Chamomile

I've written some fiction for you today. Happy New Year!

Ann dried the roasting pan—the last of the Thanksgiving dishes—and put it away. When the water came to a boil on the stove, she poured herself a cup of chamomile. Never anything stronger. How her fellow accountants at the firm could crunch numbers on loads of caffeine was beyond her. 

Her chin quivered as she dropped into a chair in the living room to drink her tea. Thanksgiving had been a carbon copy of the previous year—and every year for the past ten, in fact. Her family members had phoned the week before the holiday asking what they could bring. As usual, they would come to her house. Her parents’ place was out of the question. Stacks of magazines, newspapers, and store flyers littered every surface. Her sister Gwen’s house wouldn’t work either. It was a crumbling mess and plunging headlong into foreclosure. Her brother Greg, a traveling salesman, didn’t own a house. But her home was as neat as an integer—and just as predictable. Like her.

Earlier that day, Gwen had arrived first, plunking her pickle tray onto Ann’s kitchen counter.

“I made these,” she said.

Ann masked a grimace. Gwen always did her own canning, and she wasn’t one to follow a recipe. Her parents had entered next, her mother toting her annual cranberry salad. And then came her brother Greg, empty-handed, except for his obligatory brown paper bag.

The family had relaxed in Ann’s living room while she tended to the food. Soon, it was time to eat. The turkey had been tender, the mashed potatoes smooth, the Brussels sprouts roasted to perfection. Candied sweet potatoes, savory dressing, spiced cranberries, and orange rolls had decorated her table.

“I have a headache,” her mother said before the pumpkin mousse made it around. “We’ll have to go soon.”

Yes, the yearly headache. As usual, Ann’s father had opened his mouth only long enough to fork more food into it. Greg dismissed himself, making a beeline for his brown paper bag. Gwen eyed the clock twice in a minute.

Twenty minutes after they had downed their meal, Ann’s parents left. Gwen muttered something about her sump pump, zipping out the door on their heels. And Greg fell asleep on the couch. Again, they had left Ann with the dirty dishes, her brother’s snores, and her nagging thoughts.

Would the next holiday be any different?

A week before Christmas, Ann’s phone rang.

“What can we bring on the 25th?” her mother said.

Ann examined a hangnail she had forgotten to trim. What if she got a manicure on Christmas Day instead? But her mind darted back to where it belonged: the holiday grocery list. Anxiety zinged her stomach. Like every year, she would prepare ham, potatoes, homemade rolls, asparagus, and a variety of Christmas cookies. Her mother would bring a sweet salad, Gwen would show up with her pickled beets, and Greg would be too busy with work—and coming from too far—to bring anything other than his brown paper bag. Her mother would eat, mention a headache, and the whole thing would collapse. Ann would be alone with the dirty dishes and her chamomile. Until Easter.

“Are you still there?” said her mother on the other end of the line.

I’m always here. “Bring whatever you like,” she said.

On Christmas Eve, Ann lay in bed staring at the ceiling. If she disappeared, what would become of her family and their holidays? What if one year she didn’t make the meals they had come to expect? What if they wanted her in their lives the other days of the year too? Nausea blasted her, but it soon passed, and her forehead relaxed. She exhaled a slow breath and drifted off to the sounds of a holiday party next door.

Early Christmas morning, Ann awoke with a plan. The family would arrive at noon, so she had work to do. She got dressed, slipped on her coat and boots, and headed out to her next-door neighbor’s recycling bin. She plucked out several empty liquor bottles and scurried back into the house. She turned on the tap and filled different amounts of water into the vodka and gin bottles. Then she added drops of red, green, and blue food coloring to the rum bottle. She filled it half-way with water, and the dyes blended into a shade of brown.

Ann changed into a bathrobe and slippers. In the bathroom, she did her makeup: a touch of mascara she smudged below her eye with her pinky. She tussled her hair and added some hairspray to flatten some sections while fluffing the others. She made a phone call.

“Want to come over later?” Ann said to her friend. “Any time after twelve. They won’t be staying, after all.”

She clicked the phone off, filled a juice glass with brown water, and set it on an end table in the living room. She sank into the recliner next to it, propped up her feet, and closed her eyes. Her heart raced.

Three cars rolled into the driveway, snow crunching under the tires.

The family.

A minute passed, then a knock at the door.

“C’mon in,” Ann bellowed from her chair.

Slowly, the door opened. Ann’s mother stuck her head inside. “Hello?”

Her gaze landed on her daughter. First, her eyes widened, then narrowed to slits.

Ann’s father, brother, and sister stared too, their mouths sagging.

“Are you okay?” Gwen said.

“Never better,” said Ann, careful to slur her words as she raised her glass. “I’m just gonna stay right here. You come in and get comfy.” She pasted on a smile and closed her eyes.

“This isn’t right,” her mother said to the others and marched into the kitchen. “What about our family time? What about Christmas dinner?”

“Let’s just go,” said her father. “Maybe she needs a break.”

Footsteps. The door shut with a thud. Ann opened one eye. The family was gone, except for her brother who stood in the kitchen next to the bottles. He lifted one to his nose and sniffed, then he whirled to face her. He smirked, shook his head, and sauntered out the door.

When she was alone again, Ann got out of the recliner and walked to the kitchen. She emptied the bottles into the sink and dialed her friend.

“You can come over now.” She filled the tea kettle and set it on the stove. “Chamomile okay?”

*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 week of mess

The holidays are like us humans: messy. We scramble to make it just so. But this is what it really looks like...

Besides Christmas cards, what exactly is going on here?

A pile of ingredients for the baking. (Hey, I spy a butternut squash peeking out from under this cabinet!)

Don't forget the dishes. Ugh.

"Girls, wanna pick up your boots?"

I thought I just did the laundry!

"Where's the tape?" I said.

"Last time I saw it, it was in the bathroom," said Flicka.

Disorder. Confusion everywhere. And not just in our homes with the small stuff like laundry and dishes. (And a roll of tape on the back of the toilet, for some reason.)

Millennia ago, He came from order into our world of chaos. For love. And because we couldn't tidy up on our own.

And yet, here we are, still making our messes. Tangled choices, mucky hearts, jumbled lives. Because we keep forgetting.

But then there's Christmas.

*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.

Traditions: Christmas Eve

When the men of olden days

To the King of Kings gave praise,

On the fife and drum did play,

Tu-re-lu-re-lu, Pat-a-pat-pan,

On the fife and drum did play,

On this joyful Christmas day!

As the choir sang the cheery French carol, we sidestepped into the last pew and sat down. Arctic air rushed into The Basilica of Saint Mary each time its doors opened, persuading us to keep our coats on. Husband held seven-month-old Dicka, a sleepy ball of rumpled velvet. Five-year-old Flicka and three-year-old Ricka, decked out in their dress coats and berets, had been elated to leave home way past bedtime for Christmas Eve’s midnight mass. After the initial charm of the late outing wore off, though, how long would they sit still—or stay awake?

