Fruit (part 8): GENTLENESS

Not much about this world feels gentle, but here we are with the fruit bowl right in front of us telling us gentleness is true—and available to us. Help yourself to some today.

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things, there is no law.

Here’s GENTLENESS, the conclusion of FAITHFULNESS, last week’s piece of fiction I wrote for you.

*****

She stared at her feet. The sun danced through the open door, and his shadow passed through it too, stopping in front of her.

How could he come here?

She felt a finger under her chin, raising it. He was too good for her house, her gaze, but she looked at him anyway.

His eyes—worn at the edges—smiled. “I’m here.”

The reality of her surroundings stabbed her: floor boards warped by storm waters, tiles shattered by abuse, and wallpaper beaten up by life—all a far cry from the glorious architectural model he had created. She tensed, bracing herself for accusations.

He pointed to the kitchen. “May I?”

She nodded, and he bustled into the other room with his tool bag. A tool bag? She hiked an eyebrow and followed him.

He worked throughout the afternoon and evening, replacing the kitchen cabinetry and countertops, installing a marble sink and new faucet, tearing up the old tile and laying new. Stunned by his precision and artistry, she observed his quick work. Who could accomplish this much in a day? Exhausted, she dragged herself into the living room, sank into the dusty sofa, and curled into a ball.

She awoke to one small lamp glowing in the room. The darkness outside snuffed out the rest of the world. What time was it? Had she slept hours—or days? He appeared in front of her, holding a tray, the same smile from earlier playing in his eyes. “Eat. And then we’ll talk.”

He prepared food for her too? She devoured the delicate pastry crust, filled with savory vegetables and meat, and drank the juice that tasted like exotic fruits with honey. Had she ever been so hungry or thirsty? Finally satisfied, she dabbed her mouth with a napkin.

He settled into an armchair near her. And then we’ll talk. Her heart sank. Would the shredding words come now? After the kitchen renovation and delicious meal, would he slice her to pieces for all of her sins?

He spoke, his voice rich and musical, and explained his plans for her house. Only the best for his beloved, he said. Warmth filled her chest.

He stood and extended his hand. “Come. Let’s go for a walk.”

Old fears slithered in again; things out there in the dark had snatched her away before. “I’d rather stay inside.”

“I’m here.” The soft eyes, the steady gaze. Love in flesh.

She put out both her hands, and he drew her to himself. Tears spilled from her eyes; he thumbed them away.

A beat of silence—peace too.

“Okay,” she said, “we can go now.”

One night in the new place, she turned over in bed, restless. Memories of the old life tiptoed in—the ones that left marks in her soul. Regret climbed onto the mattress next to her, and it might as well; she had made her bed, hadn’t she?

The next morning, ragged from the sleepless hours, she held her cup of coffee in the sunroom and stared at a wall. When he sat next to her, though, Regret skittered away.

She set down her cup and grasped his hand. “Thank you.”

“I have something to show you.” He stood and led the way up the spiral staircase and into the ballroom on the second floor. She hadn’t visited that room in a while; her knees and hips hurt too much for the climb, and she was satisfied living on the house’s first level.

He escorted her to the east side of the room, which was covered with windows. The early sun flooded the space, drenching the parquet floor.

She looked through the glass and frowned. “But this is a different view.”

“Yes.” He ran his hand along the wood trim and eyed her. “I washed the windows.”

A cluster of ladies walked at a brisk clip on the road beyond her driveway. A young man and woman ambled by too, pushing a stroller.

She tucked a piece of hair behind an ear. “Have people always passed by here?”

He nodded. “Always.”

“But I haven’t seen anyone out there before.” She stepped closer to the world outside, squinting.

“You weren’t looking.”

Her eyes were open now.

Over the years, he mended the house, room by room. He breathed new life into the old and restored the broken pieces to wholeness. Neighbors noticed the change.

“Good work.” They smiled and congratulated her. “You’ve really pulled it together.”

She held up a hand. “No. It was all him.”

The years creased her face, but his beauty in her life was louder. Her joints ached now, but his strength was enough for the two of them. They shared coffee in the mornings; they strolled together on the gravel road or in the garden in the evenings. She tried to recall life before him, but her old self was too blurry to make out anymore.

One day, her doctor gave her the kind of news a person dreads throughout life.

She twisted a tissue in her hands. “How much time do I have?”

“It’s hard to say, really, since everyone’s different.” The doctor bunched her lips to one side. “Six months?”

“Oh.” Her chin wobbled. As usual, though, there he was, sitting beside her. She gazed at him. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

His eyes smiled again. “I’m here.”

The doctor cocked her head. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.” She stood, looping her purse on her arm. “Thank you.”

In the following months, illness gnawed away at her life, but her house grew more beautiful. In his gentleness, he worked at it because as long as she breathed, he had a plan.

On their walk one day, she plodded along. Everything hurt now, but if she stopped moving, she might never move again.

“This is hard,” she said, “and I’m scared.”

“I know.” He curved his arm around her, pulling her snug to his side.

She heard his heart beat. “Don’t leave me.”

His eyes still smiled. “I’m here.”

She squeezed him back as much as she could. “I love you too.”

*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.

Fruit (part 7): FAITHFULNESS

Years ago, I wrote this piece of fiction. It’s about the seventh fruit in the bowl.

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things, there is no law.

In this fickle culture, faithfulness is irresistible. Enjoy it. It’s for you.

*****

“I love you,” he said.

She frowned, shaking her head. He had said it so many times his message trickled off, and she couldn’t hear it anymore—like a waterfall so beautiful the eye grows tired of it. To accept a love like that required action, and she refused to be forced to pay it back.

She ignored what she heard around town about his affections for her, but the buzz became too much. Gritting her teeth, she abandoned her old house in the country, her town, and him—not that she had ever been with him. From a young age, she had just thought she should be.

While she struggled for a different life in a far-off place, word came back to her about him. He worked in construction and renovations, and she heard his hands dripped blood for her. But it must have been meant for someone else, whatever it was he was building when he hurt himself. Why would he create something special for her? She was already gone.

