten lefse, the beloved Norwegian potato flatbread? And when we sold it the next day, how many of our neighbors would taste it for the first time?

We posted the details of the girls’ lefse stand on two of the north Minneapolis Facebook pages, Husband promising the masses love and joy sprinkled in sugar and rolled up in the potato-y confection. But after hitting the “post” button, worry needled me.

“Now it’s done. We’ve put it out there.” I nibbled my lower lip. “What if a hundred people come? How many lefse should we make?”

“Double the recipe,” said Husband. “And when it’s gone, it’s gone.”

The night before the lefse stand, the girls peeled ten pounds of potatoes. After boiling them, I pressed them through a ricer, and then mixed in the butter, cream, sugar, and salt. The dough chilled overnight, and in the morning, I mixed in the flour. I heated the griddle to 500 degrees, divided the dough into 115 pieces, and Flicka began rolling out each piece with a rolling pin.

Out in the sunshine, the girls set up the card table on the sidewalk in front of the house and displayed their sign:

Lefse

50¢ if you’ve had lefse before

25¢ if you’ve never had lefse

At noon on August 4, 2015, the lefse stand opened for business. The girls’ first customers walked over from across the street. They purchased two, but came back later and bought fourteen more to share with their family. Next came a man who told us he had received a phone call from someone in northern Minnesota who informed him there was a lefse stand in his neighborhood. He had driven his motorized wheelchair seven blocks to our place to buy a dozen. After that, a woman drove up, snapped a picture of our place (for her friend who had lived in our house for twenty-four years), and bought some lefse too. Later, five neighborhood boys sauntered by, and we convinced them to try the treats for free. We got five thumbs up before they went on their way.

Fresh lefse beckoned people from the surrounding blocks, and the comfort food lured suburban fans into the city. Three women—a daughter, a mother, and an aunt—bought six lefse. They tasted their purchases as they drove away, and from an open car window, one of the women called out, “Oh, this brought the tears! It’s as good as Grandma’s!”

Inside the house, Flicka—lefse stick in hand—manned the griddle all afternoon. Outside, Ricka and Dicka tended the customers, offering them the fresh Norwegian pastry with a choice of toppings: butter, sugar, brown sugar, or a cinnamon and sugar mix.

Around three o’clock, as I carried another stack of warm lefse outside to replenish the tray, Dicka scurried to me.

“That man’s from Channel 11.” She tucked her whisper behind one hand, her eyes wide.

My eyes widened to match hers. “Really?”

She nodded. "When he first told us, I laughed. I thought he was kidding." A grin wrapped her face.

I brushed the flour from my apron and strode toward the man. “You’re from KARE 11?”

He secured his camera to a tripod. “That’s right. I’m Bob.”

“How did you hear about us?”

He said the name of the woman who had called in the tip.

“Hm. I don’t know her.” I shook my head and smiled. “Wow, this is crazy.”

Bob asked Dicka if she would prepare a lefse for the camera. He began filming, and she swiped soft butter across the warm flatbread, dusted it with sugar, and rolled it up. He clipped a mic on her and then asked her what lefse was, what ingredients went into it, how it was cooked, and about the inspiration for the stand.  

“Last question.” Bob nodded toward the table of toppings. “How do you eat it?”

Dicka picked up the lefse she had prepared and held the roll to her lips like a shofar. “Like this.”

That evening at ten o’clock, after the flour was swept away, we huddled together with the same eagerness we brought to family movie night, and we all watched the local news. Bob’s thirty minutes of filming the lefse stand was boiled down to a forty-second segment. But that short blip was as sweet as the lefse—and the look on Dicka’s face as she watched it.

*Statistics from the Decennial Census and American Community Survey estimates and 2014 Northside Funders Group report. Read it 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.

Improvements

Two weeks into our home ownership in 2002, curiosity nibbled at me like a mosquito at dusk in a Minnesota summer. What was underneath the beige carpeting in the bedroom? All the other rooms on the main level had nice wood floors—except for the kitchen, which was suffocated in a dated linoleum. But how could I rest if I didn’t know about the bedroom? And how could I know if I didn’t take a peek?

Bolstered by the expression “it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission”, I waited for Husband to leave for work one day, and then I peeled up a corner of the bedroom’s carpeting, which flowed out into a tiny hallway. I knew it was all or nothing; if I started ripping up some of it, it would all have to go. So it all went, and then I stood back, assessing the scene.

The bedroom floor was paint-spattered, and the floor in the hallway was covered with old, brittle linoleum. I chipped away the linoleum to discover a wooden floor grate, gummed up with a black, sticky residue. But I was a visionary; it would be beautiful refinished! And I imagined it wouldn’t take too long. How hard could it be?

When Husband returned home from work, he was startled by the project I had unceremoniously taken on. And while he wasn’t happy, I had lit the proverbial fire under him, and it did get him moving. After lugging out the old carpeting—which I had left in the dining room in a pile instead of a roll—he borrowed a floor sander from my Uncle K. Suddenly, the floor project scaled up the mountain of priorities like a pro rock climber.

The refinishing job was more work than it appeared during my initial assessment. Before sanding, we needed to first remove, by hand, all the staples and nails that had secured the carpeting. Husband did the work in flip-flops, and when I mentioned his choice of footwear scared me, he brushed off my comment, saying I worried too much. Soon after, though, he swung the claw hammer to pry up a nail, but instead plunged it into his big toe. Once the bleeding stopped, the work continued right on course. He and I completed the sanding, applied three coats of polyurethane, and soon, the floors gleamed.

I sidled up to Husband with a coy smile. “Now aren’t you glad I gave you the nudge to do this?”

“Hm,” he said.

In 2008, after Larry Campbell kicked in our door, catapulting its lock mechanism across the living room, we decided we should probably replace it. And this time the door wouldn’t have a window in it to showcase the inside of our home to eager onlookers. Husband bought a new one—three times the weight of the previous one and inches bigger—from Siwek Lumber in northeast Minneapolis. He proudly showed me his choice, knocking on it to flaunt the strength of the solid oak, six-paneled beauty.  

I nodded. “Nice.” Then a thought hit me. “When you trim it down, you’re gonna cut the same amount off each side, right?”

