Jo

Darkness lived a block away at Doris’ old place.

After she died a few years ago, it moved in. I only thought about it when my connections on a neighborhood Facebook page talked about what was going on over there.

The darkness came in the form of people—zombies, as some neighbors called them—who weaved through the alley night and day, carrying backpacks. These were otherworldly ones, meth pulsing through their veins and transforming them into creatures of the night.

The zombies covered up the home’s windows, darkening their world even more, so not even a pinprick of light could pierce their abyss. I tried to fashion the truth from the scraps of information floating around me. This nuisance house wasn’t a rental situation, my neighbors said; the owner of the place lived there too, so not only did he know what was going on, he was running it all. 

“He’s a dealer,” one man said at a neighborhood crime watch meeting, “so there’s no point reporting the drug use on his property to him. He’s part of it.”

“How do you know he’s selling?” a police officer asked. “Do you have any proof?”

“Some kid rode to the house on his bike not too long ago,” he said. “He had a roll of dollar bills in his hand.”

The meeting’s attendees doled out various scant pieces of information. The property looked like it belonged to a hoarder, aluminum foil and boards covered the windows, and although the place was quieter during daylight hours, the night brought out the hordes, the garbage, and sometimes the screaming.

“There’s a steady stream of traffic going to and from the house,” another neighbor said. “And they all carry backpacks.”

I envisioned termites nibbling at the wood of a home, slowly bringing it down. And maybe this pestilence would take down this particular house too—and the neighborhood with it. The alley running by the property was sprinkled with needles, evidence of the activities inside. And users littered them around the park two blocks down too, another neighbor said.

I thought of my life in our home.

While I carried in grocery bags from the car, someone was making a beeline to the drug house for a fix.

While I poured myself a second cup of coffee in the morning, someone over there was passed out from their partying the previous night.

While I snuggled with a book before falling asleep each night, someone was shooting up only a block away.

Unlike some of our neighbors, our house didn’t have a front-row seat to the activities. My ignorance insulated me. And I liked it that way.

In early August 2019, we set up for our National Night Out gathering, the event created by the police to foster a sense of community and safety among neighbors. Like every year, we pushed folding tables together in the middle of the blocked off street. And like every year, residents of four blocks came together to celebrate each other, bringing salads, chicken, fruit, beans, tacos, cookies—and more. Camp chairs circled the food tables, and more than twenty of us neighbors got comfortable with paper plates of food from our shared bounty. We updated each another on our lives. I hadn’t seen some of them in a year, our worlds running by different calendars in separate houses.  

“I think about this dish all the time,” I said to the neighbor who brought his Thai noodles again, pointing the tines of my fork at the generous helping on my plate. “So delicious.”

He smiled. “It’s easy to make.”

Trees twisted over our view of the cemetery a half block away, and late afternoon sunlight streaked through them. A rosy hue colored our talk, cheering us as we went around the circle, each of us sharing one new thing that had happened in the past year. Two new grandbabies were born to one couple, one man walked twelve-hundred miles outside over the harsh Minnesota winter, one couple drove their MINI Cooper to Mackinac Island, Michigan, for the annual parade of MINIs. And the highlights continued.

Our activity over, we munched on dessert—or seconds of the main dishes—and daylight softened to dusk, the sun dipping inch by inch back into the earth. I sucked on a black cherry popsicle, remembering why I loved my neighbors. The peace. The stability. The kindness.

And then I saw her.

A young woman meandered toward our group, the silhouette of her body like another tree branch against the rosy-orange of the waning day. She looked lost, a backpack slung over one shoulder. Uneasiness trickled down my spine.

The early twenty-something halted outside our circle. She wore a thick black leather jacket and jean shorts; her bony legs were marked with bruises. She pulled her pack onto her back.

I flicked a look at Marta, always a welcoming force in the group and the one who had led us in our sharing time around the circle minutes earlier. Her gaze rested on the young woman.

“Hi,” Marta called to her, motioning her toward a seat by us. The young woman shot looks around, one eyebrow arched, and edged nearer. She eased onto the edge of a folding chair, making room for the pack which stayed on her back. “What’s your name?”

“Jo,” the young woman said, her face blank.

The word zombie flashed into my brain. Robotic movements. Lack of emotion. The undead, as they were called in movies and TV shows.

Did the others in our circle see it too? Did they guess, like I did, that this woman spent time in that house—the one we had discussed with each other and the police too many times to count?

“Where do you live?” another neighbor asked her.

Jo paused, then blurted a house number, adding, “I think.”

She thought? Was she sorry she had given that much information? Was she headed there after this? And what was in that backpack?

I lengthened my exhales. Someone had kicked in our door while we were away one afternoon. Someone else had crawled through our unlocked kitchen window while we slept one night. Those things rattled me. But the unpredictability of a person strung out on drugs jolted electricity through my fingertips, surpassing all my previous fears.

And some of you were once like that…

Unbidden, the snippet of Truth struck me to my core, bringing more with it.

But you were cleansed; you were made holy; you were made right with God…

I eyed Jo—her shifty gaze, her flat affect, her bare skinny legs sticking out of biker boots.

“Help yourself to something to eat,” I said. She looked at me, her eyes vacant. A few more encouragements like mine, and she stood and sauntered to the table. She lifted a chicken drumstick and stared at all of us like she still needed permission. “Seriously. We don’t want to take it home with us. Please eat.”

She peeled a paper plate off the stack and filled it. And then I saw the space around us on the street that night.

There was room at the table for her too.

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family 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

With the state of the world these days, life can become clearer during a good soak. And sometimes fun memories flow back to me too.

*****

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 ripped them off, damaging the tub’s finish. I could never scrub away those blemishes in the enamel, and the sight of them had 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.”

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 backyard sidewalk, I heard three-year-old Flicka’s wails again, her skin screaming from the stinging nettles, and my next door neighbor Glenda who had witnessed it too, advising from over the fence, “Rinse her off in the tub!” The bathtub had 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, 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.

My 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 loyal roommate. We could just be thankful we had had the tub at all and let the memories wash over us.

I wish this were an actual photo of our tub, but no.

*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.

Firsts

The story you’re about to read was one I wrote in the summer of 2016—a bloody summer in our neighborhood and city. The details of it still knife me in the heart, but there’s always hope.

Isn’t there?

*****

North Minneapolis. Friday, July 8, 2016, 11:27 a.m.

A black Chevy Impala pulled up to the intersection of Penn and Lowry. Just then, Melvonte Peterson rolled up in his minivan, two kids inside. The driver of the Impala fired two shots at Peterson’s vehicle—one bullet grazing fifteen-month-old Melia’s leg and the other striking two-year-old Le’Vonte in the chest. Peterson returned fire, hitting the nearby hardware store before he sped off to North Memorial Medical Center.

As I drove east on I-94 on Friday morning, July 15, I remembered the chilling details from the news the week before and gripped the steering wheel like it was one more life slipping away. I watched for the Snelling exit, tension claiming the space between my eyes. It would be a day of firsts for me: the first funeral I would attend for a stranger; the first for someone who had been murdered; the first for a child.

I arrived at Bethel Christian Fellowship in Saint Paul too easily. I should have circled the block numerous times, at last snagging a parking spot a mile away. Instead, I parked only feet from the front door. A packed sanctuary should have forced me to stand in the back, straining to hear the preacher’s words about the little one. Instead, I had my choice of any seat in the house.

The previous day, three-thousand people had attended the funeral for Philando Castile, a man killed by a police officer on July 6 at a traffic stop in Falcon Heights. But at the service I attended on Friday for Le’Vonte Jones, the two-year-old gunned down on July 8 in north Minneapolis, not even three-hundred mourners made an appearance. I gritted my teeth at the unequal treatment of two humans, now gone.

Did the public consider this an issue of age? Was Le’Vonte worth less because he had enjoyed fewer trips around the sun than Philando? Or did the credentials of a shooter determine the value of a victim’s life? I frowned and clung to my belief that all black lives equally matter.