She sought love elsewhere on her own terms—the kind of love that matched hers—and found it came in many packages: frightening, complicated, exacting. But those loves took her farther than she wanted to go and kept her longer than she intended to stay. At last, she left them—all of them. But the years were eaten up, and she was dry and used, her looks faded.

Now who would want her?

Through the grapevine, she again heard talk of his faithfulness. Maybe the story of his love had always been told, but since she was at the end of herself, her hearing had sharpened. People said he wanted her, he had built something for her, and it was finished. And now he waited for her to come home.

She was curious.

One day, she hopped into her car. She would drive back to look at the old property. Maybe the thing he had made for her—the thing that had caused his wounds—was waiting there.

After many hours, she steered the car onto the well-known, winding road. And there it was: her old, broken-down house. She pulled into the driveway, put the car into park, and stared. A wave of failure sloshed over her. She had never been able to maintain the property alone, and it was worse than ever, this home she had never invited him to enter. He had knocked many times, but his love for her was too pure, too undeserved—and her place was always such a mess. She sighed.

But what was that ahead? She squinted. Off to the side, in a pool of sunlight, stood a small structure.  

She turned off the engine and climbed from the car, her gaze trained on whatever it was. As she approached, she saw the form was made of wood. An architectural model. A replica of the dilapidated house looming only yards away. But it was different. Beautiful windows replaced the dingy, slanted ones of the original. She peered at the craftsmanship of the miniature: the trim work, the crown molding, the costly tile, the exotic wood floors—everything she wanted. He had thought of it all. Even the smallest details were healed.

As she drank in the hope, something rustled behind her. His warm gaze rested on her back. And for the first time, she wanted it. She couldn’t turn around now, though; she hadn’t showered or put on makeup. She dashed through the old house’s unlocked front door, slammed it behind her, and dropped onto the tattered sofa, causing a plume of dust to rise. Her heart hammered.  

A knock at the door. That familiar knock.

What now? She had nothing left and no energy to move. But maybe it was time.

She stood, strode across the room, and unclasped the door.

“Come in,” she said.  

(To be continued next week…)

*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.

Fruit (part 6): GOODNESS

When life tastes rotten, here’s a fruit that comforts. Maybe we need it more than ever right now.

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things, there is no law.

In 2016, I wrote this story about a very special woman. She’s gone now, but the impact of her life is far from over.

*****

“You’ll have some sugar twists,” she said to us kids.

Hosts usually shaped those kinds of sentences into questions, but not at that old farmhouse. Grandma’s sugar twists were a foregone conclusion and meant to be washed down with ample amounts of hot cocoa.

That day and a thousand days like it, my siblings and I scrambled into chairs around Grandma’s Formica kitchen table while she lifted the cover off a container of her baked treats. She scooped some homemade cocoa mix into plastic mugs for all of us. Her slippers scraped the linoleum as she shuffled the few steps to the wood stove to fetch the screaming tea kettle. She returned and filled each of our cups with hot water. The job accomplished, she settled into her chair.

“Now let me look at you.” Grandma’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she watched us eat. She reached into her craft basket and pulled out her newest tatting project. 

My brother brushed crumbs from his mouth. “How are you doing, Grandma?”

“I can’t kick about a thing.” She smiled, poking the tatting shuttle in and out of the strands of thread she held. There was nothing dainty about Grandma’s hands, but delicate art came from them anyway.

Gifts flowed from her crochet hook, knitting needles, and sewing machine too. Because of her industrious hours, lacy snowflakes hung on our Christmas tree, and slippers and scarves warmed us. And long before Mattel introduced the black Barbie, Grandma sewed us dolls of many colors.

Besides the treats and gifts, Grandma doled out her own brand of medical attention, when needed. And one summer day when I was ten, I needed it. Some of us cousins wanted to swim in the ditches, but we hadn’t thought to bring swimsuits to Grandma’s. She found us T-shirts and boxer shorts, though, and solved the dilemma. So, in Grandpa’s old underwear, we swam through the culverts that ran under the road, and we slimed around in the cattails. After we exhausted our fun, I felt something scratchy in my eye. I complained to Grandma.

“Go lie down on the davenport.” She dug around in a kitchen drawer.

I followed her instructions, placing my head on the armrest of the couch in the living room, and waited.

In a minute, Grandma hustled to me with a wooden matchstick in her hand. “Now hold still.”

A match? What was going to happen to me? And would it hurt?

It all happened so fast; she picked up my eyelashes, tucked them around the matchstick, and rolled back my eyelid.

“I can’t blink.” I squirmed. “This feels funny.”

“Almost through.” Grandma’s finger came at my eye and brushed out the offending speck. She unfurled my eyelid and let me go. Life was good again.

As a child, I thought about Grandma, the producer of treats, homemade toys, and thirty-two cousins for my entertainment. But as an adult, I thought about Grandma, the woman. She had given birth to eleven children whom she raised with Grandpa in Newfolden, Minnesota, in an old farmhouse made up of different additions—completed over the years—and cobbled together into one dwelling which was nestled on a plot of land in the country. And there, Grandma developed a reputation: she befriended anyone and cooked for everyone. Neighbor ladies would tote their children to her for visits that lasted all day and into the evening. She housed people who had suffered car accidents and house fires. And when her kids’ school bus went into a ditch across the road during a blizzard one winter, all the students trudged to her house where she fed them creamed peas on baking powder biscuits until their stomachs were full.

One day in the 1960s, the county social worker drove out to Grandma and Grandpa’s place to ask them to be foster parents. They declined. Their home was too small, they said, and not nice enough. But the man said it was perfect, and knowing Grandma’s heart, he added that if they couldn’t take in kids, those troubled ones would be sent away to a home for juvenile delinquents. After the social worker’s visit, my grandparents gained more children whom they loved for the rest of their lives.