“Once in royal David’s city,” sang a soloist, his voice a stream of light piercing the dimness of the church.

The choir joined his plaintive song, and I settled in for a glorious night. Although not Catholic, Husband and I had attended midnight mass on Christmas Eve at the Basilica whenever we could over the years. And now we shared the tradition with our girls.

I closed my eyes. December. During the previous weeks, we had visited the magical 8th floor of the downtown Minneapolis Macy’s, maneuvering our double-stroller through the life-sized storybook and crowds. We had tripped through snow banks to deliver our homemade Christmas cookies on flimsy plates to our neighbors. The girls’ eyes had sparkled as much as their dresses at their first ballet, “Nutcracker Fantasy”, at the State Theatre. They had danced their own jigs all through our family’s celebration of Lille Julaften, the Norwegian ‘Little Christmas Eve’, on the 23rd. And this evening, they had opened their gifts on the living room floor, shredding wrapping paper with fast hands and the air with their squeals.

Ricka rested her head on Husband’s lap. The baby snoozed on his shoulder. The church darkened. Choir members, in white robes, broke from their places at the front and streamed down the aisles of the church until they surrounded the sanctuary. We clutched our candles and waited for the flame that flickered from one person to the next. Soon, the glow of hundreds of candles warmed us. The Light of the world was born!

“Lo, how a rose e’er blooming,” a soloist sang from the balcony, “from tender stem hath sprung!”

I inhaled a shaky breath and stared at my candle. Eternity in one flame. Word made flesh. And that life was the Light of all mankind.

“I don’t feel so good,” Flicka said, tugging on my sleeve.

Back to earth.

“Do you need to go to the bathroom?” I whispered.

She nodded, and panic flashed across her features. I flung a look at Husband. Although draped by two little ones, he still managed to hold a lit candle and not see me. Flicka let out a cough-gag.

I snuffed out my light. “Let’s go,” I said, sounding more like a coach than a mother in church.

The priest strode by, a censer swaying from his hands, and the choir circled us like cherubim, blocking our way. How could we escape them all and make it to the bathroom in time?

Flicka and I scooted past Husband, and he raised his eyebrows. We dodged choir members and stares and made a beeline for the narthex. In front of the grand doors, I darted looks back and forth, and then I saw it: a sign heralding the good news of restrooms downstairs. I jogged toward the steps, dragging my kid along with me. But all color drained from her face, and her hand flew to her mouth.

“Out!” I said a little too loud.

One step into the frigid air and Flicka bunched over, emptying her stomach—splat!—right onto the pristine, stone steps of The Basilica of Saint Mary. The Christmas Eve moon shone its light on the circle of sickness. We had made it out in time, but new worries smashed my relief. What if the puddle of vomit froze, creating a slick step and causing an elderly individual a dangerous spill?

Husband, his arms full of groggy littles, bolted through the door. “What on earth?”

“We better go home,” I said, fishing through my purse for a tissue for my girl.

The next year during the prelude of Christmas Eve mass at the Basilica, Flicka jerked on my arm again, this time during the candlelit “Silent Night.” I shot Husband a look. He hustled our girl through the grand doors and out into the chilly night’s air just in time for her Christmas dinner’s exodus onto the steps. This time, I was the one to scurry out after them with the drowsy others in tow.

“Again?” I shook my head.

“Apparently,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

“I can’t believe you threw up twice at the Basilica,” I said to Flicka twelve years after the first momentous occasion.

“I think it was actually three times,” she said.

“It was? I must’ve blocked that out.”

“I’m pretty sure it was four times,” Husband said. “And it always happened on the steps on the left-hand side.”

I shrugged. “I guess nice traditions don’t have to be perfect.”

Maybe the smell of incense, too much candy, or the late hour had caused Flicka’s annual dash to the steps during midnight mass all those years ago. But nothing—not even a troubled tummy—could have disturbed our thoughts of that first silent night, holy night.

And then, like now, all was calm and all was bright.

*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.

Traditions: the food

I tromped through the back yard in my winter boots, scrutinizing every corner of our property. Where was it? I better find it soon—if it still existed—and locating it outside was better than inside at a later date. Lala loped along next to me, sniffing the ground.

I squinted into the raised garden and peeled back some soggy leaves to search one of the dog’s favorite hiding spots. “Where is it, Lassie?”

My dog eyed me, the old TV show reference lost on her.

Inside the house, the beginnings of turkey soup—a kick-off to the holiday season—simmered on the stove. The aroma had turned our house into a home.

Earlier that morning while preparing the ingredients for the soup, I had tossed the turkey neck to Lala and she trotted to the nearest rug to enjoy it. She was one to savor her snacks and not gulp them down like the average canine. She also had a tendency to hide them for later—either in the house or outside—as though I would steal them back if she didn’t squirrel them away. Treats had gone missing before, so this time I wasn’t taking any chances.

For a few minutes, I kept a sharp eye on the dog as she nibbled away at the chunk of flesh. But in came two texts, an urgent email, and a phone call, and my attention darted away as fast as Christmas money at the mall. Soon, the dog huffed at the door. Distracted, I let her out. But had she taken her snack with her?

As I checked all of Lala’s outdoor hiding spots with no success, I imagined the meat inside the house somewhere, a putrid smell rising throughout the month of December and finally leading us to a maggoty mass under one of our beds on Christmas morning.

“I’m sure she ate it right away,” Husband said later when I relayed the story of The Missing Turkey Neck.

I stirred the soup on the stove. “Boy, I hope you’re right.” Then I looked at Lala, dozing on the rug by the kitchen sink.

The animal switched her eyelids open, gazed at me, and winked.

*****

“This tastes like passive aggressive hate in an edible substance,” Husband said, his tone even. He nodded like a food critic.

I stared at the gelatinous slab of lye fish on the platter between us. I hadn’t grown up with lutefisk at Christmas, but Husband and I had been willing to evaluate it for possible admittance into our family’s holiday traditions. We had bought our trial-run sample from Morey’s Market in Motley, Minnesota, and prepared toppings—melted butter and two cream sauces—for the dish.

“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” I said, helping myself to a serving. I picked out numerous bones and raised a forkful—although the jiggly cod may have done better on a spoon. After a bite, I took a swallow of water. “At least it goes down like Jell-O.”  

“It reminds me of hitting a glob of fat in their feijoada in Brazil,” said Husband, reaching for the cheese tray. “I’ll pass on seconds.”

Another kind of fish—pickled herring—also graced our table. Years earlier, our wedding guests had gobbled up five gallons of it at our reception before I had even had a chance to sit down.

“I think I’ll stick with this.” I speared two kinds of herring—in honey mustard and lingonberry sauces—onto my plate. No competition with guests this time. “Let’s say lutefisk won’t be our tradition, okay?”