I made my way down the aisle to the front of the church. A tiny white casket cradled the toddler, stuffed toys propped at his feet. I gazed at the child’s body—so similar to the little boys who had stayed in our home—and wept at violence snatching yet another life from my neighborhood.

To the right of the coffin stood a woman holding a box of tissues. She looked at me, her mouth curving up at the corners. A question mark lit her eyes.

I’m no one, I felt like saying. I’m just here to cry too.

“Bless you,” she whispered as she wrapped me in a hug. “Bless you. Bless you.”

Then I turned toward LeShae, the boy’s mother, who toted fifteen-month-old Melia on her hip. Serene and thin, she spoke to the person ahead of me, her voice a gentle breeze. My gaze drifted to a wound on the baby’s leg—evidence of the other bullet that had ripped through the minivan that day.

“I’m from north Minneapolis,” I said when it was my turn. “I’m so sorry.” My words, backed by gold, sounded like tin.

“Thank you.” She circled an arm around me, and I hugged her back, taking care not to crush her. 

I left the grieving mother to the next mourner and strode toward the back of the church to find a seat. A woman I had met at Birdell Beeks’ vigil a month earlier settled into the chair next to mine.

She pointed her chin toward LeShae. “She had another baby—a girl—just one week before Le’Vonte died.”

I blew out a breath. One week, life; the next week, death. “Where’s the dad?” I asked.

The woman extracted a tissue from her purse. “He was arrested this morning in connection with the shooting.”

The sun shone through the church windows, and I shivered. Instead of filling the sanctuary with warmth, the light exposed everything: dead toddler, injured baby, arrested father, hurting mother.

Hopelessness crept up my throat.

The service began. A soloist sang “Soon and Very Soon”, and I clapped along with the congregation, because I wanted to feel it too. Two women circulated the sanctuary with boxes of tissues. Then the preacher stood and delivered a message. He spoke of the boy, stolen away by the violence that too often raged through the streets of north Minneapolis.

Then he held out his own past for all of us to see.

“I was a shooter too. But God transformed me.” The pastor thumped his chest with a fist. “You see, He gave me a new heart.”

My friend leaned toward me. “He shot a cop,” she whispered. Then she clutched my arm, her eyes shining. “But the cop forgave him.”

In the days following Le’Vonte’s funeral, I sifted through the details, recalling the meager number of mourners gathered for a horrid reason. Was there any good in any of it? But then I remembered the story of a man—once a shooter—now forgiven, redeemed, transformed.

And a stream of light pierced the darkness of our times. Hope had broken through again.

*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.

Small lights

These are dark days.

But sometimes small lights break through to cheer us.

Like on Monday when we entertained four of them for the day. While their mama scurried to move their belongings into their new place, we soaked them with the garden hose in the 97-degree heat. They shrieked in delight. Everybody ate cheese quesadillas and clementines (and a bunch of other things), snoozed on the couch in Flicka’s arms, and created chalk masterpieces on the brick sidewalk in the back yard. (One even imitated Jackson Pollock’s technique, so he’s a prodigy, it turns out.)

These are dark days.

But sometimes small lights break through to cheer us.

*****

*Note: the mother of “the small lights” gave her approval for me to post these pics showing their faces.

So many bricks to color, so little time.

Fun in the sun. Swimwear optional.

The (staying awake) struggle is real. So they didn't.

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family 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.

Quietness

“My quietness right now is not inaction,” a friend of color posted on Facebook a few days ago.

She had been working behind the scenes, she stated, grace and beauty flowing from her simple words. No specifics to gain applause, no details to garner praise.

This woman is tireless in her work in the inner city, storming the streets for change and the gates of heaven for transformed hearts. Knowing how it feels to carry racial wounds, the entirety of her job is to fight for equity and reform.

Had someone called my friend to account for her silence on social media? Anger burned in my throat. This woman was working too hard to stop and publish her good deeds online. How could anyone demand an accounting of her time?

I think of another friend—a white one this time—with a similar story. Her job is in social work in North Minneapolis, acting as a voice for the voiceless, always moving for the equality and promotion of the unprivileged. Because she is quiet on social media, does she also encounter pressure to post the good she’s doing? How could anyone exact a list of her activities?

Do we post online for approval? From whom? For justification of what we do? For what reason?

But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.  

Neither woman is new on the scene, freshly moved to action because of the tragedy of George Floyd’s death. No, for decades they have traveled the depth of heartache with others and toiled for them with few words online to showcase their sacrifices off.

Another friend of color posted this on Instagram yesterday, and of course she would; her grace is boundless:

“Some are posting on social media. Some are protesting in the streets. Some are donating silently. Some are educating themselves. Some are having tough conversations with friends and family.

A revolution has many lanes—be kind to yourself and to others who are traveling in the same direction.

Just keep your foot on the gas.”

Words online or lack thereof, I promise to keep my foot on the gas.

You too?

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family 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.

Remember

The neighborhood kids grew up shooting baskets on the slab of cement by our garage. They gained inches—in height and in their verticals—over those six or seven years. It was easy to love them—and I did—from the get-go. Sometimes I stood by the chain-link fence, witnessing their game improve. I kept my exuberance to a minimum. I didn’t want to embarrass them in case they’d bolt. But my chest puffed with pride for those almost-kids-of-mine, and as I watched them play, sometimes my affection slipped out in words. Coolly, they eyed me back.

One day, the group—Keyondra, Antoine, Armani, Peanut, and Aisha, their ages spanning thirteen to sixteen years—clustered in our yard to ask me a question. It was an unusual occurrence, their coming that close to the house; their proximity to our back door said more than they did. I nibbled away a grin and sat on a lawn chair to talk with them. The girls plopped onto the grass next to me. The boys stood nearby. No one should pick favorites, but along with the three blondies I had birthed, these five were mine.

We chatted about life, school, and basketball. I wasn’t great at the game, but I knew a little something about the other two subjects.

Whatever they’ve seen of white people, God, make their brush with me good.

Husband came out of the house.

“What’s going on?” he beamed at our visiting kids. “Anything new?”

They invited him into their day too, Aisha bubbling between topics.

“What’s new with you?” she said back to him.

Husband patted the dog’s flanks. “I just got home from work.”

She plucked a blade of grass but kept her focus on him. “What do you do?”

“I’m a Federal Air Marshal.”

“What’s that?” She tossed aside the piece of grass.

“He’s a cop,” Keyondra said. “On airplanes.” I had forgotten she knew.

Aisha’s eyes went round. “A cop?”

Armani sprinted down our brick path, flew through the gate, skidded around the garage, and tore down the alley.

“What just happened?” I said, frowning at the boy’s sudden exit.

Keyondra shrugged. “He heard ‘cop’.”

The kids drifted home, but our basketball hoop was a magnet. Soon, they were sucked back and into a game—Armani too.

“Hey,” Husband said to the kid who had fled our yard earlier. “Why did you run?”

Armani shrugged, his gaze down.

“You’re welcome here,” my man said, his tone soft. “You don’t need to run, you know.”

But my heart deflated. Easy for us to say.

On the evening of Monday, May 25, 2020, at 38th Street and Chicago Avenue in Minneapolis, a white police officer kneed the life out of a black man, George Floyd, an image-bearer of God who lay handcuffed on the ground. Someone captured video footage for the world to see—and I wish I hadn’t.

The violence made me queasy, the injustice irate.

And God’s anger burned too.

Faces of my neighborhood family streaked through my mind. Could this happen to those kids of ours? Would this happen to them one day too?

Please, God, no!

In my mind, I flipped my life around to different angles to see it better. All I had done seemed like a whole lot of toos: too little, too late, too insignificant. My love? Definitely not enough to fix anything.

So, what could I do now?

Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves; ensure justice for those being crushed. Yes, speak up for the poor and helpless, and see that they get justice.

It wouldn’t be easy, but it was simple: I’d remember Mr. Floyd and our neighbor kids.