Grandma’s goodness marked her days. She was a sounding board for many discontented wives and floundering people. She mailed hundreds of greeting cards each year, wrote letters to those who were in jail, and sewed quilts for mothers whose babies had been “born out of wedlock”, because churches didn’t throw baby showers for them in those days. And for two years in the 1970s, she took care of several of my cousins—and their baby sister, born two months early—when their mother died of leukemia a few weeks after giving birth. 

In 2001 at the age of ninety, Grandma passed away. Mourners grieved the loss of her and the loss of her prayers for them. But stories of her bolstered us. Some called her “the neighborhood social worker.” One friend said, “When she looked at my children, she saw they were people.” And another told the story of when her three-year-old boy met Grandma. Enthralled by her from the start, he had whispered to his mother, “Is she Jesus?”

Goodness comes in different forms and in unlikely times and places throughout our lives. But in the days of my childhood and beyond, goodness was never far away. It lived on a plot of land out in the country in that old farmhouse.

Some of Grandma’s handiwork.

*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.

Fruit (part 5): KINDNESS

Delicious and refreshing, today’s fruit, kindness, tastes really good to me today. I’ve been able to pluck it from the bowl to give others, and others have served it to me too.

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things, there is no law.

Enjoy today’s story about a stroll that turned into an adventure.

*****

“I’m taking the dog for a walk.” I clipped the leash on Lala. “Anyone wanna join me?”

“I will.” Flicka stepped into her shoes by the door, and the three of us set off.

The first walk of spring always reveals what winter tries to hide under its pristine covering. After the melt, we witness the naked truth of inner-city living. Old chip bags and candy wrappers speckle sidewalks, and four months of doggy-doo pepper the boulevard in front of that one house.

Our enthusiasm not dampened by our surroundings that day, we breathed in air that hinted at gardens and sandals, barbecues and bike rides. And Lala trotted along between Flicka and me, her nose twitching; her world of smells was new again.

Up ahead, two young men stood on the corner of the next block. Soon, we would reach them, but Lala was uneasy near strangers when on her leash; I would cut across the street before getting too close. One of the men motioned to me and called out something I couldn’t decipher. People had approached me before on that corner—and I hadn’t had spare change on me then either.

“I didn’t catch that,” I said to him when we were near enough. Lala’s fur stood in a ridge along her spine.

“Do you live on this block?” His gaze darted to something behind me, his expression etched with urgency. His friend shifted his feet, wearing the same anxious look.

“No.” I furrowed my brow. “Why?”

“There was a baby in the street back there.” He pointed behind us. “Maybe you could get him?”

I squinted in the direction he indicated and glimpsed the jerky steps of a toddler in a green coat half a block away and across the street. The little one climbed onto the curb and wobbled to his feet on the sidewalk. A van pulled up next to us. The passenger side window lowered, revealing four women inside.

“There’s a baby alone outside back there.” The driver’s words came out choppy as she thumbed in the same location. “Did you see him?”

The young men nodded.

“I’ll go,” I said.

The woman in the passenger seat jumped out, her mouth a straight line. She jogged across the street toward the spot where we had all spied the toddler.

Before joining the search, I waved to the two men. “You guys are the best.”

Flicka, Lala, and I began the hunt. But where was the little one now? We scanned the sidewalks and street. Nothing. He couldn’t have wandered far. We caught up to the woman from the van.

“He was just here.” She scowled, hands on her hips. “Now he’s gone.”

We combed the nearby yards together. As the seconds ticked by, worry squeezed my chest.

“Over there.” The woman pointed to a house.

Inside the home—and standing at the picture window—was the baby in green. He pressed his forehead and palms against the glass and stared back at us.

I exhaled tension, and my concern fluttered away. “Thank goodness.”

The driver of the van circled back to pick up her friend. And Flicka, Lala, and I strode home.

Each day holds things we hardly notice: cups of coffee and hot showers, dog walks and grocery runs. But acts of kindness perk up the mundane, don’t they? During that first walk of spring all those years ago, a tiny neighbor in a green coat rattled the lives of eight people for two minutes on one block in North Minneapolis. And just like that, our priorities melded. We rallied forces so even the smallest among us was safe.

Kindness does big things. And it makes sure we all find our way home.

*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.

Fruit (part 4): PATIENCE

Memories of the building of The Wall tighten the muscles in my neck and elevate my heart rate. And they tap me on the arm, reminding me that in the patience game, I’ve still got a ways to go.

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things, there is no law.

It’s not for the faint of heart; patience is a tough piece to swallow in this bowl of fruit.

The results, though? As pretty as a flourishing garden. You’ll see what I mean in my story below.

*****

One day in 2014, while wandering through the magical world of Pinterest, I saw it: the best retaining wall in the world. It was constructed of cinder blocks, with some of the blocks turned now and then—jutting out of the wall—for use as planters. The unique idea was us. If we made this wall in our yard, no one would own one quite like it or like it enough to want one. But Husband and I had never been accused of fitting in, and I had long ago lost the taste for it anyway.

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

He nodded. “I could do that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*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.

Fruit (part 3): PEACE

I type this blog while sitting on the porch on a warm October evening in 2020. Somewhere in our neighborhood, gunshots tatter the air—again. And I’m tired.

Why can’t we all just get along?

Back to the fruit bowl I go, eyeing its third offering now.

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things, there is no law.

Today’s story happened about five years ago, but its truth still holds.

PEACE.

*****

Latika, our one-year-old houseguest, bounced in the Johnny Jump Up mounted in the kitchen doorway. Smiling, she banged a plastic measuring cup on the tray in front of her while I stood at the kitchen counter arranging the frozen potato rounds on the meat mixture in the baking dish. My girls had reminded me I hadn’t made the Minnesota staple in months, and would I do it tonight? I smiled at the normalcy of Tater Tot Hotdish, the exuberant baby bobbing near me, and the family being home together for the evening. The humble, simple, peaceful life.

POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!