Husband gave me that look. “Of course.”

Hanging a door seemed simple enough, but when one hangs a door in an almost century-old home, one quickly learns that nothing about that home is exact anymore—particularly the size and shape of the doorways.

In the garage, Husband made some adjustments to the door, then muscled it into the house to check the fit. Not quite right. He heaved it back out, made more adjustments, and then hauled it back in again. Still no. In and out. Out and in.

After about eight times of trying the door on for size, it slid perfectly into place. He attached the hinges, and then moved on to insert the door lock and handle. But the color drained from his face. He shot me a withering look, which I could tell was aimed at himself as much as at me.

I scrutinized the door. “Oh no…” I said, detecting the problem too.

Cutting evenly down both sides of the door had destroyed it. The door lock and handle plate didn't fit anymore. I cringed. Husband didn’t say a word. He humped the door back out to the garage, climbed into his truck, and drove off to Siwek’s for the second door purchase of the day.

Husband built the basement bathroom over the course of a few years. After the plumbing was roughed in, he plugged the hole—where the toilet would eventually sit—with an old rag. But one day, we discovered a putrid mess all over the bathroom floor. When the repairman came to assess the damage, he informed us that through the passage of time and build-up of gases, the rag had been sucked into our main drain sewer line, backing it up and causing the spill. We cleaned up the mess, and Husband stopped up the hole again with another rag. After the second Raw Sewage Fiasco of 2006, however, he learned a $2.00 rubber plug was all it would’ve taken to stanch the hole until he later installed the toilet.

Later, he hired a company to come in and do the mudding and taping—the bathroom’s project task he found the most daunting of all. In their broken English, the work crew teased Husband for not being brave enough to tackle it himself; it was easy, they said. He shrugged, smiled, and was happy to write them a check.

He completed the bathroom project in the spring of 2007 while I was away on a trip to London with Mom. When I returned home, Husband had me close my eyes. He led me down the stairs to his finished masterpiece. When I opened my eyes again, my hands flew to my mouth. It was my dream. Then he told me about the mistake.

“When I put in the heating mat under the tile, turns out I didn’t get it quite far enough that way.” He pointed out the problem area, shaking his head. “There, of all places.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I smiled, drinking in the details of the new room. He had installed the ceramic tile with precision and painted the walls the same color as the green bead in my favorite bracelet. Perfect. “The floor is toasty from where I’m standing.”

He frowned. “Well, it irritates me.”

“Who needs warm feet when they’re using the toilet?” I said. “And when people are done showering, they’re probably overheated anyway and don’t need to step out onto a warm floor.”

We’ve learned some home improvement lessons along the way, Husband and I. The mistakes have been funny or maddening, the process frustrating or exhilarating. Or sometimes the ordeal made my back ache. Like the time Husband, in a fit of paternal nesting, renovated the kitchen while I was pregnant, and every day for six weeks, my big belly and I had to bend over to wash the dishes in the bathtub.

But that’s a story for another time.

*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.

Undaunted

I first learned of Emily Roberts through Facebook in 2012. Technology had carved a smaller world for me; she and I had three friends in common: my Aunt F, my neighbor Marta, and the wife of one of Husband’s co-workers. None of our mutual friends knew one another—in fact, their worlds were vastly different—and so my curiosity was piqued. I reached out to Emily to introduce myself.

In 2013, Emily bought a darling house and moved into north Minneapolis. Since she was a single woman, I hoped the neighborhood would treat her kindly, but I wouldn’t have to worry; Emily was plucky and not rattled by reports of gunshots or news of break-ins. She tackled home improvement projects, dove into neighborhood events, secured a teaching position in a north Minneapolis school, and seized her new inner-city life with two hands.

One day in November of 2014, in fall’s waning sunlight, Emily left school for the day. Suddenly, a young man appeared and faced her, blocking her path.

“Gimme your stuff.” He edged closer to her. A little too close.

“No. This is my stuff.” Emily frowned. “And you can’t have it!”

Then he pulled a gun from his pants and pointed it at her. “Gimme your purse!”

She flipped through her options. Could she knock the gun from his hand? Or maybe she should yell. But would anyone hear her?

At that moment, the young man snatched her purse and ran. Emily screamed for him to come back, and then by instinct, chased after him. But he darted into an alley, jumped someone’s fence, and disappeared.

Later, Emily detailed the event on a north Minneapolis Facebook page, stating the worst thing about it was the inconvenience; the robbery had stirred up a mess and forced her to replace her credit cards and cell phone. But I could tell she still carried her courage.

In April of 2015, I met another single woman in the neighborhood—artist Susan Spiller—at an event at The Warren, an art gallery in north Minneapolis. Susan’s passion was fused glass art, and at the time, Husband was creating a welded steel sculpture for the arts gala at the girls’ school. He told Susan all about it, asking if she would let him incorporate a piece of her glass into his work. She agreed—delighted with the idea—and days later, formed a square in the dimensions he needed. She waved away his money, though, and said she wished to donate the piece to support the good cause of bringing art into kids’ lives.

Susan wasn’t only an artist. She rescued greyhounds, sat on the board of a neighborhood association, was a member of the Northside Arts Collective, and planted a community garden, which was nestled near her Northside home.

On July 15, 2015, Emily awoke in the middle of the night to the sounds of pornography floating through her open windows. The noise seemed close by, and slipping from her bed, she looked out the window. A man—his cell phone in hand—sat in the swing in her yard. When she moved, he ran off.

And on the same night—in another part of north Minneapolis—someone invaded artist Susan Spiller’s home and murdered her.

The next day on Facebook, Emily recounted the story of the pervert in her yard, but she also posted a link to the news story of Susan’s death, which already flooded the city’s news and the north Minneapolis Facebook pages. In the following days, hundreds of mourners gathered outside Susan’s home. No one could make sense of her death. She was good, gentle, and neighbors concluded that since she wasn’t connected with any nefarious behavior, the crime must have been random.

Random.

The word plucked at something deep inside me, and for the first time in our thirteen years of living in the neighborhood, I felt anxious. And I wasn’t the only one. Some people announced they were moving. They had given the Northside a chance, but after Susan’s death, they couldn’t do it anymore. And who could blame them? The police often assured us residents that the killing crimes we heard about were not random, but instead targeted acts connected with drugs or gangs. Not this time.