“Good call,” said Husband.

*****

“This is a strange sensation,” Mom said. “Seventy-five degrees outside, and we’re making lefse.”

Lefse had always been a Christmastime delight during my childhood in northern Minnesota, and its appearance each year was as sure as the snow, its perennial backdrop. But while there was nothing cold about Mom’s visit to us in Arizona in 1999 for Thanksgiving, a piece of the wintry North had still come with her. A lefse grill and all its tools—the corrugated rolling pin, pastry board, and stick with rosemåling on its handle—had been her traveling companions on her flight from Minneapolis to Phoenix.

As we rolled out the dough and turned it onto the hot grill, Mom and I listened to Christmas music. Three-week-old Flicka snoozed nearby in her baby seat. And desert breezes floated through our screen door, reminding us we had a saguaro in our front yard instead of a snowman.

After Mom left, the lefse grill was mine to keep, and I used it beyond the winter holidays. The Scandinavian confection linked me to my roots, which were still nestled in the earth almost two-thousand miles away. And sometimes—even during Arizona’s monsoon season—I needed a taste of home.

Regular use of the grill improved my skills at the potato-y art, but Husband became an expert.

“You don’t have a drop of Norwegian blood and yet look at you,” I said, watching him roll pieces of lefse as round as full moons.

Dough shaped like ragged underwear or Africa emerged from my rolling pin back then, but the tradition wasn’t about perfection. Instead, it was about magic. More than any cookie in the world, the taste of warm lefse spirited us home—home for Christmas.

The lefse stick (a.k.a. "The magic wand")

*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.

Traditions: the tree

For years, I searched for one with flaws. Tall, skinny, and scraggly topped my list of desired attributes. But a blemished specimen eluded me.

Until this year.

At last I located the scrawny, misshapen Christmas tree of my dreams, and we brought it home. After its first night in our house, though, I awoke to a surprise; the wood floor wore a carpet of pine needles too thick to excuse. I dropped to my hands and knees and poked my head under our holiday guest’s lowest branches. Usually in the first twenty-four hours, our trees sucked water like a wet-dry vac, but this time the stand was still full.

I picked up the phone and dialed Husband. “You did make a fresh cut on the bottom of the tree before bringing it in, right?” 

“Of course.”

“I don’t think it’ll survive the next four weeks.” I plucked a twig from my hair. “It’s already too dry.”

Husband agreed to return the tree, and I performed the messy task of dragging its remains outside, a trail of needles following on my heels.

“It’s always something with the tree,” Flicka said as I swept up the remnants of Christmas before the season even started.

“Not really.” I furrowed my brow while I emptied the dustpan. “Why do you say that?”

“Last year, the lights kept shorting out, so we undecorated it, put on all new lights, and redecorated it. Remember?”

I washed sap from my hands at the kitchen sink. “Oh, that’s right.”

“And then there was that year when the tree kept tipping over.”

“It’s all coming back to me now.”

That night, Husband brought home a fresh tree from a different lot. By the following morning, its branches had settled, so I could see the stark truth: this new one was short, fat, and the general population's definition of perfect. I sighed. There was always next year.

"Who gets to put the star on the top this time?" Dicka said.

"Uh..." Husband traced his finger down a copy of The Christmas Ornament (and descriptions) List. "You do."

She pumped her fist in the air. "Yes!"

The Christmas tree—naked, except for its white lights—stood in the corner like a stout elf who had overdone it on Thanksgiving leftovers.

Husband sank into a living room chair. “Same as always, girls, you’ll take turns putting on the ornaments as I read through the list. We’re starting in 1992, Mom’s and my first year of marital bliss—before you freeloaders came and cramped our style.”

“Thanks a lot, Dad,” said Ricka.

Dicka shuddered, wrinkling her nose. “Don’t say ‘marital bliss’.”

Husband cleared his throat. "Here we go. From the top. The gold heart represents Mom's Victorian period."

Flicka went to the dining room table and picked through the ornaments, locating the heart with roses etched into it. She snickered and shook her head. "'Mom's Victorian period'."

"Our apartment was filled with dishes of potpourri back then," Husband said.

Over the next hour, we marched through The List. The girls' ornaments highlighted their interests over the years, from baby mittens to ballet slippers to Converse tennis shoes. And the family ornaments drove us back to Tucson, Puerto Vallarta, Seattle, Asheville, and more. Pewter skis from Vail, a wooden boat from Charleston, a plastic King Kong from New York City, and hockey skates from Quebec again told us vacation stories. 

"This is still the cutest." Dicka dangled a clay miniature dachshund on a ribbon from her finger. "1996, the year you got Dexter."

"And 2011, our first year with Lala," said Ricka, cradling a ceramic pit bull in her palm.

At the mention of her name, the ornament’s inspiration lifted her head off her nearby cushion and eyed us.

"Speaking of Lala," I said, pointing at the list in Husband’s hand. "Check out that note."

“’In 2011, Lala ate the Queen Elizabeth from the Westminster Abbey gift shop, the painted gourd from Bisbee, and two of the straw pine cones from Grandma Mathilda’," he read.

“Naughty girl.” Dicka nuzzled the sleepy animal.

I rummaged through the box of Christmas decorations and extracted the ugly sweater vest and reindeer antlers for the grand finale. And like every year, Husband put on the items and opened the book ornament, The Cajun Night Before Christmas, from New Orleans.

“’De moon on de bayou was so bright it glistened. Even de bullfrogs were quite and listen’n,’” he read in his best accent, sounding more like an early twentieth century Norwegian immigrant trying on an Irish brogue than a dweller on the bayou. “’When what to my wonder’n eyes should appear, but a flying pirogue, and eight gators coming near, wit a petit ole driver so red and dedicated to his cause, I knew at dat moment it got to be Santa Claws!’”

*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 Thanks List

I’m thankful…

… my house is too small for more things.

… when the baby we’re hosting is still breathing in the morning.

… when next-door neighbor Dallas beats us to the shoveling.

… for neighbors and friends who love Lala (the dog) while we’re on vacation. (And she loves you back, Glenda, Veronica, and Trixie!)

… for North Minneapolis.

… when Target’s end-caps brim with clearance items.

… for our neighborhood Aldi.

… Flicka rubs my shoulders when she passes through the room.

… Napoleon Dynamite still wins a unanimous family vote. (It’s yes.)

… when other parents give my girls a ride home.

… Ricka speaks the truth into the noise, even if she stands alone.

… creativity flows from a stormy day.

… Dicka discerns the hidden pain or motivations of those around her, and she’s moved.

… Husband and I laugh together at least once a day.

… Flicka sees art in life’s shadows; her pencil ignites the mundane.

… when I’m off the hook for cooking dinner.

… The Light spilled from heaven and stepped into flesh, so we could see our way.