The blasts outside jarred me and brought to mind Fireworks or Gunshots?, a game we Northsiders too often played. But this time was easy; the higher-pitched crack of each report told me the answer. I flew to the kitchen window. Our dog, Lala, stood erect outside at the back gate, and her strident barks and raised hair told me she had chosen the same answer I had.

A young man dashed from the rental property across the alley. He darted looks in both directions, his right hand under his t-shirt—the fabric revealing the outline of a gun. He jogged down the alley to the north and disappeared.

I deserted my lookout and rushed into the living room where Husband was parked in a chair. I jabbed my thumb toward the kitchen.

“Those were gunshots. And I just saw the shooter.” I rattled off the details.

“Okay.” Husband stood up, strode from the room, and exited the house.

Within seconds, sirens wailed. I lifted the baby from her seat, planted her on my hip, and looked out the window again. A squad car zoomed through the alley, and a second one stopped by our garage. Two officers emerged, and they spoke with Husband for a few minutes. He poked his head into the house. “I told the police what you saw. They want to talk to you.”

I handed the baby to Flicka and stepped outside. An ambulance arrived, its lights flashing. A police officer stretched yellow tape across the alley.

Another officer ambled toward me. “So, you saw the guy?”

“I heard five shots, looked out the window, and saw him run out of there.” I pointed at the rental property. “He went north.”

“What did he look like?”

I described the perpetrator, recounting how the man’s hand was hidden under his shirt.

He nodded. “What color shirt?”

I tilted my head and frowned. “I don’t remember. I was watching his hand—and where he ran. I could tell he had a gun.”

“But you don’t remember the color of his shirt?”

Was it dark—maybe grey or blue? If it had been red or yellow, I might have remembered. I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t.”

The officer thanked me and walked away.

Husband nodded toward the commotion in the alley. “The guy who got shot is on the ground in the back yard over there.”

I searched my man’s face. “Do you think he’s dead?”

“Who knows? I couldn’t see much. People were already crowding around him.”

I stared at the emergency workers, law enforcement, and curious passersby. A week earlier, we had grilled burgers, and my main concern was whether or not we had enough ketchup. Today I wondered about the state of the victim, lying on a lawn close to our house.

After a few hours, the crowd dissipated, the yellow tape vanished, and normal life resumed. The news later provided spare details about the young man who had been sniped down in the yard near ours, and we learned the ending of his story: he had died in the ambulance on the way to North Memorial.

Shaken by our close proximity to the homicide, I mulled over the day’s happenings that evening. Shootings in our part of the city were as common as Tater Tot Hotdish at a Midwestern potluck. What could we do? Too many people in our neighborhood, country, and world cried out for peace, but if they did anything about it, they chose good behavior’s temporary fix, their efforts shiny but brittle. And too often their plastic peace only showed up in tattoos, bumper stickers, and necklaces.

So, what was the answer? And where was the lasting, unbreakable Peace that transcended all understanding—and guarded the hearts and minds of humanity?

He had stood among the onlookers across the alley that day, longing to be invited in.

And He still waits.

*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.

Fruit (part 2): JOY

In the bowl of fruit, this one—sometimes both sweet and bitter—doesn’t always make sense.

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things, there is no law.

Here’s your story for today: JOY.

*****

The twenty-six-year-old woman sat in a chair at the Thanksgiving table. The wavelike motion in her belly reminded her today was her due date. But babies—not doctors—chose their own arrival times; her three-year-old daughter had been born two weeks late, after all.

Like the brimming dishes of food in front of her on this day—November 28, 1968—she saw all the good things that overflowed in her life. She turned to her little girl sitting next to her and cut the child’s food into small pieces. She glanced at her husband across the table and smiled. Soon, they would be a family of four.

But two days later, something changed; the fluttery movements within her, which for months had accompanied her daily life, stopped. Concerned, she told her husband. He drove her to the emergency room the next day, and a doctor listened to her stomach with a stethoscope.

He furrowed his brow, his gaze fixed on her face. “I can’t find a heartbeat.”

Her husband frowned, and she shifted in her seat. Could this be? Could it mean what she feared most?

She cleared her throat, her eyes wide. “What will we do if the baby is—?”

“We won’t do anything.” The doctor pursed his lips. “Labor will start at some point, but it’s hard to know when.”

The woman bit her lower lip and nodded. If only today she could’ve seen her own doctor. Someone she knew—and someone who knew her. “Thank you.”

The couple stood. The woman clutched her husband’s arm as they left the emergency room.

On the drive home, she sank into her thoughts. Memories of her recent miscarriage pricked her. And now this. What if all was not well? If the unthinkable were true, how long would she carry a dead baby? For a moment, icy fingers of dread curled around her spine. But she couldn’t think that way; doctors had been wrong before.

Late that night, the young woman’s water broke. Labor pains rolled through her body, and grateful their three-year-old was already in her mother-in-law’s care, she woke her husband. The two climbed into the car for the second trip to the hospital that day.

A few miles down the road, a new idea prodded her. She studied her husband, his mouth a straight line as he gripped the steering wheel, navigating the snow-covered gravel road. She swallowed hard. “If we have a girl—and she’s not living—I think we should name her Joy.”

He looked at her, and the corners of his mouth curved up for a second. “Yes. That’s good.” He stared at the road again, and silence seeped into the car.

The young mother labored through the night. In the early morning of December 2, 1968, at Northwestern Hospital in Thief River Falls, Minnesota, Joy came into the world. But the delivery room was still. And no infant cries shredded the air.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.

Every now and then throughout the years, our family spoke of the baby who was gone before she came. And when I was an adult with children of my own, we still spoke of her.

“But if Joy had lived, we wouldn’t have had you.” Mom smiled at me.

“I know, Mom.” I thought of my place in the family order—the one following the time of sadness. I imagined losing one of my own. The thought knifed my heart.

“Then you came—and your three siblings after you. Life has been good.” She nodded. “Always so good.”