And I’d come up with something.

(This is just a free stock photo and in no way connected with Monday’s murder.)

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family 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: Greece (part 4)

The emptiness of our hotel blared in my ears. A few other guests occupied the place with us, their presence ghostlike. We might have heard their movements at times, but it was probably okay—with the virus hovering like it was—if we didn’t run into them.

The restaurants of Athens shuttered, we stood in line for takeout from Savvas kebab shop for our first dinner in the city. Nearby customers took drags from cigarettes, their smoke drifting our way, but the savory aromas floating from the shop’s grill won out. Up at the window, the choosing was easy. We only had a few options: grilled chicken or beef—alongside vegetables, French fries, and a sauce of our choice—tucked into a cone-shaped pita for 2.9 Euro ($3.20.) Food portions in Greece were large, their prices small. And costs were small for everything else too—except gas, which set us back 5 Euro/liter ($5.65/quarter gallon.) We ate dinner in our hotel room that night, our open window overlooking Monastiraki square, the hubbub of humanity wafting in on the evening breeze.

In the morning, we hopped the Athens Open Tour’s Gray Line and explored the city by bus. Disease might have bullied the metropolis into closures, but it wouldn’t shut down our sense of adventure—or that of the tourists around us. The route showed us City Hall, the War Museum, and the Temple of Zeus, and we disembarked for photos at the Acropolis and Parthenon. I gazed in the direction of the Areopagus, a hill where the Apostle Paul once spoke to the people of Athens about their altar to the Unknown God—that God, now known, and traveling with us down the streets of Athens, its alleys scattered with litter and its buildings tattooed with art.

The next day, we boarded the Riviera Beaches bus line, down Poseidonos Avenue, and along the seaside. Marinas, beaches, and a war cemetery memorial lined our path. Never in any European country had I witnessed more runners out for exercise, and I thought of a young Greek in 1936, Konstantin Kondylis, the first runner in the history of the Olympic Torch Relay who launched the tradition for the opening of the Olympic Games. But we weren’t runners as much as consumers on this trip, and as we approached Marina Glyfada, our stomachs growled. We spied a familiar fast-food restaurant. All tourists should probably try McDonald’s when abroad, shouldn’t they?

Only a few of us were allowed inside the Golden Arches at once, so we waited in the sunshine outside. When it was our turn, Husband and I entered. We placed our order with a masked employee. The menu on the wall listed new-to-us items, a Greek Mac (two beef patties in a pita) and a shrimp salad. I raised my phone to capture the sign.

“No photos!” a worker said, waving gloved hands in the air. “No photos!”

“Oh, sorry.” I slid my cell back into my bag.

And that scolding wouldn’t be my last. Murphy and I strode into a grocery store on Athinas, and an employee standing at the door instructed us to back off. A queue curved outside the store—something I hadn’t noticed—and our presence inside would have violated the number allowed in at one time too. Again, we awaited our turn. What was it like in Greece, minus pandemic rules? Would we ever have a chance to find out?

We strolled through Athens on foot, vivid graffiti illustrating our wanderings; artists had scrawled on every surface of the ancient city. We found shops specializing in only one thing: sausage or feta or eggs, but then came the Varvakios Agora, the iconic fish and meat market in central Athens with its endless options. Coronavirus restrictions had not yet reached the vendors there; no protective glass separated us from the merchants who called out prices of beef, pork, lamb, goat, chickens, and rabbit. Entire tables were devoted to organ meats like liver, kidneys, and intestines, and the place sold every kind of fish in the Aegean and even some from China, North Africa, and Portugal. And if the indoor bounty wasn’t enough, outside we passed shops with spices spilling from baskets and stands heaped with colorful fruits.

On our last day, the four of us took a break from racking up steps on our pedometer apps to gather in Husband’s and my hotel room. The idea of returning home pulled at my thoughts—an unseen weight over the trip’s ending. During our time on the island of Crete, we discovered our return flights had been cancelled. We lingered on the phone one day while an agent on the other end of the line tweaked our futures, changing our tickets home to March 17, a day earlier than our original reservations. Now, with our hours in Greece dwindling, it was time to confirm our flights.

I set out snacks for our friends: oregano chips, orange-stuffed olives, fresh-cut fruit. After a few contacts with the airlines, Murphy’s and Adonis’ check-ins were complete. Husband and I, however, begged KLM by voice message, email, and WhatsApp to please respond to us. No word. And while we waited, the kiwi, apple, and pear I had cut up browned in its dish on the coffee table.

Would we still have seats on a flight home? And what about our shuttle driver who promised to pick us up a block away when the time came? Did he know we needed him at 3:00 a.m. the next morning to bring us to the airport? We couldn’t reach him. Adonis even tried to find the website connected with his transport service, but it had vanished. What would happen now?

True to his word, our shuttle driver pulled up at 3:00 a.m. on the desolate street a block away from our hotel and greeted us, his tone chipper for the early hour. The man had remembered us after all.

Our luggage loaded in the van, I stared once more at the Acropolis, standing guard on its rocky hill; it watched me back. “Beauty and the flame of life,” actress Eleanora Duse had called the glorious site. We drove off, and I focused my gaze back to reality and away from the ancient citadel—because it was easier leaving beauty that way.

Tension tightened my chest as we stepped inside Athens International Airport. Even though we were unable to confirm our flights, would Husband and I still get boarding passes today? The kiosk answered in the affirmative by spitting out the paperwork we needed, and soon our luggage was taken from us.

As we waited in line at Customs, COVID-19 turned the strangers around us—some of them with masks, many not—into suspects. I frowned at my slit-eyed assessment of the citizens of the world waiting in line with me. Would this be my new life, distrusting others for what they may or may not carry?

I shook off my worries. All may look dark—like the shops and restaurants in the airport, closed for now—but maybe everything and everyone would be better soon. Husband popped a cough drop to quell the tickle in his throat. His cough, due to a cold during the trip, would no doubt sound sinister to the other travelers.

After our last breakfast of the trip, we split ways with Adonis and Murphy. Different flights through different cities at different times. If not together, at least we would all be home today.

On our flight from Athens to Amsterdam, a flight attendant chatted with a passenger behind us.

“Soon, two-thirds of all flights will be cut,” she said. “Right now, we’re just working to bring everyone home.”

And from the looks of the busy airport and packed flight, many were in a hurry to get there. Nothing makes one pick up one’s step quite like a global pandemic licking at one’s heels.

In my seat, I tapped through in-flight movie choices, imagining our amended future. Husband coughed.

“Cover that thing up,” a guy across the aisle said to him, grimacing. It didn’t matter that Husband already had.

It would be a long flight.

As we checked off each leg of our trip, my breathing eased. Before landing in Atlanta, flight attendants distributed forms, all of their questions concerning the Coronavirus. We checked boxes and filled blanks. Husband sucked on more lozenges. The wheels touched down and screeched to a halt, but the flight crew told us to remain seated. Two agents from the CDC—wearing plastic face shields, masks, and gloves—boarded and worked their way down the aisles, collecting paperwork.

One stopped at us and skimmed our forms. He zeroed in on Husband. “You have a cough?”

“Yeah.”

He took Husband’s temperature and moved on without a word.

One more flight to go.

We landed in the Twin Cities at 8:00 p.m. on March 17, 2020. The worldwide virus now lapping at every shore, we had left Greece just in time. We gathered our luggage—and our girls—and hurried into quarantine for fourteen days, per the CDC’s recommendation.

I flipped through trip photos in the quiet of lockdown. The Greece we had sampled didn’t taste like enough, and like Odysseus, we returned home in a different way and time, blown by winds we hadn’t expected.

“We must free ourselves of the hope that the sea will ever rest,” another Greek, Aristotle Onassis, once said. “We must learn to sail in the high winds.”

And maybe one day, those winds would bring us back.

Husband and me at the Acropolis, Athens.

The Acropolis photobombing Adonis and Murphy.