What are you thankful for?

*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.

Beauty

A black cloud blotted out the sky over The Problem House down the street. The property belonged to our friends, but some young adults rented it from them, earmarking our summer and now fall of 2016 with drama we could hear all the way over at our place. Marijuana smoke and screams wafted from the open windows of the house, and we counted at least fifteen people coming and going. Which ones were actually on the lease? The driveway was a used car lot and somebody at the residence fancied himself a mechanic and serviced vehicles all hours of the day and night.

Eventually our friends, the owners, told us the young people would be evicted if they continued to neglect the rent. And the tenants had dodged their other bills for long enough that the water was shut off, and the City was next in line to kick them out.

The main guy on the lease had grown belligerent with our friends, slinging around threats of arson and bodily harm. He had also done his own brand of home renovations in their charming 1919 home, violating code and undoing their painstaking work to update and beautify the property.  

Then one morning at the bus stop, a woman approached me.

“Did you see all the graffiti on our block?”

The familiar churning in my stomach. “No. Where?”

She and I walked through the alley, and she showed me the affected properties. Swastikas, anarchy symbols, a racial epithet, and directions for where to find drugs—with arrows as long as my arms, pointing to our friends’ rental property—disfigured three garages.

When would the ugliness end?

At one o’clock in the afternoon a few days later, the girls and I arrived home. A young woman, half-naked, was squatting on our house’s landscaping stones, relieving herself.   

I put the car into park and jumped out. “What are you doing? This is my house!”

Still crouching behind our rain barrel and now bewildered, she shifted her gaze to me and squinted for a few seconds. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Since she didn’t move, I edged closer. “Who are you?”

She tugged her footie pajamas back on then, zipped them up, and shuffled to an idling car in the middle of the street.

The previous night, The Problem House had had a party that raged until morning. Had she come from there?

Two weeks later, our friends employed Husband’s assistance; it was time to move the renters out. The tenants hadn’t done much to pack, though, and like a child too stubborn to help his mother clean his room, the main guy on the lease watched them haul out his possessions. Amid the items headed for the driveway were three pellet guns.

The day after the rental property was free of its abusers, the window in its front door was shot out. Husband found damage on our Honda too, and it didn’t take a crime scene expert to recognize the pockmarks on the windshield and side of our car were consistent with a pellet gun. Where was the ex-renter now? Living in his car, parked in front of our friends’ property.

My thoughts, laced with fear and anger, twisted my attitude, so I set out for a walk. Even in a city, nature—stronger than concrete—erupted in beauty. Before my stroll could start, though, I spotted a used maxi pad splayed out on the sidewalk in front of our house, its presence eroding my outlook even more. I stalked back inside, grabbed some disposable gloves and a plastic bag, and trudged out again.

Ugly circumstances threatened to urinate on my spirit, but then I looked up.

… whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.

After soaking in the Living Water and some bathwater too, I lit a candle and grabbed Luci Shaw’s Sea Glass like it was a life preserver instead of a volume of poetry. Then I scrolled through an online friend’s Facebook page to drink in the loveliness she captured in photos: her stainless steel crock-pot sitting on a marble countertop, poised to simmer a batch of apple butter; her palm brimming with rare November raspberries; her pink and salmon-colored zinnias flirting with the camera.

Softness rested on my shoulders again. Darkness could be pervasive, but beauty was persistent too, and it always carried peace with it.

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

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

The same

Wednesday morning, my alarm clock jolted me out of bed at the usual time. The coffeemaker brewed my customary dark roast, and with the normal splash of cream, my coffee tasted the same too. 

Like I do every weekday, I walked Dicka to the bus stop at the end of the block. And again, the fallen leaves and garbage fluttered by our feet as we strode down the sidewalk together. I side-stepped the trash and sighed; it seemed the identical litter appeared every morning, even though I picked it up daily on the way back to the house.

But something about the day was different.

“I don’t want to go to school,” Dicka said.

I assessed her face. No red, drippy nose. No glassy eyes. “Why not?”

“Because everyone will be talking about the election.” She tugged her hood forward to cover her ears. “I just want it to be over.”

I curled my arm around her. “I hear you.”

At the corner, we waited for the school bus. The sixth grade girl from across the street plodded toward us like she always did. And as usual, an invisible weight—bigger than her backpack—pulled her shoulders down. My heart pinched, and I greeted her. She said hi back and then patted her mouth as she yawned, keeping an eye on me the whole time. 

I accepted her non-verbal invitation. “So, you’re pretty tired today?” 

“I watched the election last night,” she said. “I got to stay up until it was over.”

“Wow. That was late. I was asleep by ten-thirty.”

Her posture straightened, and her eyes sparked. “Did you hear Trump won?”

“I did.”

“He’ll be impeached soon. Like Nixon.” 

I imagined the conversation swirling around her TV the night before as states on the screen lit up in red or blue. What else had the adults in her house told her to make the world right for her—and for them?

The bus pulled up and the door screeched open. I kissed Dicka on the forehead and said goodbye to the neighbor girl. The two of them climbed the steps and were gone.

I walked back to the house, plucking the garbage along my path. This morning, the citizens of the country dressed in new clothes: elation, hope, shock, fear, anger. Groups had decided to protest, and others had threatened to unleash riots throughout the nation on neighborhoods like ours. But our street was quiet at eight o’clock in the morning, and the message for me and my family again reverberated off the pavement and houses that lined our block. In our changing times, our calling stayed the same.

Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength. And love your neighbor as yourself.

If the national debt rose or fell, if immigrants were ousted or welcomed, if discrimination stamped out love like some feared or acceptance for all became the rule, nothing would change for us. We’d still talk to the girl at the bus stop, remove snow in the winter for the neighbors, take in kids in crisis, pick up the garbage. We’d still notice the invisible ones living among us, respond to the needs that were delivered to our door, and say no to the deeds that were good but not meant for us. 

And we’d stay rooted in the One who is the same yesterday, today, and forever.

*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.

Forgiveness

I pulled up in front of my girls’ school, and the topic fluttered into my mind. I recalled the ancient words:

These commandments that I give you today are to be upon your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.

Classes would start in twenty minutes, so I had time.

“Girls,” I said, putting the car in park. “I have a story to tell you.”

At the word ‘story’, my girls fell silent in the back seat.

I met a boy from a neighboring town during my senior year in high school, and the early months of 1988 were a flurry of happiness. Surely Richard Marx had penned his songs with the two of us in mind, and the boy must have noticed it too, because he captured them on cassette tape for me. In those days, I often stretched the telephone’s cord across the kitchen—all the way to the basement stairs—so I could perch on the steps and listen, in privacy, to his voice on the other end of the line.