As a child, I envisioned the older sister I never met. And I thought of her namesake—that emotion everyone sought. But how could my parents have named their dead baby Joy?

Consider it joy when you encounter various trials…

My childhood path led to adulthood, the terrain becoming more treacherous in spots. And along the way I learned joy wasn’t a synonym for happiness—that fair-weather emotion, dependent on favorable circumstances. Happiness could only travel the smooth, exhilarating way—and only when the temperature was seventy degrees and sunny; during the jagged and stormy parts, the fickle feeling bolted.

On the drive to the hospital that night in 1968—although my mother hadn’t known why—something compelled her to choose a new name for the baby who was already gone. But because of the Creator of Joy in her life, the baby’s name characterized the uncertain and rugged path ahead.

And like Mom, I pressed into Him in my own rocky places too, gaining the same lesson: with The Joy-giver near me, the condition of the road didn’t matter anymore.

*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.

Fruit (part 1): LOVE

These days I’m craving fruit. And I don’t mean the kind you find in the produce section of your grocery store.

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things, there is no law.

For the next nine weeks, I’ll tell you stories of fruit in action—a different fruit for each week. Some are retold stories, some are new.

Here’s your first one to enjoy: LOVE.

*****

On Valentine’s Day 2018, Husband snipped the ends from a dozen roses and divided them into four vases. He placed chocolates next to each and strode to the kitchen, ready to spend the next four hours preparing a surprise dinner for the girls and me.

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

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

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

“I’m a fan of you.”

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

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

Between bites, our three teenagers watched me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That night in 2018, we enjoyed a fancy meal together and celebrated the pink and red plastic holiday a greeting card company invented. But true love doesn’t waltz in for one day in February. Instead, it sticks with the mourner. It leaves extra grain for the immigrant. It cooks a curry dish for a fan when it doesn’t like curry.

And it covers another with its life.

*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.

Death, birth, and a party for the blog

My dad died on September 18, 2006.

My blog, My Blonde Life, was born on September 18, 2014.

I didn’t intend to share the month and day of Dad’s departure with my writing’s arrival, but so it went.

… the day of one’s death is better than the day of one’s birth.

I imagine King Solomon, the likely author of Ecclesiastes, penning those words with a scowl. Death better than birth? The guy must’ve been having a bad day. Or a bad week. Maybe even a bad year.

Life in 2020 is no piece of cake, but let’s enjoy a slice together anyway since someone’s having a birthday tomorrow.  

Happy 6th birthday, My Blonde Life! I’m glad you were born.

(If you haven’t already, invite a friend to subscribe to my blog today. They might even thank you later.)

L to R: Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka and the birthday (carrot) cake Flicka baked from scratch today.

*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.

What happens in the night

I turned the faucet off at the kitchen sink and drank from the glass I had filled, glancing at the clock. 2:08 a.m. The motion sensor light affixed to our garage snapped on, lighting up my peripheral vision. Movement in the backyard. I hustled to the window.

A group of people strode into our yard through the back gate, leaving it open behind them. I counted. Twelve in total. What on earth? They moved with purpose and hollered to each other, my heartrate cranking higher with each of their steps—which were closing in on our back door. Husband was out of town for work and the girls were asleep; I was the only one awake to manage what might come. The two locks on the back door now seemed skimpy.

No good can come of a group of strangers—teenagers, I saw as they approached—prowling in a person’s backyard in the night. Were they headed for the door? Would they pound on it when they got there? Maybe kick it in?

Five feet from the house, the group swerved left and cut through our side gate. I jogged to the dining room, grabbed the phone, and hovered my finger above the nine as I watched from the window over the buffet. The kids advanced through the side yard and spilled onto the sidewalk in front of our home. Their voices rose in laughter. One shoved another in play. The nighttime rovers strutted off down the avenue and vanished.

I set down the phone and crawled back into bed. Sleep was far off.

After that night, I would awaken some mornings to our gates hanging open. Who had passed through our backyard while we slept? Great droves of humanity? Or just a single nocturnal sojourner? It seemed our house, midway down the block, was a passageway for people traipsing through. We didn’t spy any stolen possessions or damage to our property, though, so what was the problem? The question roiled my stomach. The idea that people sauntered by our windows while we snoozed on the other side of the glass rattled me.

Several years ago, Husband purchased security cameras for our place. After their installation, he spent his mornings sipping coffee and scrolling through the previous night’s footage on his phone.

“Anything interesting?” I asked.

“Not really,” he said.

And day after day, his response was the same.

On our family trip in the summer of 2019, Husband still reviewed the recordings each morning.

“Anything new?” I said over a cup of hotel coffee one day.

He shook his head. “Before we got cameras, I thought there were all kinds of nefarious activities going on in our backyard every night.” He took a drink from his mug. “Yeah, not so much.”

But the next morning on our trip, he stared at his phone, his eyes sparking.

“Something exciting this time?” I said.

“There were three different cats in our yard last night.”

“Hm.” Who did the roving creatures belong to? Or were they feral animals out for a good time?

The day after, Husband again reported his findings. “Two more cats are coming around now.”

“Surprised we didn’t trick them with our lights on timers,” I said.

“They’re smarter than people, apparently.”

We finished our trip with Husband’s feline tally totaling six. But while the number of furry-footed trespassers increased in our absence, their nighttime presence disappeared upon our return. The human yard travelers of the past maybe spotted our security cameras and avoided the place. But the cats didn’t care. They knew when we were home and when we weren’t.

And what happens in the night stays in the night. Or something.

*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.

Walls

Need a little escape today?

I’ve got something for you. It’s a piece of flash fiction I wrote in 2014 called Walls. (It won an award back then and got published too. Fun times.)

Disclaimer: if you’re looking for something rainbowy and unicornish to read, this isn’t it. (But maybe it gives you hope for your next home renovation.)

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about the bathroom?” she said, her tone set to neutral.

He snorted. “What about the bathroom?”