Milling around at the Parthenon, Athens.

Delivery driver in Athens.

Husband at the fish market.

The meat market in central Athens.

A man peeling beets outside the market.

Trying on shoes at the Amsterdam airport.

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family 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: Greece (part 3)

At the Grand Leoniki that evening, Dosia worked the desk and promised to heat the hot tub for me. I strode to our room to change, allowing the necessary thirty minutes for the water to warm. But as I tugged on my bathing suit, the phone on the nightstand rang. Husband answered it.

“Dosia said they can’t get the water in the hot tub higher than 25 degrees,” he said after the call. “She figured that’d be too cold for you.”

I worked the conversion from Celsius to Fahrenheit. She was right; 77 degrees was too cold for me. I pulled on regular clothes again, and we walked to the beach to watch the sun disappear into the Aegean Sea. Olympic Air would whisk us back to Athens tomorrow, but for now, multi-colored stones speckled the water’s edge, a path of jewels for our last night on Crete.

Pestilence crept through the world, and its uncertainty nipped at my soul as I packed my suitcase the next morning. Like Dosia said when we first arrived, COVID-19 hadn’t yet infected the island, but now the government was calling for the timeshare—and other businesses—to close anyway. As soon as we were gone, the staff at the Grand Leoniki would disinfect every inch of the place and lock their doors for who knew how long.

The previous evening on the TV in Adonis and Murphy’s room, politicians and medical professionals stated different facts about the virus and its prevention, their words spraying droplets of fear everywhere. Everyone had advice of one kind or another. Even Thomas, the employee at the timeshare, had urged us not to ingest hot liquids, like tea, at the airport, lest officials took our temperatures and found them elevated. Even so, on this, our last morning on Crete, the sun still shone.

Our room phone rang, and I answered it.

“I left two cups of coffee on your patio table,” Stathis said on the other end of the line.

Images from our island days breezed through my mind. Dosia and Stathis jumping from the desk to see to our needs and questions. The two of them—and other business owners on Crete too—always holding doors open to welcome us in. Friendly people, friendlier animals. Raki flowing, faces glowing, smiles warming.

And now, the man was sharing his personal coffee again. I grinned. “You just made my day.”

On our way to the airport in Heraklion, we made a stop in Archanes to find Koronekes olive oil, a local variety a travel article online insisted must come home with us. After the GPS guided us through some of the village’s tightest alleys—no more than a few inches to spare on either side of our rented BMW—we emerged onto a street where we parked and breathed again. A few loose dogs—the town’s welcoming committee—trotted next to us, tongues dangling from their smiles.

A bakery snagged our attention, and we stepped inside to admire the employees’ work on display in the glass cases. As we gazed at the confections, I thought of restrooms throughout the world and how, in addition to relief, they gave vacationers stories to tell. And so I asked to use theirs, if one were available to the public.

The woman behind the counter beamed at my question. “Of course!”

With a sweep of her arm, she directed me behind the counter, through a doorway, and around to a tiny room, tucked between supply shelves in the back. Inside, I groped in the dark for the bathroom’s light, finding nothing. I opened the door again, hoping to memorize my surroundings before shutting myself in once more. Still no switch to be found.

Emerging from the utter darkness a few minutes later, I rejoined my group. We exited into the sunshine.

“Look what we got,” Murphy said. I peeked into her paper bag.

Along with purchased koubaponi and a small pastry filled with ham and cheese, the shop owner had given her free kouvaroli, tiny bread rolls—a specialty of Archanes and baked to celebrate weddings and babies—“for happiness and good luck.”

We entered a shop to buy gifts: olive oil, silver rings, raki, honey. The owner, Leo, tended to us with the same graciousness we had enjoyed everywhere. He ladled up dishes of wild figs in honey for me and cherries in honey for Murphy to sample. Our purchases made, we ambled along the streets with our bowls of sweetness, noticing now in the sunlight ants swimming with the fruit in the golden syrup.

Orchids, chamomile, and lemon trees lined our stroll through town, empty of other tourists this early in the season. But no loneliness for us; we had the company of the local dogs, all of them as free as oxygen and sweeter than the honey at Leo’s place. And they saw us safely to our vehicle too when it was time to leave.

While Husband returned the rental car at the airport in Heraklion, we waited inside. I savored the memory of the dogs of Archanes who had cheered us, a reminder we were never alone with other humans on Crete. But cats decorated our time on the island too, and even now in the airport, a feline sat on her haunches nearby, eyeing our luggage—and us.

In Athens again after our short flight, we caught a shuttle to the A for Athens hotel where our rooms—normally 300 euros a night now cost us 82—overlooked Monastiraki Square. Unable to navigate the large van through the narrow street in front of the hotel, our driver dropped us off a block away.

“I’ll be back in three days to pick you up,” he said. “I’ll park right here.”

The man left us with our baggage and a “mind your purses” admonition; apparently pickpockets thrived in this part of town.

The idea of personal theft was a new one. On Crete, we left our glass patio doors unlocked. But something else indicated danger was near—something I hadn’t seen before in Greece. Masks covered the faces of many passersby. The pandemic was real, and here was evidence of it, throwing its shadow over the city and obscuring the sunlight for now.

In our third-floor hotel room, I opened the screen-less window to the buzz of our surroundings. I gazed across the square to the Acropolis, planted on a rocky outcrop above the city.

Beauty in uncertainty.

A quote fluttered through my brain: “The gods envy us. They envy us because we’re mortal, because any moment may be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed.”

Cheery words, I thought with a chuckle. Thanks a lot, Homer.

But I pulled my jacket closer anyway.

*Come back next week for the fourth and final installment of the story.

Murphy and me (and a lemon tree) in Archanes.

The men in Archanes.

Leo's shop (Archanes.)

Leo, dishing up figs in honey.

Adonis and Husband in the hotel's tiny elevator (Athens.)

The view from our Athens hotel room.

In the elevator at our hotel.

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family 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: Greece (part 2)

I fought through my dreams to wakefulness. Yes, someone was really knocking, but who could it be in the middle of the night? I nudged Husband awake, and he shuffled to the door.

Adonis stood in the hallway in his sleeping shorts. Our phones off, we had received neither his nor Murphy’s texts about the most recent COVID-19 developments coming out of the United States.

“Trump is saying all Americans abroad should come home now,” Adonis said, his tone even.

“Oh.” Sleep blurred Husband’s voice. “Okay.”

A beat of silence.

Adonis again. “I’ll just leave it there.”

The door closed behind his words, Husband returned to bed, and questions prodded me. After only a few days into it, would we have to end our vacation? What choice did we have? And how hard would it be now to arrange a new flight home?

The next morning, Murphy waited on the phone for almost an hour with Delta Airlines to check for updates.

“No cancellations on any flights to the U.S. yet,” she said.

The four of us met at the patio table to discuss our next steps. If our flights home were still on—and they were—we might as well enjoy the day.

Chania, a city on the northwest coast of Crete, beckoned us, but on our way to the car, so did the hot tub. I strolled over to it, imagining a relaxing soak at the end of our day.

I swished my hand through the water. “Yikes. It’s freezing.”

Husband dipped a hand in too. “Maybe they don’t feel like heating it for just the six of us staying here.”

As we passed through the reception area, I strode toward the desk where Stathis sat. He jumped from his chair to meet me.

“Could we use the hot tub later?” I asked, curving my words with a smile. “Seems like it’s turned off. The water’s cold.”

“Tell us thirty minutes before you want it,” he said, “and we’ll heat it for you.”

After an hour-long drive, we rolled into Chania, a city known for its 14th-century Venetian harbor, colorful architecture, and influences showing Venice had annexed Crete, and the Ottoman Turks had conquered the island too, once upon a time.

We explored the city on foot, wandering through a meat market with its fresh seafood and specialty shops. While we enjoyed coffee (note to self and others: don’t stir Turkish coffee; let the grounds stay on the bottom of the cup) at a café in the market, a friendly cat slinked by our legs.