Then one day, the boy asked me to his school’s prom, and I invited him to mine too, which would come two weeks after his. The days leading up to the first big event were dizzying. I shopped for a dress, had satin pumps dyed to match it, tracked down the perfect accessories, agonized over how to style my hair, and ordered a boutonniere for my date.

At last, the big day arrived. My boyfriend came to my house, his tuxedo impeccable, and with shaking hands, I opened the door. I looped my arm around his, and we were off to his prom. The night was magical.

Then came the after-party.

Crepe paper swags dripped from the doorways, and music pulsed through the atmosphere. People danced and played games. Soon, my shoes pinched my feet and my boyfriend eyed me.

“Do you wanna sit down?” he said.

I nodded, and he led me to a table and released my hand to pull out a folding chair for me. Then he sat too.

A girl sashayed toward us, her softness spilling from her neckline. She shook back her spiral-permed hair, flicked my boyfriend a coy smile, and slid into the seat next to him. Her date threw another guy a playful jab and then plopped down on a chair by her.

The girl pulled a pen and scrap of paper from her purse. She scribbled something on the paper and folded it. She waited a beat and passed it under the table to my boyfriend. I saw their hands touch as he slipped the note from her. He read it, using the table as a shield. A subtle smile. My stomach lurched.

On the drive home, my boyfriend and I chatted as though the girl at the table hadn’t existed, as though she hadn’t passed him a secret message, and as though I didn’t know what was going on.

But why should I feel insecure? It was just a note. Wasn’t it?

The telephone was silent for the next week and a half. I worried. My school’s prom was only a few days away, and no word from my boyfriend. Finally, I phoned him.

Yes, he had meant to call. Yes, he was looking forward to the event. Yes, he’d pick me up at such and such a time.

The second big day arrived. My boyfriend came to the door and with shaking hands, I motioned him inside. Mom snapped pictures of the two of us—as stiff as mannequins—in the living room. And we were off to my prom. Because of my friends, the night was magical.

Then came the after-party.

“Do you wanna leave?” my boyfriend said thirty minutes into it. “Go somewhere to talk?”

“Uh, sure. I guess.” I tossed my friends a shrug and left with him.

We drove the streets of my small hometown and talked. He had feelings for the note-passing girl, he told me. Actually, he confessed, they were already dating.

I took the emotional punch to the stomach while maintaining a plastic smile; he didn’t deserve my real one anymore.

“I want to go back to the after-party,” I said.

“Sure, let’s go.”

He drove us back to the event, but the chaperones turned us away at the door. By leaving early, we had violated one of the rules for attending the post-prom fun. My date shrugged at the news. I tried to slow my breathing. My senior prom—all gone. He drove me home.

In church with my family the next morning, I relived the previous night. I hadn’t said a word about it to anyone. My parents sat like bookends at either end of the pew, my siblings and I lined up like novels between them. But the story inside me was too painful for my covers, so I wept silently during the sermon, my body shaking the whole bench. Soon, Dad’s white handkerchief—the one reserved for Sundays—bobbed down the pew, through my siblings’ hands, until it came to a stop at me. And I cried even harder.

Two years later, I lived with my brother in Saint Paul. I rarely thought of my high school prom boyfriend anymore, but when I did, I gritted my teeth and slung the memories of him into the past where they belonged. Then one day, a letter arrived for me. And in the top left-hand corner of the envelope was his name.

How had he found me, now away at college? I narrowed my eyes and opened the letter. He wrote about how sorry he was for what had happened two years earlier on our prom nights. He should’ve been honest, kinder, better, more sensitive, he wrote, because I deserved only good things. He had been stupid, he said. And then he closed the letter with a question:

“Will you forgive me?”

I pulled out a piece of paper, an envelope, a stamp, and I sat down to write back. But unlike his letter, I kept mine short:

“No. I don’t forgive you.”

My girls, their eyes wide, had hooked their hands on the car’s front seat, pulling closer to my story. Twenty-six years had passed since prom night and twenty-four years since the letter. My date’s actions had lost their power long ago, leaving only a shadow over my thoughts of him and a wrinkled nose at the mention of his hometown. My unforgiveness had seemed benign. Until now.

“Don’t be like me,” I said, my voice catching. “Forgive people when they ask. You might not feel like it, but do it anyway.”

“You could do it now, Mom.” Dicka’s voice was soft, tentative. “You could still forgive him.”

“Mom,” said Ricka, her eyes bright. “You should try to find him.”

I pulled my cell phone from my purse and with only a few key strokes, found my prom boyfriend on Facebook. I typed a private message, reminding him of his letter all those years ago—and my response to it then that I regretted now. I did forgive him, I said. And then I asked a question:

“Will you forgive me?”

A minute passed—then two. Up popped the notification that he had seen my message. Another few minutes ticked by, and then came the answer:

A thumbs up. “Yes.”

*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 bathtub

We learned it was only cheap steel—and not cast iron, after all—the day we tore out the old tub in the summer of 2016. I gazed at its marred surface, wounded by love and use. The previous homeowners had applied adhesive anti-slip treads in the shape of flowers to its bottom and then ripped them off, damaging the tub’s finish. I could never scrub away those blemishes in the enamel, and the sight of them had often irritated me over the years. But now the tub was going away and taking its scars with it.

“Are you ready?” Husband said, handing me a pair of work gloves.

“Yep.” I pulled them on. “Let’s do this.”

Then he and I muscled out the old tub, much lighter than it had appeared when it was larger than life, occupying so much space in our bathroom. He led the way as we inched the beast through the door and out of the house for good. This tub—never a thing of beauty but one of function—was not only a cleaning vessel but also a time capsule.

As we hefted the tub down the back yard sidewalk, I heard three-year-old Flicka’s wails again, her skin screaming from the stinging nettles, and then my next door neighbor Glenda who had witnessed it too, advising from over the fence, “Rinse her off in the tub!” The bathtub washed the nettle hairs from my girl’s skin that day before the baking soda paste did its work.

I recalled the weeks I had washed dishes in the bathtub during our kitchen renovation of 2004. I had been pregnant out to there with Dicka at the time, and my low back had never been so happy to see a working kitchen sink again.

I saw the girls’ communal bath times, the water tinted by food coloring. Sometimes miniature Dachshund Dexter joined the party of three for a swim; the flapping kids didn’t scare him one bit. But once, when he was only a spectator, the water became too warm for preschooler Flicka, and she leaned over the edge and threw up on him.

The bathing hours were often teachable times too.

“Jry me off, Mama,” four-year-old Flicka said one day.

“Actually, the word starts with a ‘d’,” I said. “It’s ‘Dry me off’.”

“Mama,” said two-year-old Ricka. “I go potty in the tub.”

I grimaced. “Oh no. Don’t do that, honey.”

“No, it’s okay. I do it.” Her tone was lilting, accommodating.

“Everyone out!” I said a little too late. Thanks to Ricka’s generous donation to bath time, I was forced to do the vilest fishing of all and afterward, to spritz the tub with a good dose of bleach.