For a few days, I wore a sense of insecurity like a scratchy wool sweater on a ninety-degree day. If this could be the ending of Susan’s life story, what might happen to the rest of us?

Then I forced my thoughts to a different place.

Finally, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things… And the God of peace will be with you.

And I thought of Emily. She didn’t turn from the neighborhood in fear or disgust, but instead spoke loudly into social media, and with the help of neighbors, installed motion sensor lights—and other security measures—in her house and yard. She didn’t cower when leaving her school, and though saddened by Susan’s death, she was undaunted by life in the neighborhood.

Sometimes we muster strength for ourselves by witnessing strength in others. When we’re depleted and wavering—and we think God loves us too quietly—we reach out and grab onto courageous humans, like Emily, who live in the same places we do.

Because we’re stronger that way.

*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 training days

As soon as they could walk, Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka began the tradition of The Run. It was their way of saying goodbye to visitors. When someone they loved was leaving our home, they’d announce, “We’re gonna run!”

“Just to the corner,” I’d call after them as they dashed off.

And then they’d race the length of the sidewalk, trying to beat our visitor who drove away on the street next to them. When the girls got to the end of the block, they’d stop and wave at the vehicle as it turned and drove out of sight.

I always stood in the same spot—on the sidewalk in front of our house—watching the girls run to the corner alongside our departing guests. Once the visitors had disappeared, the girls would turn and sprint back to me.

In the early days, I memorized the details of The Run: the flyaway blonde hair, a sundress strap slipping off a toddler shoulder, a sagging diaper. Sometimes the girls even galumphed to the end of the block in plastic, play high heels. But over the years, efficient strides replaced stumbling steps, and self-awareness edged out innocence. Eventually, the girls didn’t race our guests to the corner anymore.

I didn’t notice the exact day the girls stopped running. But it fit in with all the other things that marked their growth: being old enough to stay at home alone, concocting delicious things in the kitchen without help, walking to the corner store by themselves. I grieved the loss of The Run—a sign their training days under our roof were numbered. But they were growing up and away from us as they should. The beauty of it all knifed my heart.

During the training years, many lessons for our girls rippled through our days, but one washed in again and again: “The world is broken, but that changes nothing for us. We love everybody anyway.”

I wondered often about the neighborhood kids—and their own life lessons—as I watched them grow too. After long winter separations, they came from the surrounding blocks in the spring to play basketball in our driveway. They were taller and thinner or more filled out. But during those dark, cold months, what had they learned about life? And during every season, what lessons flowed into their finite days?  

One weekday morning in the spring, I glimpsed sixteen-year-old Antoine shooting baskets in our driveway. From the kitchen window, I could see he had a friend with him—someone I didn’t recognize. I went outside.

Approaching the gate, I smiled and then cocked my head. “Why aren’t you in school?”

“I just had a court date.” Antoine made a basket from the “three-point line.” 

Antoine’s friend hopped into his car, which was parked in Glenda’s driveway. Behind the music and rolled-up windows, I knew he wouldn’t hear our conversation.

I rested my arms on the gate. “Oh? What happened?”

Antoine dribbled the ball, his focus on the basket. “I got in a fight. Judge says I have to do community service.” He sank the shot.

“That doesn’t sound like you. Why did you get into a fight?”

Antoine did a lay-up. “A guy was messing with my girlfriend.”

I imagined him as a four-year-old—like the little boys we had cared for through Safe Families for Children, all of them with soft, eager hearts but precarious beginnings. Antoine still had that heart.

“You have a case worker, right?” I said. He nodded. “Tell him you can do your service hours here with us, if he lets you.” I held up my hand. “Wait here. Don’t leave.”

I went back into the house, jotted our contact information on a scrap of paper, and then headed outside again. Antoine watched me, his basketball now quiet and tucked under his arm. I gave him the note. “Have your case worker call us. I mean it.”

He shoved the paper into his pocket, his gaze flitting off toward his friend’s car.

“Antoine,” I said, and he looked at me again. “You’re a good kid.”

His mouth smiled, but his eyes didn’t. He climbed into the car with his friend, and they drove off down the alley.

A few months later, Antoine was back, shooting baskets in our driveway with two friends. Husband strolled out to say hi. Later, he told me about the exchange.

“I asked Antoine if he was working this summer. He said, ‘Not anymore.’ I asked him why not. He said another employee was giving him trouble, so he got in a fight with him and got fired.”

I shook my head and sighed. “Oh no.”

“I told him, ‘Sometimes you have to let that stuff go.’”

“What did he say then?”

Husband shrugged. “He just nodded and said, ‘I know.’”

Like Antoine, I thought of Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka—sometimes overlooking certain lessons to choose their own ways. But outside the protection of right choices, the path is tangled and thorny, and the wandering leaves a mark.

Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it.

We parents are charged with a task, and we hope to make the most of it, because time is slippery, and the training days are fleeting. For all our kids. And for Antoine.

*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 cats

Living in a community means taking care of its creatures—whether one is called to wrangle a leash onto a loose dog sniffing around the alley or to return wandering children to their parents. Even for the quiet ones—our feline community members—it can sometimes take a village.

Around 2010, we began catsitting for Emma and Randy, our neighbors from two blocks away. We had first met them at church and found out we not only shared the same neighborhood but also a proclivity for bringing daughters into the world; we had our three girls, and they had their four. When they asked Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka to check in on their cats, Punkin and Patches, while they were away on vacation one year, the girls were eager to help.

Each time we entered their house, Punkin and Patches greeted us at the door, their purrs as loud as electric toothbrush motors. They both required thyroid meds twice daily, so the girls scooped up the creatures and cradled them in their arms while I gently squeezed the cats’ jaws open enough to drop pills down their throats. They didn’t seem to mind their meds and followed us around while we cleaned the litter box and freshened their food and water.

Over the years, all our visits were alike. Until the day that only Patches met us at the door. Randy and Emma had told us about Punkin’s passing, but after that, our time at their house was never quite the same. Losing a community member of any size leaves a hole for the rest of us.