I asked the employee behind the counter the whereabouts of a restroom, and he motioned for me to follow him—behind the counter, through a back door, and outside. He pointed in the direction of where I would find what I needed.

A number of yards away, I took the steps down to the underground ladies’ room and discovered not a toilet behind each door, but a hole in the floor. I flipped through my memories of public restrooms in France and other countries. Had I ever used one like this?

During my respite in the stall, a question jabbed me. Where was the toilet paper? Maybe it was becoming scarce in Greece like I heard it was in the U.S. because of the pandemic. I looked around, though, and way above my head I spied a roll—something I should’ve taken a swath of while I was still standing, not now while squatting. But we live and learn and hope we remember our vacation lessons for the next time. (And we’re grateful for the Kleenexes in our purses, if we’re lucky enough to have them.)

We strolled along Chania’s harbor, the wind ruffling our hair and jackets. The Greek poet Homer praised Crete as the island that lies “out in the wine-dark sea… a rich and lovely sea-girt land, densely peopled, with 90 cities and several different languages.” And the ancient Minoans had lived right here, this present city built on their history, excavators and archeologists much later unearthing the layers of their lives.

We selected a lunch spot off one of the narrow streets. Our server, the only employee there, greeted us with a smile, indicating an outdoor table for us. We possessed two qualities of good tourists: hungry and open-minded, so we pointed to several dishes on the menu—whether we knew what we were getting into or not—since she didn’t speak English.

The woman repeated the name of each item we tapped on. She ended with one more. “Staka,” she said, nodding.

“No,” Murphy said, shaking her head and waving a hand. “No staka. Thank you.”

The server disappeared with our order. She set to work cooking it all herself and returned with fries, pita bread, fried zucchini, tzatziki, salad—and staka.

As we tasted the staka—a Cretan roux dish made from eggs and goat milk fat—we hadn’t ordered, the word serendipity bloomed in my mind. Maybe the best vacations are the ones strewn with delicious mistakes like this one. 

In Rethymno for dinner that night, we drove to a restaurant Dosia recommended when I had asked her earlier where we could find falafel.

“What’s that?” she said at first.

Wasn’t falafel a staple here? It had been almost impossible to find. Or was it more Middle Eastern than Mediterranean? I described to Dosia the chickpea balls, fried in oil.

“Oh, yes,” she said, her face brightening. She wrote down the name of falafel in Greek, so we could show it to the server, and in English letters for us too: revitho keftedes.

We feasted on delicious meats, courgette balls, garlicky mashed potatoes, and more, at the Taverna Zisi. Falafel, however, was nowhere to be found.

Back at the timeshare, the jacuzzi sat in frigid stillness. Stathis was gone for the day. Instead, a man named Thomas worked the desk, his English scant. Maybe we could remedy the hot tub situation ourselves without disrupting him.

Adonis, Husband, and I poked at a few buttons on the tub, to no avail.

Thomas appeared next to us. He might have confronted us about our tinkering with the tub. He certainly said something about it—maybe that it needed time or fixing or to be left alone. Confused, we nodded and left the cold water for our warm beds.

The next morning, Husband and Adonis talked to Stathis about the situation.

“Could we get the water in the hot tub warmed up for tonight?” Husband asked.

“I know what you did last night,” the man said, a finger raised. Thomas must have reported our previous evening’s troubleshooting. “You tell us when you want to use it. Give us thirty minutes to heat it for you.”

On our trip to Patsos Gorge, I imagined us regaling one another that evening with stories of our hike while sitting in a steaming jacuzzi, thanks to Stathis. Wild thyme jutted from the ditches on our drive, and goats and sheep speckled the kilometers of the roadside along the way while we noshed on two popular kinds of potato chips: BBQ (which tasted like Chicken in a Biskit crackers in the United States) and oregano-flavored chips.

We parked the car and hiked a few minutes from the trailhead into the gorge where we spied a church in a cave—a hermitage with candles, pictures of holy men, and crutches left behind from miracle healings. A wooden bridge over a stream, jagged cliffs, and a distant waterfall graced our explorations.

We wandered into the Taverna Drimos at the trailhead, a huge establishment—chilly inside and void of humanity, except for us—with many long wooden tables and benches to accommodate all the visitors who would come later in the season. A couple of employees emerged from the back to check on us. On the bar, shot glasses circled the obligatory bottle of raki, but next to it was something new: a pistol.

I recalled what I read in the Crete 2019 issue of the travel magazine Greece Is back at the timeshare—how the men of old would settle their vendettas by exchanging lead. Nektarios, a coffee shop owner on Crete, interviewed for the article, said something about the custom of sasmos (the settlement of disputes by an elder rather than a judge) and a gun-friendly mentality still prevalent among the mountain folk.

With more of Crete to see, we climbed back into the car. Little roadside shrines—miniature cross-topped churches on poles by the side of the road—marked the mountainous way we navigated on our route to the Libyan Sea. Those markers, sometimes containing religious paraphernalia, serve to remind survivors of their loved ones lost at their automobile crash sites.

Goats and sheep—and their shepherds, this time—also decorated our drive to southern Crete. Once there, we drank in the tranquility of the Preveli Monastery, and numerous cats sashayed by, some brave enough to rub up against us. A small fenced-in area of kri-kri, a Cretan ibex or goat, belonging to the monks, lay thirty feet below us beyond a sprawling Cypress tree.

Thoughts of the Coronavirus never far away, I squinted across the Libyan Sea toward Africa. We were far from home, and how would we get there now? I had read a quote from The Odyssey, and it chose that moment to spring to mind:

… still eager to leave at once and hurry back to your own home, your beloved native land? Good luck to you, even so. Farewell! But if you only knew, down deep, what pains are fated to fill your cup before you reach that shore, you’d stay right here…

Say it wasn’t so.

*Tune in next week for the next installment of our Greece adventures. And now, more pictures.

The restaurant in Chania where we ate staka.

Our receipt. The prices in Greece are low!

Husband and me in Chania.

Adonis and Murphy at Patsos Gorge.

The pistol at Taverna Drimos.

A roadside memorial.

Just some sheep crossing the road. No big deal.

Hanging out with the cats at Preveli Monastery.

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family 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: Greece (part 1)

On the evening of March 9, 2020, Husband and I boarded Delta flight 162, bound for Amsterdam, the first leg of our journey to Greece. In a delightful turn, the head flight attendant called us out of the main cabin, upgrading us to first class.

I settled into my new seat near all the fancy people, recalling my conversation with friends only three days before. We had discussed the Coronavirus and how it had already stripped stores of hand-sanitizer. The singular case of COVID-19 in the state of Minnesota—in Ramsey County, to be exact—might have dropped a dark cloud of dread over the Twin Cities, but it wouldn’t stop our travels to Greece, would it? We could wash our hands and keep ourselves safe, after all. Fear was humanity’s worst enemy, wasn’t it?

Thoughts of the virus flitted away as we nestled into our futuristic business-class cubes. Our aircraft poised to wing us across the Atlantic, we settled in for a journey filled with more excitement than question marks.

My fully-reclined seat gave me a restful sleep, and after our in-flight breakfast, Husband and I disembarked at the Amsterdam airport, eager to meet up with Adonis and Murphy, our travel companions, who had beat us there by a handful of hours.

The four of us boarded our flight to Athens, and after that, yet another flight, via Olympic Air, to the island of Crete. On that final flight, the female flight attendants—brunettes all, with red lips—wore navy sheath dresses, neck scarves, and pillbox hats, spiriting us back to the 1960s while attending our present-day course to Zeus’ birthplace.

Once on Crete, we left the airport in Heraklion and rolled in our rented BMW along highway E75’s curved route. We could glimpse the Aegean Sea, darker than the night now covering us, and it lapped at the island’s shores far below. Odysseus had ventured here too, or so he said, once upon a legend.