Deep into their elementary school years, Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka entered their hair dyeing stage, and the bathtub took on a new job title: Salon Assistant. Of all the possible colors, the girls chose only reds: Vampire Red, Pillarbox Red, Rock ’N’ Roll Red, and Infra Red. Maybe the brand name of the semi-permanent hair dye—Manic Panic—got its inspiration from how mothers felt when they saw their kids’ heads dangling over the edges of their bathtubs, the dye—like blood—dripping off them in viscous strands and circling their drains.

The tub had also hosted the dozens of small houseguests we had entertained over the years. They were burgeoning archaeologists, those little ones, their skin collecting dirt samples from Folwell Park, Webber Park, and other parks in the city. And when they had finished their bathtime routines, they clung to their memories but left a coating of grit behind.

Dad had sat, contented, in our bathtub too, like one of my babies, his head drooping. The bone marrow transplant had given him something, but taken away more, including his sense of modesty.

“Dad, I hope this doesn’t embarrass you, me bathing you.” I squeezed a sponge full of warm water onto his back, taking care not to scrub his skin too hard.   

“Nah.” He closed his eyes. “If I were a thirty-year-old man, sure. But not now. Not anymore.” 

Husband and I lugged the tub to the end of the back yard and lowered it to the ground by the chain-link fence. We had an errand to run, but later we’d haul it to the alley for removal. We climbed into the car.

“Let’s take some pictures of the tub when we get back,” I said as we drove down Dowling Avenue North. “No, in the tub. Wouldn’t that be hilarious? With the caption: ‘Our yearly bath’. Or something.”

Husband grinned. “It can be our Christmas card this year.”

We returned to the house forty minutes later, but the area by the chain-link fence was bare. The bathtub was gone.

“Seriously?” Husband shook his head.

I wrinkled my nose. “Who would steal an old bathtub?”

But it didn’t matter. We didn’t need a sentimental send-off or funny snapshots to memorialize our once faithful roommate. We could just be thankful we had had the tub at all and let the memories wash over us. 

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

The homework

Sunday’s dusk drew me to the living room windows. The time had come to pull the curtains shut and tuck the house in for the night. First, though, I paused to take in the view. Outside, a soft breeze ruffled the fallen leaves—more pink than orange in the rosy hue of waning light—and they skittered across the sidewalk. But something even more colorful than the handiwork of autumn sat near our front door, capturing my attention. 

I stepped outside. A stack of homework, neatly squared, perched on the steps. 'Thyara' was scrawled on the top folder. No kid hovered nearby to claim it, and so I brought the items inside and leafed through one of the notebooks, most of the writing in Spanish.

Ricka sauntered into the room. “Whose are those?”

“Someone named Thyara." I flipped open a folder. "I found this on our front steps.”

She pointed to one of the notebooks. “That’s a planner. There might be a phone number in there.”

She was right. Thyara had written her full name, Grade 5, a phone number, and an address in New Brighton—a suburb ten miles away—on the inside page.

I dialed the number, and a woman answered, an accent flavoring her words. I asked for Thyara, but she hesitated, saying something I couldn't decipher. Soon a man came on the line, and I explained the appearance of Thyara's homework on our front steps.

"Could you text me a picture of the things?" he said with a Hispanic lilt. I did as he asked. "Yes, those are hers, but I don't know how they got there. We've never been to North Minneapolis."

"Maybe Thyara has a friend in our neighborhood?" 

"I don't think so."

"Why was it on my front steps, I wonder?"

The man chuckled. "It's a mystery."

"I'll bring it back to you, so she has it for school tomorrow."

The man introduced himself as Eduardo, and we agreed on a time and place halfway between us to meet.

While Husband drove us to meet Eduardo, I ran my hand over the homework in my lap. If one of our girls had lost her schoolwork, tears would've soaked through the time spent finding it. Maybe Thyara was the same way.

We pulled into the parking lot of our meeting place: Menards on Central Avenue. Eduardo jumped out of his vehicle, a grin stretched across his face. A small girl and an even smaller boy followed him.

"These must be yours," I said to the girl, returning her possessions.

Thyara nodded, a smile almost breaking loose.

Eduardo introduced us to his boy and told us the name of his wife who waited in their vehicle.

"Thank you for this," he said, bobbing his head. "Thank you."

An hour after we returned home, the phone rang. Eduardo.

"I just now saw that someone broke into my other car," he said. "Some of my things are gone. Thyara's backpack was in there. It's gone too, but thank you that we have her papers back."

The pieces of the mystery clicked into place. After the crime in New Brighton, the thief had passed through our block, chucking the unwanted parts of his or her spoils. But who had later gathered up the homework and delivered it to us?

The next day, Husband and I puttered around in the back yard. Our neighbor Bruno pulled up in his car.

He rolled down his window. "Did you find the stuff on your steps?"

He told us a new homeowner on our block had discovered the schoolwork in the street, picked it up, and asked him about it. He had looked it over and suggested she leave it with us. Since we had kids, he had told her, maybe we knew something about the girl who owned it.

"We brought it back to her," said Husband.

"I figured." Bruno nodded. "Good."

The story of the homework, though small, was one of many similar accounts. And it spoke a greater truth about our block in North Minneapolis. What the thief meant for trash, several of us had seen as an object of value. And we would pass it on until it made its way home.

*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 bus ride

A work meeting, an oral surgery consult, a volleyball game, and five other commitments. It had been a coffee-to-go and a wolf-down-a-handful-of-trail-mix-at-the-stoplight kind of day. And now at six o'clock, I fought through the evening rush hour traffic in downtown Minneapolis, each minute at a standstill twisting my stomach into a tighter knot. I would drive my girls home, then turn around and head to an evening gathering in a southern suburb twenty miles away. If I made it by the scheduled time of seven o'clock, it would be a miracle.

"Mom, just drop us off here," Ricka said. "We'll catch a bus home."

"Yeah, go, Mom," said Flicka. "We'll be fine."

"Really?" I blew out a breath. My first real exhale of the day. "I appreciate this, girls."

Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka hopped out at the next stoplight. I looked at the three of them—ages sixteen, fifteen, and twelve—standing on the corner and gawking at their surroundings like a pack of tourists. At least it was still light and warm on this Wednesday, September 28. No fear of hypothermia at the bus stop today.

I signaled right, turned the corner, and buzzed down the street until I saw signs for 35W South. Thanks to my girls, I would make it to my engagement on time.

Ricka led the way up the steps of the 5M Northbound bus and flashed her GoCard. She scanned the place, packed with commuters.

"Right here," she said over her shoulder to her sisters, pointing to some empty seats near the front. The girls settled in for their ride to North Minneapolis.