Veronica, our neighbor from five doors down, one day announced that she and Sergio were leaving on a week-long vacation. She asked if Flicka would provide care for their cat Isis while they were away. The job was pretty easy and would have its perks, she said: Flicka could hang out at their house, order up movies on their TV, and enjoy treats of her choice. There was just one disclaimer, though, and Veronica spelled it out for us in a note:

Isis is kind of a rotten cat, but you’ll get along with her as long as you remember a few things. She’s old and cranky and packs a wallop if she catches you with a claw. She’s nervous around new people, and we’re pretty sure she’s not all there to begin with. She’s curious and will probably be interested in you. The key is to be calm and ignore her at first. Just let her sniff you. She might chirp and act all cute, but she’s not ready yet! Give her less attention than you think she wants. One last warning: she does the Puss in Boots routine from Shrek when she’s playful. If she’s looking extra bubble-eyed and cute, she’s powering up! Don’t be drawn in! Keep your face away from her for sure.

During her catcare week, Flicka heeded the warnings and kept her relationship with Isis professional, doling out a courteous nod when the two of them made eye contact. They got along well, and after performing the cat chores, Flicka indulged in apples dipped in caramel while she did her homework. Isis looked on and approved.

We met Frank—a co-worker of Husband’s—and his wife Lola when they moved into the neighborhood in 2014. They told us about their world travels and then asked if our girls would take care of their cat Moneypenny when they were away on their next trip, a safari to Africa. Ricka and Dicka agreed, thrilled with the offer of employment. The girls instantly fell in love with the cat, who had years earlier lost a leg due to a shoulder tumor. As exuberant as a dog, Moneypenny nuzzled us, and after completing the feeding and litter box duties, the girls snuggled her for an hour each visit.

One day, during one of Frank and Lola’s trips, I drove the girls to their house to care for the cat. We parked and walked up to the front door. As Dicka pulled the house key from her pocket, I saw the door was ajar.

“Girls,” I said, a chill twisting up my spine. “Get back. Someone’s broken into the house.”

Husband had just warned me about the recent rash of break-ins in the neighborhood. And now Frank and Lola’s place. We backed away from the house, and I dialed 911. When the operator came on the other end of the line, I stated the address and our reason for being there. Just then, I heard a thud coming from inside the house.

“Whoever broke in is still in there,” I said, steadying my voice. “I just heard thumping.”

“The police are on their way. Go and sit in your car. I’ll stay on the phone with you.”

While we waited in the car, the operator gave me the play-by-play, updating me on the police’s coordinates every couple of blocks. Soon, a squad car pulled up to the curb, and three officers flew from the vehicle—guns drawn—and entered the house.

On edge, I phoned Husband, away on travel for work.

“Someone broke into Frank and Lola’s,” I said, breathless. “And they’re still in there. I heard noises.”

“Oh, really? You’re there right now?”

“Yeah, and so are the police. They’re inside checking it out. The girls and I are waiting in the car.” I trained my eyes on the front door of the house. “How do we reach Frank and Lola in the South Pacific?”

“I don’t know. We’ll figure it out.”

One of the officers exited the house and walked toward our vehicle.

“I gotta go,” I told Husband and hung up.

The officer approached my driver’s side window. I rolled it down.

“There was a guy inside. Their contractor,” she said. “He’s doing some work for them while they’re away. He showed us the paperwork.”

So that explained the pounding in the house. Relief washed away my worry.

“No one told me a contractor was coming.”

The officer hooked her thumbs on her gun belt. “He didn’t know you were coming either.”

Just then, thoughts of Moneypenny jarred me. Had the sweet tripod slipped out through the open door? “Did you happen to see the cat?”

The officer tossed me a half-smile. “Yep, the cat’s fine. Now wait here a little longer. We’re wrapping up a few things and then you can go in.” She strode back into the house.

I exhaled and dialed Husband again.

“It was a contractor working in the house,” I said, thankful for the happy ending.

“Oh, that’s right.”

I frowned. “What?”

“I guess I forgot to tell you. Frank said they’re having someone do some work upstairs while they’re gone.”

“Are you kidding me? You knew?” My blood pressure turned up a few notches. “I just called the cops on an innocent guy!”

“Sorry about that.”

The police officers emerged from the house, and the same one approached our car again. I hung up on Husband.

The officer nodded toward the house. “You can go in now.”

“I’m sorry we called you for nothing.”

She shook her head, waving a hand. “No. When you see a door standing open like that, we want you to call.”

I thanked her, and she disappeared into the police vehicle. The three officers drove off.

The girls and I stepped inside the house.

“Hello?” I called out.

The contractor tromped down the stairs to us. We exchanged names.

“I’m so sorry I called the police on you.” Guilt nicked me. “I bet I ruined your day.”

“Naw, it’s okay.” He shook his hair back from his face and shrugged. “They had their guns on me and had me cuffed before I knew it.”

My hands flew to my face. “Oh, no!”

“No worries.” He bobbed his head up and down. “It’s happened to me before.”

“That’s horrible.”

The man went back to work, and I sat on the couch and rubbed my temples, trying to massage away the remorse. Moneypenny nudged my hand for attention, reminding me why we were there in the first place.

Even though our feline neighbors are the quiet ones, slinking around their houses often unnoticed by the rest of the world, they deliver some exciting times in the neighborhood too. And with their colorful personalities and needs, they prove they make a community just as much as the rest of us do.

*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.

Belonging

The phone call went to voicemail. Again. Three times trying to reach Sheena—the mother of Latika, the one-year-old baby girl we had hosted—and still nothing. The girls and I waited in the car in the parking lot behind Sheena’s high rise in the heart of downtown Minneapolis. It was the last day of the placement, and Sheena and I had agreed to meet at that time and place for us to return Latika to her. Because of her health condition, it would’ve been too taxing for Sheena—who didn’t own a car—to walk to meet us at the Safe Families for Children office nestled further into the downtown.

I dialed her number one more time. Still no answer.

Latika squawked, protesting the extra time in her car seat. Dicka bounced a stuffed animal in the baby’s face, tapping it to her nose every few seconds.  

I checked my cell phone again. “Girls, it’s been twenty minutes. Let’s go in and find her.”