After thirty-five years of marriage, she was used to his sarcasm. It didn’t slice into her anymore, but his mimicry still shredded her. She turned away, hot tears breaking free. She clenched her teeth.

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

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

Hank. She recalled the day of his funeral.

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

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

“Well, I’m sorry. So sudden.”

She squinted at his waxy face. “I know.”

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

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

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

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

Beatrice gave her girl a half-hug, and more people pressed in around her.

“He sure had a way about him. That sense of humor,” a friend of Hank’s said, shaking his head.

Beatrice frowned. Sense of humor? Hank breathed earth’s air just last week, and she couldn’t remember.

She couldn’t remember him.

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

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

There he goes.

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

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

“Serving,” Beatrice said.

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

She straightened the edge of the first layer of buns. “But I’m on the schedule.”

“Not at your own husband’s funeral.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry to hear about your husband’s passing,” the man on the other end of the line said. “We read about it in the paper and—”

She strode to the bathroom and peeled back the shower curtain for another look. “Could you come this week and do it?”

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

“Okay. Any day is fine.”

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

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

“What on earth?” The handyman stopped and squatted, zeroing in on one area of the rubble.

“What?” Beatrice edged closer. Through the dust, she eyed bundles—many bundles—of something.

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

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

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

Only about the walls.

*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.

Close

These days, uncertainty seems a little too close for comfort. I think of how danger slinks at the edges of our lives too. Or at least it feels that way.

Yesterday I clicked through some old writings of mine and found this one from early 2015. Perils lurked outside our front door then too, but I like how my five-and-a-half-years-younger self saw it. She had the right idea.

*****

The brick commercial building—lodged between the corner store and our house—was lackluster, and only its changing name captured my eye over the years. In the early days in the neighborhood, the sign indicated the building was home to Islamic gatherings. Then it went vacant. A year later, it sprang from obscurity, snagging attention from the big news outlets. The building had been used as an illegal after-hours club, we learned, and at 3:00 a.m. on March 7, 2013, almost a hundred people were gathered at the establishment when an argument sparked, turning into a scuffle. By the time it was over, two men were dead—one inside, one outside. And the two shooters had fled. The usual course of action followed: law enforcement marked off the place as a crime scene, investigations ensued, and the police issued the landlord a notice of nuisance—the legal form of a slap on the wrist—and he boarded up the building.

The morning after the shootings, we rubbed our eyes and wondered what had gone down a half block away at the brick building while we slept in our warm beds. The streets—for many blocks around—were barricaded, and exiting the neighborhood was as tricky as in the 2011 tornado’s aftermath. When the situation cooled, we noticed mourners had slipped in behind the yellow tape to build a memorial on the sidewalk. They left behind teddy bears, flowers, signs, photos of the deceased, and remnants of meals consumed right there on the pavement. The only things that touched us from the tragedy were the fast-food wrappers that blew on March winds into our yard.

The double homicide was close. But no bullets ripped through our lives. And neither did fear.

My brother, a New York City dweller, called me one day.

“So I’ve been streaming Joe Soucheray’s Garage Logic out of Saint Paul,” he said. “Anyway, a local news story came up. Notice any unusual police activity at the end of your block?”

“No,” I said. “But I haven’t been looking.”

“Sounds like a guy’s holding his girlfriend hostage,” he said. “They’ve got the place surrounded.”

I poked my head out the front door and flicked my gaze down the street.

“Well, sure enough,” I said.

The place hummed with activity. Police cars lined the streets and a SWAT team stood in position. Officers surrounded the house in question, guns drawn.

“Since it’s a domestic, you’ve got nothing to worry about,” my brother said.

“I’m not worried.”

The hostage situation was close. But no abusive boyfriend barred me inside my home. And neither did fear.

My neighbor Marta had a favorite spot in her back yard—her lounge chair—where she’d bask for a measure of each fleeting summer day. But on a Tuesday in the summer of 2014, obligation beckoned. Marta, a formidable culinary force, arose from her chair to serve the common good: she had a BBQ rib contest to judge.

While she was away, two cars sped through the neighborhood, the drivers working out their grievances through open car windows. But finding words insufficient, the men settled their differences with lead. One bullet penetrated a neighbor’s fascia, and another pierced Marta’s fence and skidded to rest in her most cherished place in paradise: right under the seat of her lounge chair.

The drive-by was close. But Marta still lived without fear—and laughed whenever she retold the story about the day she wasn’t hit in the backside by a bullet.

One of the shooters in the double homicide in the brick building on the corner pleaded guilty to manslaughter and was sentenced to nearly nine years in prison; the other had a second-degree murder charge against him dropped after serving almost a year. The hostage-taker in the house at the end of the block was apprehended, never to return. And the police caught the two speeding drivers and arrested them for gunplay on a residential street.

We knew the past, but we didn’t think it into our future. Unruffled by the exceptions who passed through our streets with guns, our area of the city always settled back into a rhythm. No over-the-shoulder glances, no lost sleep.

To be safe, though, we kept our doors shut tight, leaving fear locked outside where it belonged.

*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 weekend (and the lawn)

On Friday night, a storm ripped through our neighborhood, uprooting a tree and pitching it onto our house. We lost power, which challenged the weekend with our little houseguests, and my cellphone quit. And as if the mess from the event wasn’t enough, mental illness ran amok just outside our front door, rocking our block, threatening our safety, robbing my peace.

I recall 2002. I hadn’t even unpacked all the boxes in our new-to-us house in North Minneapolis when the love your neighbor thing switched my eyes open to life outside our curtains. And here I am again, eighteen years later, peeking out between the swaths of fabric at my windows, wondering, “Am I really my brother’s keeper?”

Yeah, I guess I still am.

These days I’d rather take care of those of us inside our house—our little visitors, our family members—and sleep at night okay with that. But dire circumstances outside call for intervention.

Let us not grow weary in well-doing.

For now, I’m weary in well-doing. Maybe tomorrow will feel different.

Here’s a light and fluffy story about the lawn (and the dog) for you to enjoy while I curl into myself for a minute.