After a stop-off for our first souvlaki in a small village along the way, we arrived at our timeshare, the Grand Leoniki in Rethymno, at almost 10:00 p.m. Was it already the end of March 10? Time flies when a person traverses the world going eastward in three flights and a car ride.

At our timeshare, a woman in a business suit named Dosia greeted us warmly at the glass doors, which she held open for us and our luggage.

“Welcome,” she said, handing us our room keys. “No need to worry; there’s no Coronavirus on the island. Enjoy your stay with us.”

The next morning, I mumbled a “Kalimera” (“Good morning”), imitating the passing housekeeper’s greeting, and strode to the reception area. No breakfast was available, but there on the bar squatted a coffee pot and a few cups stacked nearby.

A man arose from the desk and scuttled toward me. I glanced at his nametag, and he introduced himself: Stathis.

I indicated the coffeemaker with a hopeful smile. “Is there coffee here for us, by chance?”

“No,” he said. “This is my coffee, but for you, I make some.” He held up a finger. “For you and your husband. Don’t tell your friends.”

I laughed. “Thank you.”

He grinned. “Come back in fifteen minutes.”

Husband and I were savoring our cups of coffee at our patio table by the outdoor swimming pool when Adonis and Murphy emerged from their room.

“Did you hear those feral cats fighting in the night?” Murphy said. I shook my head. “Our window was open, and they were loud.”

With the morning sun warming us by the pool, we pored over local magazines and maps of the area. What delights did Rethymno hold? We formed a plan for the day and abandoned our patio chairs to explore the town.

The sidewalks, lined with lemon and palm trees, were mainly naked of humans, since the tourist season wouldn’t begin for another few weeks. We strolled past coffee shops and car rentals, a grocery store and a bakery, before spying a butcher shop. We stepped inside.

At our first question, an older male employee summoned the youngest guy in the shop, indicating the young worker knew English and maybe he could help us. We meandered through the place asking other questions too—what was that dried beef that looked like slices of medium rare steak?—but although understanding was tricky on both sides, the smiles of the workers, while handing us generous samples, communicated all we needed to know.

The first male employee disappeared into a back room and reappeared with what looked like a big plastic water bottle of clear liquid and little glasses he plunked on a pedestal table.

“Raki,” he said, grinning. He doled out the cups and filled them, keeping one for himself which he raised in the air. “Eviva!”

We swallowed the drink, and I shuddered. A Google search of raki (pronounced “rocky” or “raw-chee”) revealed what we had just ingested: “A fragrant, grape-based pomace brandy of Cretan origin”—apparently free to us for visiting the butcher shop.

We exited with our purchases of cheeses, dried meats, and olives. Motor scooters with food deliveries from local restaurants zipped by as we looked for a lunch spot. In spite of the encroaching virus, eating establishments remained open, and we chose one where we tucked into a table by a window, the sunshine spilling over us and our meal of saganaki and gyros.

Our timeshare, complete with kitchenettes in our rooms, covered all our needs, save one: ice. Maybe the Greeks didn’t enjoy ice as much as we Americans did.

I peeked into the freezer. “No ice cube trays for us to make our own either.”

“I’ll see if there’s an ice machine around here somewhere,” Husband said.

He and Adonis headed for the reception area and returned with instructions.

“Dosia said we can ask for ice at the bar across the street but to bring a bowl with us.” Husband rummaged through our cupboards and extracted a glass one.

“Wait,” Murphy said, buzzing to their room and back again with the plastic crisper drawer from their refrigerator. She handed it to Husband. “Use this instead.”

The men set off in search of ice. They returned with an empty container, a full grocery bag, and a story.

“We asked for ice at the bar like Dosia said, but the guys there gave us a weird look when they saw the crisper drawer. ‘You can just buy it at the grocery store,’ they said.” Husband plopped down the grocery bag. “Turns out they were right.”

We sipped our drinks—with ice this time—at what had become our meeting place: the patio table by the pool. We had important things to discuss, like food.

“We could buy some meat for dinner at the butcher shop,” Murphy said.

“I’ll ask if they have a grill,” Adonis said. He left and soon returned with an answer. “They don’t, but Dosia said if we find one, she’ll join us.”

We strode through the streets of Rethymno that evening in search of dinner, but the golden light of the waning day first demanded an impromptu photoshoot on the shores of the Aegean Sea. Small shops lured us in, and their owners gave us samples of honey (with thyme) and raki, flavored with honey, cinnamon, and mulberry. We continued our quest. Our first dinner in the Mediterranean called for fish, and the few locals we asked along the way all agreed on the best restaurant for it: Prima Plora.

A server at Prima Plora, a man named Costas, held the door open for us as we climbed the steps to enter. Sleek and upscale, the place was nearly empty, and he seated us immediately.

As we dined on dakos, fish, and shrimp, the restaurant filled with patrons. Costas tended to us throughout our meal and finished our delicious experience with a platter of pergamonto (bergamot) rind in honey along with a skinny-necked bottle of raki—both the dessert and drink on the house.

“You’re not worried about the virus?” he said in his cheery way, filling our glasses.

In unison, cell phones throughout the establishment, including ours, pinged alerts. The four of us gazed at our screens, the urgent message in Greek. Scrolling down to the English translation, we distilled the warning about the approaching Coronavirus into three words: Get home now.

In spite of the strange ending to dinner, we fell asleep in our beds at the Grand Leoniki that night, expecting the rest of our vacation to float along as planned.

At 3:00 a.m. on March 12, however, the repeated thudding in my dream materialized.

Someone was rapping on our door. 

*Tune in next week for the second installment of our Greece adventures. In the meantime, enjoy these pictures of our trip so far.

Husband at the timeshare.

Husband, Adonis, and Murphy at the Aegean Sea.

A dish at Prima Plora.

Rethymno at night.

You should stay here, people.

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family 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 picture frames

I returned home one day to a stack of large framed pictures on the dining room table, all new to me. I picked through the pile.

Mr. Neighbor in a graduation cap and gown.

Mr. Neighbor and his wife.

Mr. Neighbor in a cowboy hat, a heavy gold chain circling his neck, his clip-on sunglasses flipped up over regular lenses so we could see his eyes smiling too.

Someone had printed the pictures on regular paper. Horizontal lines streaked through the one of Mr. N and his wife, evidence of a printer’s ink running low.

“What’s all this?” I called out to anyone within earshot.

Husband entered the room. “Mr. N brought them out to me in the truck when I got home today.”

Who gives away framed 8 x 10s of themselves? Dread stirred something in my gut. “Why?”

Husband shrugged. “Just wanted us to have them, I guess.”

“People don’t usually give away framed pictures,” I said, “unless they’re dying.”

“I doubt he is.”

I pictured Mr. N wiped from his house, this neighborhood, this life. Tears bubbled at the corners of my eyes. Ours had been a strange relationship. What started out as Mr. N’s animosity towards us in 2004 had shifted in 2010 because of a simple card—our Christmas card—I had delivered to him with some cookies. Warming to us after that, the man had tuned in to our comings and goings, memorizing all of our names and the girls’ ages, and volunteered to help when he saw a project in progress, like the construction of our bocce ball court out front. He even asked my permission to call me Tam.  

“I’m just going to ask him.” I strode to the front door and stepped into flip-flops. “And I don’t really care what he thinks.”

I made a beeline across the street to Mr. N’s place and rapped on the door. Voices inside. Almost a minute passed. I knocked again. The thud of footsteps. A click of the deadbolt. The door opened.

Mr. N stood in the doorway, looking distracted like he usually did, a brown cigarette pinched between his lips. As usual too was the dark interior of his house. Did he ever open the curtains or turn on a light? He nodded hello, removing his smoke and exhaling a plume above our heads.

“I can put this out,” he said, looking past me.

I waved away his offer. “I just came over to thank you for the nice pictures.”

“Well, you gave me your Christmas card in 2010. And every year after that. Remember?”

Of course I did. He wouldn’t let me forget. “Well, yeah.”