I carried the baby, and the girls toted her things to the building’s back door—the one we had seen Sheena use—right near our parked car. When a tenant emerged, we slipped in. Once inside, I scanned the place for a directory. Nothing. And the access door to the apartments was locked.

“Let’s head back out and around to the front,” I said. “We shouldn’t have come in this way.”

We exited and trudged around the building with Latika and her possessions. We passed a bus stop, swarming with people, but when a bus hissed to a halt, no one got on.

Inside the front doors of the high rise, I spotted a directory. I clicked through it, trying to locate Sheena’s name. No success.

Just then, a broad-chested security guard hustled toward us, a gun in his holster. “I saw you on the cameras trying to come in the back, and I thought, ‘They don’t belong here.’” The man’s mouth flatlined. I caught a hint of a Brooklyn accent. “Who are you looking for?”

I blew a piece of hair out of my eyes and told him Sheena’s full name, shifting the baby to my other hip. “We’re a host family for Safe Families for Children, and we’re trying to return her baby to her.”

“Well, isn’t that sweet of you.” The corners of his mouth curved up slightly, warming his expression. “She’s got a bad deal with her health, poor lady.”

“I know.” I shot a look around the lobby. Even in the broad daylight, it was dim. The walls were dingy, the atmosphere tattered. People meandered around the room, pelting us with looks. A woman cooed at Latika.

“I’ll take you up to her.” The security guard flicked a finger for us to follow him, and then he mashed the button on the wall. He eyed the lit numbers above the elevator doors, and when they opened, he motioned us on first, and then he followed. And so did two other men, so tall their heads grazed the elevator’s ceiling. One of them tilted his ear to our conversation, glancing between the guard and me as we spoke. I furrowed my brow and steered the topic to trivial things.

We exited the elevator on Sheena’s floor. The security guard sauntered to her door and knocked. When she answered, he gestured for us to enter. I thanked him, and he disappeared around the corner.

Sheena closed the door behind us and plunked down onto a bed, which was set up in the living room. The suffocating heat of the room blasted us. A can of something heated in a pot on the stove. Boxes of medical equipment lined one wall.

I frowned. “Are you feeling okay?”

She waved away my question. “Oh, yeah.”

Maybe she thought she had to be brave for us. Or for herself. But had she been too sick to answer her phone?

“Did you get my messages, Sheena?”

She shrugged, taking the baby from my arms. “Sometimes my phone acts up.”

I briefed her on a few things about our time with the baby, and before we left, the girls and I took turns planting kisses on the crown of Latika’s head.

When we stepped back into the hallway, I spied the security guard leaning against a wall. He joined us again. On our ride back down in the elevator—free from prying eyes this time—he handed me a slip of paper with some information scrawled on it.

“I’m Vince, the supervisor. If you come here again, call first.” He tapped a finger on the paper. “This is our security line. Ask for an escort to accompany you from the parking lot. Don’t come in on your own again.” His eyes sparked intensity, even though his voice was even. “This place is full of lowlifes. Dope dealers, you name it. You don’t belong here.”

And we had just left a baby there—with her ailing mother. Maybe they didn’t belong there either.

“I’ll do what you say,” I said, leveling my gaze at Vince. “But I’m not afraid. I live in north Minneapolis.”

He darted a look at me, frowning. “You live on the Northside? Why?”

“Because we’re supposed to be there.”

Vince raised an eyebrow, bunched his lips to one side, and then nodded. When our elevator ride ended, he walked us out to our car in the parking lot. Before I drove away, I glimpsed Vince in the rearview mirror, and I thought of Sheena again.

Many people hover just one ugly strike away from poverty’s grip. Bad choices or unfortunate circumstances—like Sheena’s—toss humans away, so poverty can gobble them up, its appetite never satisfied. But we don’t belong in a broken world of unmet needs or in subsidized housing where a security guard works overtime to keep us alive.

We belong in a better place. We were all created for 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.

Walls

Take a summer trip with me today somewhere far away from reality and the neighborhood. This piece of flash fiction won second place in the 2nd Annual Faith Radio Writers Contest in July 2014 and was published in Splickety Prime in September 2014. Enjoy!

In many ways, it made perfect sense to tear out the walls down to the studs. Beatrice needed the change, the newness. Even the old drywall reminded her of Hank. Was renovating a bathroom such a big deal? For years, he’d said so. She remembered the last time she’d asked.

“Don’t have the money right now,” he said, a sneer playing on his lip.

“But I’ve put away a little.” Beatrice pulled a wad of cash from her bathrobe pocket. What she meant was “enough.”

“Where’d you get that?” He peered at her through squinted eyes, his mouth hard.

“Some from the rummage sale a couple years ago. Some from gifts. My birthday, Christmas, you know.”

“You been keeping that when the door needed fixing? And my truck got that ding?” He extended his hand. “I’ll take that.”

Her smile faded, and she dropped the roll of cash into his palm.

He counted out the bills, keeping the number to himself.

“What about the bathroom?”

He snorted. “What about the bathroom?”

After thirty-five years of marriage, she was used to his sarcasm. It didn’t slice into her any more, but his mimicry still ripped her to the core. She turned away, hot tears spilling down her cheeks. Her teeth clenched.

That was the last time she’d asked about the bathroom. And only four months before he was gone.

Now she watched the handyman. Dust thickened the air as the man hacked through the walls. Hank’s walls. Now hers.

Hank. She recalled the day of his funeral.

“Did you know he had heart problems?” her friend asked, standing near the casket.

“Most of the men in his family went that way,” Beatrice said. “He never got checked.”

“Well, I’m sorry. So sudden.”

“I know.”

Well-wishers told her what a guy he was—how solid, how predictable. She nodded and accepted all the hugs paid out to her.

Her grown daughter stared at Hank’s body. “He never wore a suit in real life. Why now?” Krista had her dad’s way, his eyes.

“They just do that. It’s an expectation.”

“Well, it’s stupid. This looks nothing like him.”

Beatrice gave her a half-hug before more people pressed in around her.

“He sure had a way about him. That sense of humor,” one of his buddies said.

Beatrice frowned, trying to remember his humor. Hank breathed earth’s air just last week, and she couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember him.