Peace to you. May rest be yours too.

*****

Another rainy day.

The patches of grass in the backyard seem to withdraw from the lawn’s bald spots like they don’t enjoy getting muddy any more than I do. But Lala, our dog, doesn’t share our feelings. She finishes her duties in the drizzle and bounds for the back door, first making certain to gallop through the slimiest section of the yard. 

“Wait,” I tell her when she steps inside.

She knows what I want. She raises one paw at a time as I wipe off her feet with an old towel.

“Okay, go,” I finally say, and she lopes toward my white couch.

But I didn’t get her feet well enough, and the kitchen is now stamped with her signature. I sigh and wipe down the tile. By now, she and I have memorized our routine.

“Big dog, small yard,” the lawn treatment guy says with a knowledgeable sniff the next time I see him. “Yeah, you can’t have nice grass with all that going on.”

I already knew a lush lawn and a sixty-five pound dog were mutually exclusive. If we didn’t have Lala, we wouldn’t have all the mud in the house on a sodden day either. But we’ve made our (dog) bed, and now we lie in it.

Later, this animal of ours snuggles with the girls while they watch a movie. She repositions a pillow under her head for maximum comfort, opposable thumbs apparently optional. The tip of her tail flicks the air while she snoozes. When she switches her eyes open again, she licks the girls’ toes like they spent the day working barefoot at a meat-packing plant.

And when it’s my turn for bed, Lala plops down next to me, presses her flank against mine, and gazes at me with eyes like the oceans. I know that look. 

“I love you too,” I say.

Fine. We’ll take the scrappy lawn.

*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 ten-mile walk

“Let’s go for a twenty-mile walk tomorrow,” I said to the family one evening in April.

My people and I had lived the day as a bunch of snack-noshing sluggards, flickering screens of entertainment dazzling us for hours. Our eyes were bleary from TV, our backs sore from inactivity. Enough was enough.

“Let’s do it,” Flicka said.

“I’m in,” Husband said.

But the next morning, April 9, my bold proposal from the day before scared me.

“How about not twenty miles?” I said, fingers threaded around the cup holding my Italian roast. “That might’ve been the junk food talking last night.”

“Oh, I see how it is.” Husband chuckled. “Backing out now. Got it.”

I waved a palm in the air. “No, no. I’m just saying how about ten miles instead?”

I strode to the living room window to gather my own weather report. White precipitation pelted our sidewalk at a slant.

“Whoa.” Husband stood next to me. “I didn’t know this was coming.”

I grimaced. “We can always cancel the walk.”

“Let’s just see.”

And we did. In minutes, a new world loomed outside the glass. Snow gone, the sun shot arrows of blessing on the day.

We tugged on our jackets, tied on our shoes, and grabbed our water bottles.

We parked the car in the parking lot at Wirth Lake, and Husband, Flicka, and I started our long walk. At Cedar Lake, the sun warmed our faces. My down jacket was too much. Unzipping it, I contemplated losing a thermal shirt, one of my four layers.

“I didn’t know it would be this warm,” Flicka said.

Our path curved around the lake and delivered us to Lake of the Isles. The wind slashed through my layers, and I zipped up again. Covid-19 had reduced the foot traffic around the chain of lakes on this day—or was it the fickle weather?—and a twinge of sadness streaked through my thoughts. On a normal spring day, the lakes would be loaded with runners, bikers, and dogs tethered to their owners. Not today.

In Uptown, we waited for the crosswalk light to change, the sun heating the stocking caps on our heads.

“We’re at three miles,” Husband said, pointing at Bde Maka Ska ahead. “Let’s walk around the lake and head back.”

The circumference of Bde Maka Ska, roughly three miles, would put us at six after we looped it. His calculations would be just about right to hit our ten miles back at the car.

I opened my jacket again. We strode along the west side of the lake. A lone woman perched on a rock—decked out like winter—and gazed at the ripples, gray and moving. We rounded the south side of the body of water.

“Look at that skyline,” I said. The buildings in downtown Minneapolis were all shades of blue-gray, the waters of the lake, gray-blue. A world of melancholy beauty. “I’ve never seen it in those colors.”

“It depends on what it’s reflecting—and the sun that day,” Flicka said.

Great gusts of wind ruffled the waters, and the day grayed to slate. A chill took a bite into my clothing. I shut my jacket. Was the weather today imitating life?

“I didn’t know it would be this cold,” I said.

“Didn’t think it would be,” Husband said, “but at least it’s not raining.”

The skies opened up their storehouses and scattered white on us. The water next to us whipped in its hole; the clouds darkened. Up went my jacket, and I fastened it at the top to cover my mouth. I tugged my hat closer and pulled up my hood.

“This is actually a squall now,” I said, trying to catch my breath.

The three of us went silent. It would take yelling to communicate, so we didn’t. Snow blasted our left sides as we spanned the south end of Bde Maka Ska. The winds drew tears from my eyes.

Count it all joy.

“You okay?” Husband said, eyeing me.

“This is miserable.” I clenched my abs against the cold, grateful for my gloves.

Silent again, we plodded into the wind. Angry waves churned. Bicyclists, trapped like us, pumped against nature, maybe trying to get home—or to other shelter. A young boy in shorts strained at his pedals, the squall reddening the bare skin of his legs. At least he had a scarf wound around his head, leaving only a sliver of face exposed.

We were exactly half-way into our ten-mile walk and at the farthest point from our destination. No choice but to trudge on. Memories of labor pains lit up my mind. There was a point back when I pushed life into the world—three times, actually—when I thought it was too much. But there was no getting out of it. And not now either.

Count it all joy.

There were those words again. The theme of my year. My phrase for 2020. Because the new year would be too big for just one word, and I knew as much in December when the phrase dropped into my spirit.

We already had a pandemic on our hands. What else might come?

On the east side of the lake, winter fled; spring had come again. Snow, crusted onto my left side, melted away, and nature snapped the sunshine back on, drying my jacket sleeve and leggings.