“I’ve kept them all. Wanna see?” He glanced at me, then looked into the distance again. “Because I’ll show you right now.” He thumbed the air behind him like I didn’t believe him and he needed to prove it.

“No, I’m good.” I smiled. “I’m just wondering about those pictures you gave us. It’s a big gesture.” How could I politely ask if he was dying? I frowned. “Are you not long for this world, Mr. N?”

He dragged his gaze from everything else around me and zeroed in on my face like my question annoyed him. “Nothing like that. My colonoscopy was clear and the doc said my lungs are good. He can’t believe I’ve smoked for forty-seven years.”

A movement behind him. His thirty-three-year-old son, Ricky, stepped into his shadow and stayed there, maybe hoping to hide so he could overhear the conversation. He was stouter than Mr. N, though, and his borders poked out beyond the older man’s.

I leaned around Mr. N. “Is that you back there, Ricky?”

“Yeah.” The young man mumbled the word, still keeping back.

“I’ve been meaning to write you all a letter,” Mr. N said, taking a drag.

“Oh?”

“Because I have things to say to you.”

“Okay.” Curiosity pricked me—suspicion too—but the Mr. N of 2019 was not the Mr. N of 2004, a man given to muddled accusations he’d hurl at us from his property across the street. His incoherent rants at us all those years ago only lasted a few weeks before the police cars and EMT crew came, strapped Mr. N to a gurney, and whisked him away.

“Or we can all sit out there sometime,” he said, nodding toward the picnic table in his front yard, “and I can tell you what I want to say.”

“Our place works too,” I said. “We’ve been meaning to have you over for pizza anyway.”

“I like pizza,” Ricky mumbled from the shadows.

“Oh, good,” I said, like I had suggested pickled herring and finally found a fan.

“So, you’re okay with a letter?” Mr. N said.

What was his grand pronouncement for us that needed either a visit or a letter? The suspense needled me. “Of course.”

“It’s about my feelings for your family.”

Good ones, I hoped. Ill-will didn’t normally allow someone to part with framed 8 x 10s, did it? “Well, whatever it is, we love you, Mr. N.” I leaned around the man again to catch a glimpse of his son. “And we love you, Ricky.”

A monotone response piped from the shadows. “Love you too.”

“Okay, looking forward to your letter,” I said, patting Mr. N’s arm, and turned to go.

Ricky stepped out of hiding. “Maybe I can find a picture for you too.”

Two days later, someone thumped on our front door, rattling the house. I plucked the curtains back for a look. Ricky.

I opened the door, smiling at our visitor. “How are you?”

“Good,” he said, pushing a picture frame and letter at me. “Here.”

The letter was from Mr. N, written in blue ink on lined notebook paper, and the frame held a photo of Ricky, a woman, and a toddler of about eighteen months—possibly the cutest kid ever.

“This is really nice.” I touched the picture. “Tell me about them.”

“That’s my baby mama and my daughter.” He said their names and tapped on the frame’s glass, pointing to his girl. “She’s twelve now.”

“Twelve already?” While Ricky lived with Mr. N, I hadn’t seen any kids coming or going from his house. Questions stacked in my mind, but I let them stay there.

“I might be getting visitation soon.” His eyes gleamed with hopes and wishes. What story wrapped around his life as he lived in the shadows of his father’s house?

“This picture makes my day,” I said. “Are you sure I can keep it?”

He nodded like he was trying to shake a hat from his head and it wasn’t coming off.

I clutched the picture to my chest. “I’ll take good care of it.”

Back inside, I read the letter from Mr. N. The full page of writing was error-free, his printing impeccably neat. Had he written and rewritten it until each letter stood resolute?

He delivered the backstory of how he wished he could’ve bought Christmas, birthday, and graduation gifts for our girls while they grew up, but he and his wife decided it might not look good, and he didn’t want to seem like “a weird old man or worse.”

As Mr. N built his story about the gifts, my reading picked up speed, waiting for the big revelation he had alluded to in person. But the note ended like someone hitting stop to a movie right when it was getting good.

Did he say everything he meant to say? I looked at the ending. “I love you all,” it said.

Were those the words he tried to tell me in person without being able to say it? The ones he wanted to express while we sat at his picnic table or while we ate pizza together? Or was he only trying to tell us about gifts this whole time?

I reread the letter. No, the big sentiment rested in those final words.

“I love you all.”

And those words were everything.

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family 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.

Finished

A few years ago, The Lutheran Ambassador asked me to write a story about the women of Easter, based on the account in the Gospel of Mark, and so I did. They published it in April 2017, calling it “Mary at the cross and tomb.” I call it “Finished.”

Easter has come and gone, but I guess I’m just not over it. Like Mary Magdalene, I’ve seen too much.

Here’s the story…

*****

Jesus shifted on the iron spikes, and his head drooped. From a distance, my friends and I watched—and prayed. That morning, soldiers had shredded my Lord with their whips and strung him up on a cross to die, but now they laughed as if sharing a joke at the market instead of in this place where hell touched earth. My stomach roiled, and I took a deep breath to quell the nausea.  

Salome looped her arm around mine. “But he was going to be king.” Her features twisted, and she searched my face. “He can’t die, Mary. He can’t.”

Another Mary, the mother of James and Joses, peered at me, and her chin wobbled.

“Maybe we didn’t understand,” I said. “Maybe he knew something we didn’t. And it was better.” But my heart clenched like a fist, refusing to let go.

The one who is forgiven much, loves much.

Years earlier, I had loved nothing. My broken body had housed a shattered mind. Illnesses, accidents, and compulsions battered me. Once, I even thrashed into the flames of my cooking fire. Afterward, I writhed in the dirt in blistered skin; my hours melted into blackness.  

But then came Jesus. He rested his hand on me, calling out the seven demons that had tormented me.

“Mary Magdalene,” he said. And for the first time, my name had sounded like beauty. “It is finished.”

And it was.

The crowds at the cross scattered, exposing us women, huddled far from where the masses had jeered or sobbed. Many of Jesus’ followers had vanished too. But my heart anchored me to the soil. How could I leave my Lord to his pain when he had saved me from mine?

Jesus struggled against his nails and scanned the meager gathering. Then his gaze rested on me. Those eyes that had once seen through my affliction still saw me.

“It is finished,” he cried out.

The same words that had made me new.

His muscles twitched; his head slumped. The sky darkened, and although only mid-afternoon, shadows draped the body of my Savior. Jesus was gone.

A rich man named Joseph carried Jesus’ body to a tomb in his garden. Mary and I trailed him and hid behind a tree as we watched the man spread ointment and spices onto fresh linens. And then he wrapped our friend. The burial complete, Joseph heaved a stone into place to seal the entrance to the grave. Dusk was approaching; the Sabbath was near. And I had work to do.

I scurried home and scooped sweet spices into a bowl, my hands trembling. I thumbed away tears as I stirred. The day before, I had prepared the meal for Jesus’ supper in the upper room with his followers. If only I were mixing oil into the flour for bread tonight instead of oil with perfumes to anoint my friend’s body. If only I were roasting the lamb with thyme and rosemary instead of blending my tears with myrrh and aloes. If only I had known then what was to come.

On the first day of the week, I squinted at the early rays of light that sliced through the darkness of my house. The start of a new week without my Jesus. How would I live without him?

A knock at the door. I unlatched it. Mary and Salome stood outside, each holding a bowl. Grief had stripped their faces of color and rimmed their eyes with purple.

“I’m ready,” I said, my own bowl of spices cradled in one arm.

Gravel crunched under our sandals, and dew drenched the hems of our tunics as we trudged to the garden.

“Oh no,” said Salome. “How will we anoint his body? Remember the stone? It’s too big for us.” A sob jostled her words. “Who will move it?”

I inhaled a shaky breath. “I don’t know.”

Mary gripped her bowl in both hands. She stared into the distance, her mouth a straight line.