In the sanctuary, the pastor talked about life, about being reunited with Hank one day. Beatrice wondered…

When the service ended, six of Hank’s buddies carried his body away. Her gaze trailed after the casket. There he goes.

As people filed out, she deserted her pew and walked into the room where the refreshments would be served. Ham on buns, potato salad, pickles, cake. Hank’s favorites. She made her way into the church’s kitchen, tied on an apron, and busied herself filling the platters.

“What are you doing back here, honey?” a woman asked.

“Serving,” Beatrice said.

“Not today. You sit down. But take some food first.”

“But I’m on the schedule.”

“Not at your own husband’s funeral.”

Beatrice took off the apron and hung it up again. Now what?

The evening of the funeral, emptiness warmed the house. Krista had bolted after the burial. Beatrice understood. She wanted to be alone too. She had refused her friends’ offers to stay with her.

Beatrice walked from room to room and inhaled the quiet, the peace. When she reached the bathroom, she sat on the closed toilet lid and stared at the faded blue wall—imagined it gone. The red tape had been pulled away, the shackles unclasped.

She waited out the weekend and on Monday morning made the call. “I’d like to have my bathroom renovated.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your husband’s passing. We read about it in the paper and—”

“Could you come this week and do it?”

“We do an estimate first. That’s how it works. But we can take care of it this week. It’s the least we can do.”

“Okay. Any day is fine.”

Beatrice thought she had enough credit on one card to cover it.

Now excitement bubbled through her as she watched the demolition. The crumbling walls.

“What on earth?” The handyman stopped and squatted to the ground.

“What?” She edged closer, her mouth going dry. Through the dust, she eyed bundles—many bundles—of something.

He turned toward her, clutching dusty handfuls of green bills held together by rubber bands. “And there’s more.”

Among the stacks once hidden away in the wall, Beatrice spied a single roll of cash—her cash—and the hole that led into Hank’s closet.

She swallowed, her eyes wide. It was never about the money. Only about the walls.

*Invite a friend to subscribe today! www.tamarajorell.com/blog and come back next week for a continuation of stories about the neighborhood. 

Online friends

Note: North Minneapolis artist Meg Corcoran’s work can be found at scribblenest.etsy.com and Facebook.com/scribblenest. Watch her Facebook page for her upcoming art show!

During the summer of 2012, I stumbled across a certain north Minneapolis Facebook page. Geared for airing complaints about our neighborhood, sometimes long threads grew from small grievances and turned deliciously funny. The rules of The Gripe Page stated the admin would delete a post if it encouraged anyone to get to know his or her neighbors or told someone to “Move if you don’t like it here!” It was structured for grumbling, and there would be no deviating from that focus.

Like a craving I knew I shouldn’t often indulge, I tried to ration my Gripe Page reading. But after one of those days, I’d jump into yoga pants and a sweatshirt and devour the whole thing. Eventually, though, the sugary, guilty pleasure turned saccharine and set my teeth on edge. Discontent twisted within me. Had we made a mistake moving to the neighborhood? Were we crazy for raising our girls there? Tired of the artificial fun, I broke up with The Gripe Page and set out to focus on more positive things. And there was a Facebook page for that too.

On the positive page, the admin permitted only glowing stories, pretty photos, and uplifting comments about north Minneapolis. The Lovely Page was a peaceful place, coaxing a contented sigh from me each time I’d visit. But was there a page that landed somewhere between the negative and the blissful? Somewhere balanced I could claim as my go-to Facebook page for navigating life on the Northside?

I discovered a new page—one tailored to those who wished to share the good, the somewhat bad, and the slightly ugly. The Handy Page was a neutral place. The occasional “I just heard shots on such and such a block” was tempered by “Here are some photos of the new Webber Pool’s progress.” The contributors to The Handy Page were a neighborly, helpful sort—eager to give or take an extra hosta, willing to share local recommendations for anything from car repairs to pizza delivery, quick to praise a neighbor for reporting a crime without delay, and faithful to relay recycling or snow removal updates. The page was my favorite Yellow Pages, brought to life by people living somewhere near me. These friends I hadn’t met yet had been around the block a time or two and lived to share about it online.

Then one day, I stumbled on the delight of all delights: the north Minneapolis garage sale page. Northsiders posted photos of their once-beloved stuff, listed prices, and arranged meeting times to get the winners their things. The admin were efficient on The Cool Junk Page and reiterated the crisp rules when amateurs transgressed. There would be no I’m-interested-but-have-to-get-the-measurements kind of holding of goods. If someone didn’t “Dibs!” the item first, it just wasn’t theirs. The sellers peddled their discards with passion, and at times the dibsing rose to a fevered pitch. Some vendors appeared to be advertising professionals; they staged their cast-offs in expert lighting, and suddenly, maybe I did need an owl cookie jar.

The entertainment value was high, and I learned the page offered other services too.

“I’ll pay an extra ten dollars for someone to run to the Dairy Queen, buy me a Blizzard, and drive it over here,” a woman said one night. “I’m already in my pajamas and don’t want to go out.”

“I’ll do it,” another woman said. And she made the house call that night, delivering the frozen treat in the pouring rain.

Another time, a seller posted a photo of a ceramic latté mug. I decided I should probably buy it; I could envision it filled with coffee and inspiration—the kind of cup that could spur my writing to the next level. Mine was the first dibs, and I drove out into the night with my two dollars.

“I love your blog,” the seller told me when I introduced myself at her door. “I read it every week on the bus on my way to work.”

And just like that, we were friends.

One day, Meg, an artist in the garage sale family, showcased her work online. She had bought her paints—Holbein Artists’ Gouache—from another member and put them to good use, painting pictures from photos people had posted of their piles of garage sale wares. While her baby napped each day, she created colorful memorials to the garage sale’s old treasures. The members spotted their own departed possessions in her subject matter. And behind the paints Meg used, I detected something else: a warmth for her online friends.

“Maybe it’s corny,” she told me. “But the garage sale page has made me fall in love with the Northside like nothing else has in the six years we’ve lived here. I’m connecting with neighbors beyond my block and finding real friendships too.”

Behind the old bikes, the secondhand jewelry, and the tired-but-useful appliances were people with a fierce love for stuff, the neighborhood, and each other. And as I sifted through their junk online, I smiled. Meg and I were on the same page in more ways than 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.