Ricka's day had been a long one. School, volleyball practice, homework. Her stomach rumbled. Since Mom was gone for the evening, she and her sisters were on their own for dinner. She'd bake a frozen pizza before burrowing into her Advanced Algebra.

At the next stop, four teenagers—two boys and two girls—boarded the bus with their Footlocker bags. All the seats were full, so they stood next to Ricka and her sisters, the two girls grabbing onto the hanging straps while they faced the boys.

"Then I got this one," the guy in the blue hoodie said to his friends, pointing to a tattoo on his wrist. "Still hurts just as much as this one." He rolled up his sleeve to show off more artwork. One of the girls grabbed his arm to get a closer look and then poked at the new design. The guy in the red shirt laughed.

How was the kid able to get tattoos? Ricka guessed he was seventeen—at the most. His parents would've had to sign permission for him to get the work done. Not something that would happen in her house. She listened as the teens’ talk turned from ink to plans for the weekend.

Twenty minutes later, the bus driver pulled up to a stop along bustling 7th Street. The two guys split from their female friends and headed to the front of the bus. When the door opened, Red Shirt jumped off and followed the sidewalk to the right. Tattoo Boy darted down the bus steps and around the front of the bus to the left, dipping out of sight.

Bang!

A car blasted Tattoo Boy's body ten feet into the air. He plummeted headfirst back to earth. Ricka jumped up, nausea punching her in the gut. The other passengers scrambled to their feet too, and stared through the front windows. Tattoo Boy lay on the pavement in front of the bus. The driver of the car swerved to the side of the road and then zoomed away. The boy's friends bolted from the bus and ran to his side. The commuters' commentary rose to an uproar.

A woman with long, gray hair stabbed her finger in the direction of the runaway vehicle. "It was an SUV. No, no—a Jeep! A black Jeep."

"Why would he do that?" said a man dressed in a suit, craning to see the boy lying in the street.

"It's obviously a suicide," a woman said. "He must've had stress on him."

Ricka's chin quivered, but then she looked at twelve-year-old Dicka who was planted in her seat with her face down, shaking, and she swallowed the urge to cry. A woman with an African accent stroked Dicka's head.

"It's okay. It's okay," said the woman, handing her some tissues.

Ricka remembered the day she had witnessed a classmate have a seizure. He had convulsed, slipping from his desk, and there was nothing the teacher could do about it. Fear had grabbed onto her that day too, stealing her innocence—and now this. But Dicka...

Ricka searched her sister's face. "What did you see?"

Dicka shook her head.

"How about you?" Ricka said, turning to her older sister.

Flicka's gaze was fixed on the body in the street. "I didn't see it happen either."

A squad car pulled up, then a second one, and a third. Police officers crouched around the victim and other officers climbed the bus steps to speak with the driver. 

"Let's go," Ricka said.

Her sisters followed her past the commotion, down the steps of the bus, and out onto the street that held the broken boy. 

When I returned home that night, Husband met me at the door.

"The girls witnessed a hit-and-run tonight," he said.

Pleasant memories from my evening vanished. "Oh no."

Red splotches dotted Dicka's face, and she sat in silence while the other two girls told me about the sound of the impact—much louder than the expected thud of metal meeting flesh. They spoke of the other passengers, the kind African woman, and their sixteen-block walk afterward because Dicka refused to board another bus.

I pitched back and forth in bed that night recalling the accident I hadn't witnessed. I offered up a teenager whose name I didn't know and begged for the life of a kid who wasn't mine.

Let him live!

Following a lead the next morning, I made a call to North Memorial Hospital.

"You don't have a name?" said a man on the other end of the line. "We can't tell you anything because of patient privacy."

"I just want to know if he's alive or not," I said. "That's all."

But I had to give up my need to hear the end of the story.

A few days later, Husband had an idea.

"I posted the details on Facebook, asking anyone in the neighborhood if they happened to know anything," he said.

Husband had chosen a North Minneapolis Facebook page with more than three-thousand members, and my mind filled with images of needles in haystacks. But minutes later, the answer came anyway.

"I work with his aunt," a woman wrote. "He's doing okay."

Tragedies happen every day, and strangers witness atrocities without ever learning the outcomes. But that night, we celebrated the miracle of an answer and the life of a teenage boy who was given another chance.

*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.

Happy second birthday, My Blonde Life!

The blog turned two in September. How did we celebrate? With a cake, of course!

I ordered this North Minneapolis-themed beauty (an 8-inch honey wine cake with raspberry filling and vanilla buttercream frosting) from a North Minneapolis business, The Thirsty Whale Bakery.  (Thank you, Megan, Kyle, and Sarah!) (Note: They offer free delivery in Minnesota until they have a storefront.) Besides ordering your own cake, visit their Facebook page and vote to help them win a Brassy!

*Subscribers: If you have trouble viewing the following images, please click "Read on" below. 

The iconic mural on the 4th St. Saloon

The flower sculpture at the bus shelter (corner of Broadway and Penn)

Here I am with the cake (and Lala, photobombing.)

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

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

Travel stories: France (part 5)

Dinnertimes were more than the food set in front of us. They were vocabulary lessons that ventured far beyond the textbooks. My host mother, Jacqueline, chose our time at the table to tell Andie and me about the fickle coastal weather, the functionality of shutters, and the neighbors' grating habits. Above all, though, she preferred medical topics. In one evening alone, she spoke of glandular problems, skin discolorations, what was good for the kidneys, and horror stories about vomiting exchange students. If everything hadn't sounded so beautiful in the Romance language, the duck pâté may not have gone down.

Sometimes Monsieur Germanaud joined us for dinner, and on those nights, Jacqueline's favorite subjects fluttered away on the sea breezes of the nearby Bay of Biscay. The man’s eyes shone as he told us about French poets, authors, music, and history. Then I thought about Amie's host home across town and her French dad—always the jokester—who ate dinner, shirtless, wiping his mouth with a piece of baguette which served as an edible napkin.

Monsieur Germanaud and Jacqueline shared three grandchildren who cropped up around the house as often as the green beans Monsieur came daily to pick. While the two preteen grandsons were watchful but aloof, five-year-old Collette became my shadow.

One evening while Andie and I did homework at the table in our living quarters, Collette pattered downstairs to show us her picture book. I pushed aside my work; sentences could wait. Collette's book of obscure animals beckoned us. The little girl slowed her words and taught us names of creatures I didn't even recognize in English. As she quizzed us, I stifled a smile and repeated the words. Though short in stature, her patience was long. And she doled out praise when we got the pronunciation right.

"Now I have to do my homework," I told her at last.

Collette pulled up a chair next to me, propped her elbows on the table, and rested her chin on her fists. She eyed me as I worked. I smiled at her between sentences.

"Can you say the word for this?" She tapped on the bottle of water next to my books.

I chuckled. "La bouteille d'eau."

"Very good,” she said in a kindergarten teacher voice. Then she widened her eyes and leaned in, laying a hand on my back. "Do you know how to open a bottle, or do you need me to help you?"