In the garden, the crocuses exploded in yellow and the hyacinths in pink. White narcissus curled around our path. Where were these flowers two days ago? Or had our sadness hidden them? They bloomed now—the bougainvillea as profuse as forgiveness and the lilies as fragrant as hope. 

We neared the grave. But what was that up ahead?

I gasped. “The stone’s already been moved.”

I hurried into the tomb, and my friends followed. A young man, in a robe whiter than light, sat inside. Salome shrieked. My heart hammered, and my bowl clattered onto the stone floor, spilling the spices. Terror clawed its way up my throat. Mary splayed a hand over her mouth.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the young man. “You’re looking for Jesus who was crucified. But he’s not here. He’s risen.” He stood and gestured toward the door. “Go and tell his disciples.”

My friends and I clambered from the tomb and scrambled back onto the path. We clutched the fabric of our skirts and ran. Blinded by joy, we forgot all about our tear-soaked beds, our morning’s task at the tomb, and the spices we had abandoned somewhere along the way.

Because it didn’t matter anymore.

Your quarantine virtual scrapbook

Last week, reader, I invited you to send me photos from your life in quarantine. Thank you for these submissions, everyone; I loved the glimpses into your days at home.

*****

Me, Armanda, keeping abreast of this pandemic! Trusting God for protection and a cure.

Armanda, Saint Paul, Minnesota

*****

Scenes from home.

I’m also sorting and throwing old college materials—student letters, grade books, etc.

Avis, Newfolden, Minnesota

*****

Ann, Minneapolis Riverfront, Minnesota

*****

Here’s Darci and me playing the card game, Hand and Foot.

Jim, eastern Washington

*****

Finding a kite when cleaning out the garage… and thankful God gave us a windy day.

Kilee, Maple Grove, Minnesota

*****

My new administrative assistant is very needy and doesn’t know how to type, but the therapy he provides during conference calls is all I need to get through the stressful day.

Karyn, Mounds View, Minnesota

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family 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 quarantine virtual scrapbook

Hi there, reader!

Want to exchange pictures of life in quarantine? Send me one or more of yours (with short descriptions of each), and I’ll publish them in next week’s blog installment. (Include your city and state too, please.) Subscribers, hit reply to this email to submit your photos. Other readers, send yours here.

Here are some of our family’s stay-at-home pictures. Enjoy!

Husband and a puzzle.

Dicka learning how to sew.

Flicka cutting Dicka's hair. Yikes. (But it all turned out.)

Ricka as a nanny in Heilbronn, Germany.

Life with a U of M art student (Flicka).

Screen time with the animal.

Delicious take-out from Olive & Lamb (oliveandlamb.com).

Expect some utterly correct writing from me after this.

Lala, the dog, living her best life.

The phone call

I frittered away yesterday in my bathrobe.

I had ample time to write today’s blog, but instead I listened to the governor’s new executive order and watched reruns of Dharma and Greg while sampling four kinds of potato chips. (Note: Lay’s Flamin’ Hot Dill Pickle flavor wins.)

Enjoy this blog post from a simpler time when news of the worst pestilence ever came from the nurse’s office at school.

*****  

They say 84% of our fears never come true. That leaves a 16% chance they’re well-founded.

In late April of 2009, I had just finished coordinating the gala fundraiser for arts programming at the girls’ school. While there was plenty to do to tie up loose ends, the biggest pressure was off, and I was living in the gleaming satisfaction of having completed a monumental job.

One day, which began like any other, I scurried the girls off to school and then attacked my to-do list: call gala patrons who had left the event before learning they had won art in the silent auction, update the list of final bids, and make sure all the event rental places got their items back.

As I sipped my coffee between tasks, the phone rang.  

“Hi, Mom,” Flicka said, her voice low. “I’m in the nurse’s office.”

My mind rushed to the last time I had gotten a call from the nurse’s office. Then, the nurse told me Ricka—a kindergartner at the time—had taken a spill on the playground and split her chin open, she undoubtedly needed stitches, and could I take her to the ER right now? When I picked up Ricka from school that day, her shirt was soaked with blood, but it didn’t alarm me. I was calm on the drive to the ER and cool during the six stitches. Today’s call, however, felt different.

“Hi, honey,” I said, wary. “You didn’t throw up, did you?”

“I have lice.”

My mouth dried. My heart thudded. Of all the maladies announced by the school nurse on those sheets of paper traveling home by backpack—strep throat, impetigo, pink eye, scabies—head lice was my biggest fear and the pestilence I dreaded most.

“Okay,” I said, quelling my panic. “I’ll come and get you.”

I thought head lice was something the school was supposed to keep on the down-low to protect the victim’s identity, but when I arrived in the main office, the nurse came out of her room to show me—in front of a handful of onlookers—exactly what to look for, picking through Flicka’s hair right there. And in that moment I cared more about the information than my pride. I needed the knowledge ASAP. I was a rapt student, but while I could see the adult lice all right, I couldn’t see the nits she pointed out with a toothpick.

I took Flicka home, called Husband to share the news, and his reaction mirrored mine. Next, I phoned my sister. She had been there before, and she had some leftover products and a good lice comb I could have.

“Do you want me to check you too?” she said when I got to her house.

“I suppose.”

She picked through my hair. “Uh oh.”

“No!”

“Yeah. And you better check everyone else in the family too.”

I left feeling hopeless—and itchy. Husband got home early, and I checked him. He already had a case of the crankies—and now this. I checked Ricka and Dicka too. We all had the scourge, and the job ahead of us seemed insurmountable.

I devoured information online, shuddering through a delousing video or two, boiled all the brushes and hair supplies in the house, and then tackled the job on the girls’ heads—spending an hour on each—praying my novice eye would detect everything. I spent time on Husband’s head too, but since no one else in the family had the eye for it, I did what I could on myself and hoped for the best.

We started The Big Eradication. We bagged up every stitch of bedding and clothing in the house—whether we had worn it in the last month or not. The stuffed animals that weren’t washable got bagged up for the prescribed two weeks to starve the intruders. A hot dryer was a good thing, I read, so we lugged the twenty-eight garbage bags of laundry outside, heaved them into the truck, and sped off to a laundromat. As I watched countless loads swirling around in the industrial washers, my scalp crawled. The mental torture is the worst thing about a case of head lice; you’re never quite sure you got them all. And your dreams are haunted by that likelihood.

I sprayed the furniture with a special lice pesticide when we got home—something I learned later was overkill. In fact, much of what I did was overkill. But what else to do when stuck with the proverbial Old Maid card for the first time?

I wish I could say our first confrontation with head lice was our last, but our kids go to school with other children. And they’re girls with clean, silky hair head lice loves and a penchant for hugging their friends and having sleepovers. The second time the little buggers hit our house, I panicked again.

“’You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness’,” I said, delivering Psalm 91 in funereal solemnity over Flicka’s head while picking through her hair.

But while extracting nits, I had an epiphany. If “the arrow that flies by day” was the neighborhood’s gunfire, then “the pestilence that stalks in the darkness” was what I was trying to banish from my girls’ heads. The second terrified me more.

Wide-eyed, Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka watched my meltdown without a word. Before I went into full hyperventilation mode, though, I caught myself.

“Girls,” I said and took a deep breath, putting down the fine-toothed comb. “Let’s all calm down here. We’ll get through this thing together. No need to panic.”

They burst out laughing; my preaching was meant for just me.

I struggled for balance. Should I let my girls have friends, or cut them off from human contact to protect us all from further infestations? As it was, I had become obsessive and developed a hidden agenda when I hugged the kids: it was a good way to examine their scalps. And I subjected them to monthly head checks—for years. In the end, I allowed our girls the pleasure of companionship, and the unwelcome pests came back to visit more times than I could count on two hands. But I had developed a sharp eye for the critters and got their annihilation down to an efficient system.

Eventually, worn down by life and lice, I made peace with the possibility of the unwanted bugs. And I learned an important lesson: the 16% of our fears that actually happen aren’t really so bad after all.

*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.