Control

“Let’s have you get up,” the nurse said. “Time to move around.”

I sat on the edge of my hospital bed, placed my bare feet on the cool tile, and stood. Then I crumpled to the floor with a thud. I pushed myself up, but my legs wouldn’t support me. What was happening? The strength in my thighs was gone.

Surprise flitted across the nurse’s face and then vanished. She pasted on a smile and called for an orderly. The two of them helped me back into bed and then scurried away, deserting me to my thoughts. I had just given birth to Flicka, our first baby, and something was wrong with my legs.

Over the next several hours, a number of doctors whisked in to examine me. They furrowed their brows and spoke to each other in muted voices.

“We’ve never seen this before,” my doctor at last said out loud, and I wished he hadn’t.

Fear writhed inside me. When everyone left the room, I turned into my pillow and cried.

“Maybe it was the epidural,” Husband said. “And maybe it’ll wear off soon.”

In the middle of the night, I phoned my youngest sister, the nurse.

“I’ve heard of this before. It sounds like you’ve had nerve injury, but you’ll get better in time.” Her tone soothed me and rocked my fears to sleep.

The hospital staff said I couldn’t be released until I could walk again. So, a few days after Flicka’s birth, the nurses gathered to watch me walk down the hallway of the OB ward. After just a few steps, though, my legs gave out under me, and I toppled to the floor. Heat prickled my neck, and sweat beaded on my face. I bit my lip, determined to get up by myself. But I couldn’t do it. I needed help.

By day five, through sheer grit, I was able to lock my knees enough to pass the hall walk test, and I was released to go home. Since my muscles still lacked strength, Husband helped me with everything. One night, though, I felt confident enough to get up with the baby. I scooped her from her bassinet, but just then, my knees buckled. Before I hit the floor, I turned so my body would bear the brunt of the fall. Husband heard the noise and sprang from the bed.

“She’s just fine,” he said after taking a quick assessment of the baby. “But are you okay?”

I sat on the floor, a weepy mess. He put the baby back into her bed and lifted me up.

At the four-week mark, I met with a neurologist.

“You’ve suffered nerve injury. This happens to one in ten thousand women who’ve had epidurals,” he said. “You’ll eventually heal.”

And I did. But in those early days, the fear of the unknown tangled me. It wasn’t what I had planned. And I knew I couldn’t control my healing—or my life.

As soon as I switched my eyes open one morning in 2004, the room whirled around me, and fear climbed up my throat. Vertigo had shown up for unwelcome visits before, but today was more complicated. Husband was gone on international travel for work, and my only companions were four-year-old Flicka, two-year-old Ricka, and our unborn baby who swam laps in my belly.

I slowly sat up. It was a Sunday morning, and I had agreed to volunteer in Ricka’s Sunday school classroom at church. Maybe I could still make it. Maybe my head would clear in time. But the room kept up its merry-go-round antics, and nausea roiled my stomach. I reclined on the pillows.

“I need your help, girls,” I called out to them, my voice brimming with the promise of adventures. “How about we do something different today?”

They scrambled downstairs from their bedroom and clambered up into the bed with me.

“Okay,” Flicka said, her eyes eager and bright. “What will we do, Mama?”

“First, I need you to go into the other room, and look on that bookshelf for the church directory.” I described the slim book, hoping she would spot it even though she couldn’t read yet.

She found it and presented it to me like a scavenger hunt prize. I flipped through its pages and made the phone call that relieved me of my duties for the day.

“Now,” I said, “let’s get you two some breakfast.”

I sat up again, but the swaying room threatened to pitch me over the edge. I slid from the bed and lowered to my hands and knees on the floor.

“What are you doing, Mama?” Ricka said, cocking her head and patting me lightly on the back as she accompanied me on my slow crawl to the kitchen.

“I’m dizzy today,” I said, casting my words in cheery colors. “This helps me.”

But even on my hands and knees, I almost tipped over. Changing my mind, I turned and inched back to the bedroom. Safely in bed again, I gave Flicka instructions.

“New plan, honey. You get to make breakfast for the two of you. Isn’t that fun?” She squealed and jumped up and down. “Now listen carefully. Push a chair up to the kitchen counter. This time, it’s okay for you to stand on it. Then open those high cupboard doors above the sink and take down some cereal boxes. Help yourself. I trust you.” Flicka did exactly what I said. “Now come and eat cereal in my bed, and we’ll find something to watch on TV.”

As my head spun, so I spun reality for my girls; they were too young to hear I didn’t have control over much of anything that day. And I didn’t want to hear the words out loud either.

The Honda’s windshield wipers slicked away the falling snowflakes as I navigated through the sluggish traffic of Minneapolis’ morning rush hour one day. I had already dropped off Flicka at the light rail for her ride to school. Now I had to drive through the downtown to deliver the other two girls to their school. Our houseguest at the time, nine-month-old Damian, was snug in his car seat in the back, and Ricka and Dicka played peekaboo with him.

As I approached the center of the downtown, I glanced at the dashboard. The lights flickered, and the gas and temperature gauges convulsed. Warning lights flashed. Nervous about the car’s behavior, I moved into the left turn lane. I hoped to make it around the corner so I could pull over, but the stoplight snapped to red. I clenched my jaw and waited for the green arrow. The dashboard darkened for a second and then lit up again.

“Girls, pray!” I hollered into the back seat. And they did.

The stoplight finally shot me a green arrow, and I held my breath and applied the gas. The car chugged forward. But would it survive through the left turn? If it stalled right there in the middle of the intersection, then what? My thoughts chattered with possible scenarios. I had little power over my vehicle and no control over the outcome. The car lurched left.

Now safely through the intersection, I pelted myself with two questions: Should I pull over? Or should I keep going? I flipped between the two options but decided since the vehicle was still moving, I shouldn’t stop it.

The car propelled us over the Central Avenue Bridge and closer to our destination across the river. I wondered what was going on under the hood. With the flickering panel and spinning dials, I was either maneuvering a time machine, or the alternator was on its way out. Just a few more turns to go…

At last, I pulled up in front of the girls’ school just as the dashboard lights blacked out for good, and the car sputtered to its death.