One day after school, Amie came over to my house to swim. She stayed a few hours, and then Monsieur Germanaud offered to drive her home so she wouldn't have to take the bus. The next day at school, she told me the story of her car ride.

As my French dad navigated the late afternoon traffic the previous day, his face had brightened as he spoke of Don Quixote and how the play was slated to be performed in the city square at the end of the summer. He then mentioned his two adult daughters, les jumelles, and how they loved theater too.

"Les jumelles?" Amie said. "I don't know that word."

"Ah, but let me show you." He signaled and made a quick U-turn, zipping onto another street. After a couple of minutes, he parked in front of a house and beamed at Amie. "Here's my daughter's place. She'll help you learn what the word means."

His gaze first settled on a squad car parked in the driveway and then on the house. His smile dissolved. Amie took in the scene too, her confusion at the word les jumelles dwarfed by what she saw.

The man's daughter—in only a t-shirt and underwear—stood outside her front door, speaking with a male police officer. The woman told a story with her hands, and then she laughed. Monsieur and Amie watched from the car, their brows furrowed.

"Hm," Monsieur Germanaud said after a beat. "Let's get you home." He shifted the vehicle into drive and zoomed away.

As soon as she returned home, Amie made a beeline for a dictionary. Les jumelles meant 'twins'. If only there were a reference book, though, for life's other mysteries.

At one of our last dinners in France, while Jacqueline spoke of abscesses, the désagréable symptoms of menopause, mucous skin (direct translation), and tragic car accidents, my mind drifted to the big picture of my travels. I saw dogs in the grocery stores, beggars in the metro, musicians on the streets. I recalled cafés, baguettes, cathedrals, postcards, the ocean. I would miss my first family who had wrapped me in their excellent care and my second family too—a broken French home that maybe wasn't so broken after all.

My friends and I had danced and swum and eaten our way through a glorious country. We had shopped and studied and sunned. We had bumbled through awkward social moments in a new culture and blundered through conversations over some of the world’s most delectable meals. We had endured misunderstandings and stomach pain and a lack of toilet paper. We had been tutored by a five-year-old who probably thought we had more than one significant challenge. But we had loved France with all our hearts.

And she had loved us back.

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

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

Travel stories: France (part 4)

As the bus pulled out of the parking lot of the Mont Saint-Michel, Leeza, Kate, Mel, and I leaned in to hear Amie’s Harrowing Bathroom Adventure. 

Amie had found herself alone in the restroom—without toilet paper. She had called out for my assistance, but I was already gone. Then she rummaged through her purse, to no avail. All travel literature warned that public restrooms in France never provided free toilet paper. One should always bring one’s own tissue, she had read, or purchase some from the restroom attendant. Should she call out to the attendant? Was there even a woman with a basket at the door selling the valuable commodity? She wasn’t sure she had seen anyone.

Then dozens of school children stampeded into the communal restroom. If an attendant existed and Amie beckoned her, the racket from the kids would drown out her voice. And could she formulate a sentence in French to explain her predicament anyway?

“So I went through my purse again, looking for paper of any kind,” she said. “But I only found one thing I could use.”

“What?” I edged closer, as if my proximity to her would bring a suitable resolution.

“A twenty franc bill.”

“Get outta town!” Leeza said, and our hoots of laughter even caught the bus driver’s attention.

Aside from the possible illegality of flushing currency, I thought of the economic repercussions and did a quick calculation. With the exchange rate, Amie’s only solution had cost her $3.64. But it was money well spent; because of her cautionary tale, we all learned a valuable lesson that day.

After five hours of traveling by bus, we arrived in the southwestern coastal city of La Rochelle, an ancient fishing village, replete with medieval architecture, arched walkways, and a collection of lighthouses. Our new host families clustered, waiting to welcome us, on the parking lot of l'Institut d'Etudes Françaises, the school where we would study for the next six weeks. My assigned roommate was Andie, a girl from our touring group whom I had met in Paris, and our host mother was a woman named Madame Germanaud.

Madame Germanaud drove us to her home—where she lived alone—and showed us our downstairs living quarters which opened out into a back yard with a swimming pool. At the dinner table that night, she invited us to call her Jacqueline, and with that simple invitation to familiarity, she plunged into her life’s story, stretching both my vocabulary and my empathy.

Years earlier, Jacqueline’s husband had been unfaithful to her, leaving her for his maîtresse. Soon, though, the other woman abandoned him, and he longed to return home. But my host mother was a woman of principles, she said, so she refused to take him back.

"It's better that way." She pursed her lips, sniffed, and passed me the Salade Niçoise.

The next morning when Andie and I entered the kitchen for breakfast, the sight of a man sitting at the table startled me.

“I’m Monsieur Germanaud,” he said, jumping to his feet to plant the customary kisses on our cheeks. “I’m here to ramasse les haricots verts.” His gaze flitted off to his wife who stood at the counter tweezing the greens from some strawberries.

Andie shot me a confused look and mouthed, "Pick the green beans?"

Jacqueline puttered around the kitchen, and a smile tugged at the corners of Monsieur’s mouth as he watched her. Andie and I exchanged shrugs, ate our breakfast, and then hurried off to catch our bus for school.

We attended French classes with other international students until noon. Then a group of us girls ate our déjeuner in the school cafeteria before padding off to the beach near the marina. Along the shoreline, vendors hawked their trinkets from tiny huts. Seagulls zoomed through the air, their caws scaring every last cloud from the sky until only a sheet of blue covered our afternoon. Under these conditions, homework would have to wait until dark.

At the beach, the French men wore Speedos, small children skipped naked through the waves, and the local women—half nude—basked in the sun. In contrast, we American girls appeared prim in our swimwear.

"What are they gawking at?" Kate whispered, nodding toward a group of males passing by our beach towels.

The men ogled us, and I frowned back, wrinkling my nose.

"I've read about this," Mel said. "It's because we still have our tops on."

We were a spectacle at Jacqueline’s home too, but for different reasons. When my friends came over for a swim one day, my host mother’s three visiting grandchildren stared at us like we were three-toed sloths dangling from the trees. The kids cocked their heads while they listened to our chatter and watched us behave more like ten-year-olds than twenty-somethings. Then Amie choreographed a synchronized swimming routine in the water.

"C'mon in and do this thing with me," my friend hollered to us lazy ones. Her laugh reverberated off the white limestone of the house.

Jacqueline snapped her floral swim cap in place and eased into the water near me. Then she nodded toward Amie, furrowed her brow, and drew her lips into a bunch. "Elle s'amuse bien, n'est-ce pas?"

"Yeah, she has fun," I said, trying to act my age to please my host mother. But then I bit my lip to keep the giggles away.

*Come back next week for the conclusion of our traveling adventures in France.

*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.