“We made it,” I said, incredulous, the muscles in my neck tense.

The girls flung the car doors open and dashed toward the building, blowing kisses and we-hope-it-works-outs over their shoulders for the baby and me. I called for a tow truck, unclasped Damian from his car seat, and traipsed into the school to wait with him where it was warm.

We humans navigate life, convinced we have control. In the flash of crisis, though—under that layer of fear—is freedom. Freedom from the heaviest weight of all: the burden of believing we can master our own lives. With our fallible intentions and unreliable bodies, we’re not abandoned to orchestrate our ways alone.

For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.

*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.

Dallas and the garden

Both my mother and my mother-in-law had sprouted into this world with verdant thumbs, and vegetables and flowers sprang from their efforts. But as kids, Husband and I weren’t fans of gardening. He recalled working in gardens—as big as city lots—spreading bales of straw for mulch and truckloads of manure, surrendering much of his summer days “ministering to the vegetables,” as he would say. I remembered trailing my mom, enduring the mosquito-biting hours while weeding long rows of vegetables on my grandparents’ farm. The only high point for me was plucking carrots from the earth, wiping their dirt onto my jeans, and noshing them while they were still gritty.

Husband and I had never owned a garden together until we settled into our home in north Minneapolis. Since childhood, my tune had changed about gardening, and I was delighted the previous homeowners had left behind some presents: peonies, strawberry plants, lily of the valley. I even counted the sprawling lilac as ours because it spilled its sumptuous scent—for a week and a half every spring—over the fence into our yard from the Isenbergs’ place.

Since we were entwined in home improvement projects that first year in the house, we didn’t venture into the garden much. By the next summer, though, we itched to dig in the dirt and grow stunning things just like our mothers had. But Husband and I were uninformed about the ins and outs of gardening, and our naiveté probably trumpeted the truth across the yard to our neighbors.

“Do you mind if we grow clematis along the chain link fences?” I asked Glenda on the north and Mrs. Isenberg on the south. “I just wanted to be sure you’re okay with it, because it’ll be thick and cover the fences completely.”

While both of them gave their consent, our lack of horticultural skills prevented us from knowing some basic facts: establishing clematis takes time, and it doesn’t grow well in the shade.

Undaunted and thrifty, we bought flowers—late in the season one year—at discounted prices from Malmborg’s. I created a puzzle piece-shaped garden, and we took a stab at it, plunging autumn sedum, columbine, bleeding heart, creeping jenny, and some new hostas into the soil. On the other side of the yard, I plugged in some annuals—pansies, celosia, impatiens, coleus, and marigolds—for instant gratification.

The following year, we eagerly awaited the return of spring. When the weather warmed, I inspected the flower beds. The sedum was okay and the bleeding heart had made a valiant return, but the dianthus with its normally fringy blooms, looked more raggedy than it should have. I looked over at the next plant and gasped.

“Any reason why our columbine is black?” I called to Husband across the yard where he turned over soil with a shovel.

He stopped his work and swiped an arm across his forehead. “Maybe the dirt is too acidic? Too much watering? Or some pest got at it?”

So it was a mystery to him too. I sighed. Then I tossed my gaze to Dallas’ yard. He had moved in just the year before when the Isenbergs had moved out. They hadn’t left him much, so whatever he had in the garden was all his. He bustled about the yard with his wheelbarrow and the kind of confidence that could turn the head of a sunflower. His monarda shot its fireworks in the corner of the yard, his daylilies showed off in a dozen colors, his tulips and irises—in straight lines—took turns blooming in the front yard, and his wild echinacea, black-eyed susan, and aster speckled the landscape.

As I gawked at his property, I saw the grass was truly greener on the other side. In fact, over there at Dallas’ place, it was the Garden of Eden. How could he have grown a mature perennial garden in such a short time? Didn’t it take years to coax and nurture one? My envy was much greener than my thumb and just as honorable as Eve’s.

“How does your garden look so good?” I said, baffled.

“My mom has a green thumb.” Dallas shrugged. “I guess I got it from her.”

“So does my mom. But I didn’t inherit the Midas touch.”

Good-natured and humble, Dallas laughed that laugh that reverberated across the yards.

In April each year, Dallas’ yellow and purple crocuses kicked off the growing season, and in October, his chrysanthemums drew it to a close. He had timed it all just so; at any moment, the color spectrum splashed his gardens. His flowers were healthy, showy, and well-established, and then I’d watch in horror as he’d dig it all up and change the configuration the next year, relocating his plants to other parts of the yard or scrapping certain varieties of flowers altogether if he tired of them. Meanwhile, on our side of the fence, we found a few good spots that worked for certain plants, and we kept it that way, not daring to tempt the cosmos—or the other kind of cosmos with its pretty pink flowers.

“Hey, knock that off over there,” Husband would holler over when Dallas was out working in his garden. “You’re making us look bad.”

Dallas would laugh again and then stop for a minute to chat, maybe even handing us a perennial or two over the fence.

We shared the same stretch of land in the city. So, green thumb aside, how was Dallas’ patch of earth so fertile while ours struggled? As I gazed at his burning bush—with its vibrant red foliage in the fall—I thought of the biblical leader and wondered if Dallas truly lived on holy ground. But before I kicked off my flip-flops in reverence, he shared with me his secret.

“I use what our family calls ‘brown gold’,” he said, pausing from splitting some plants. “It’s manure from the farm.”

His ‘brown gold’ explained some of his success, but his talents were undeniable and his generosity unparalleled.

“Bring your girls over with scissors and cut all the tulips you can,” he said one spring. “I’m heading out of town, and they’ll be done blooming when I get back. You might as well enjoy them.”

And year after year, he’d urge us to bring our baskets to his harvest.

“Please come and take all the tomatoes, peppers, and ground cherries you want,” he’d say. “I’ve already canned more than I can eat.”

Over the years, Husband and I made peace with our gardening skills and saw Dallas’ yard for what it was: a gorgeous backdrop to our plot of land. And with no work for us, we could savor the man’s artistry, eat his vegetables, and enjoy front row seats to Eden’s opulence. Living next door to a gardening master was just as good as being 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.