We cut through neighborhoods, rounded the east side of Lake of the Isles, and at seven and a half miles, soreness crept into my muscles. Maybe I’d feel today—both effortless and arduous, cheery and depressing—tomorrow.

Back at the car, logging some tenths of a mile under our goal, 2020 surfaced in my thoughts. What more was to come? And if it were like our walk today, would we feel the ache of it still in 2021?

Maybe we would. And if so, what could we do?

Count it all joy.

*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.

Laughing at yourself: readers' stories (part 2)

Two weeks ago, I asked you for a story about a time you laughed at yourself. Last week, I ran five fun stories. If you missed them, read them HERE. This week (our final week), I have another five for you.

Enjoy!

******

Another school day had thankfully come to its end. I gathered my notebook and jacket and happily freed myself from the doors of the school. It was a two block walk home from school. I regularly walked home alone in our small town. I heard my name being called and saw a few of my friends hanging out the girls' bathroom window. “Where are you going?” they hollered. I briefly wondered why they were still in the school and why they'd ask me such a silly thing. “Home!” I hollered back as I rounded the corner, passing the school yard. I was intrigued why there were so many kids still playing as I passed along, taking the right turn towards home. I entered the door of my house with a sudden strange feeling that something wasn't right. Mom looked up from her ironing in the kitchen with a look of shock to see me. “What are you doing here?” I quickly began piecing together the recent events and quickly realized it was much earlier in the day than I thought. “Uh, school's over, so I came home,” I stated with question in my voice. After being set straight that it was only afternoon recess, and I still had two more hours to go, I was filled with embarrassment. I pleaded to be allowed to stay home, to be spared from facing my classmates who saw me leave. “No young lady, you march right back to class.”

It's been a few decades since then; I don't remember the walk back, but I do remember my friends looking at me with amazement that I just left and went home without permission before the day was done. It was a long two hours.

Debbie, Riverton, Wyoming

*****

I come from a family of huggers. We hug not only hello and goodbye, but my kids often just randomly hug me during the day. So, all that being said, I don’t really think twice about hugging. Years ago, at the conclusion of my yearly physical, the doctor escorted me out of the examining room. He stood in the hallway and extended his arms wide, an attempt at pointing me toward the exit, I realized later. But without thinking, I just saw the open arms and went in for a hug. I quickly realized my huge error when instead of a return hug I was greeted with a rigid body and still-extended arms. Of course doctors don’t hug their patients, especially their female ones! I was horrified at my mistake, and quickly released my embrace, turning around without a word and scurrying for the exit as quickly as possible, my face undoubtedly turning many shades of red. Neither one of us ever mentioned the incident. But I feel myself turning slightly pink, even today, at the memory.

Hope, Cataract, Wisconsin

*****

It was autumn and I had grown so many fun things in the garden that year. I had the beautiful purple and colored corn, white and orange pumpkins, and many different shaped gourds. I was inspired by so many decorated homes that I drove by and decided I was going to give this decorating a shot. I already had everything I would need, so it would be free; what more could you ask for?! I pulled a flower pot close to the front door, loaded it with corn stalks and gourds, had bigger pumpkins on a hay bale, and colored corn hanging prettily on the door. It turned out great! I was so proud of myself and my first attempt to decorate for the season. That evening when my husband came home from work, I went out to greet him, so he could tell me how good it all looked. I stepped outside only to see gourds on the ground, straw coming out of the bale, and chew marks in my pumpkins! I was sooo irritated! Those annoying dogs! We had a 1-year-old black lab, Midnight, and a yellow lab, Tucker. Well, they would just have to learn. I brought them over to my fixed masterpiece and sternly told them “NO” several times. I informed all the kids that if they saw the dogs messing with my beautiful creation, they had better stop them. I was determined. After fixing my masterpiece a few more times after the dogs thought it was all their toys, I decided I was going to stand watch and catch them in the act. The kids were all outside playing, the dogs were in the yard, and I waited patiently to teach one of the dogs a lesson. Midnight was the first to approach and after sniffing around for a while, she grabbed a gourd in her mouth, but I was ready. My plan was to surprise Midnight, grab her by the collar, and make her let go of the gourd right where she had taken it from. Things did not go according to plan. Midnight's reaction time was much faster than mine, and she took off running before I could grab her. So, I ran after her thinking I could catch her and bring her back. Midnight was running, I was running, and all the kids were frozen in place at the sight of Mom running. Tucker, the 110-pound yellow lab, saw me running and wanted in on the fun. He charged straight at me, and I saw him out of the corner of my eye, right before impact with my feet. He hit me so hard I literally cartwheeled through the air, and being the graceful mother of 4 that I am, I skidded to a stop on the palms of my hands in the gravel driveway. The kids all came running, mouths open wide in awe. I dragged myself and my bloody palms off the ground, just as my husband pulled into the driveway. I limped into the house as the kids gleefully told Dad how Mom flew through the air. My husband came into the house as I was over the sink, crying and digging the gravel out of my palms and washing the blood off my hands. He tried so hard to be supportive as he hugged me from behind. Choking back the laughter, he asked if I was okay. Crying and laughing at once, I said, “This is why we can't have nice things!”

Katrina, Valley City, North Dakota

*****

It was 4th of July weekend, and the 4th fell on a Monday. We lived on a farmstead, and my husband had decided to raise our own chickens to put meat in the freezer, and this was the weekend for getting it done. He decided to get the butchering done right away at the beginning of the weekend so we could just enjoy most of the weekend without work. I didn't want any part of it. I had participated in butchering chickens when I was a kid and that was enough for me. I'd take care of the chicken after it was in the freezer. It all went well, the kids helped, all the meat was in the freezer, and all the stuff we couldn't use was in thick, black construction garbage bags in the back of the truck ready to go to the dump. We had a couple of dogs, and they would dig up anything that got buried, and we didn't want the yucky stuff showing up in the yard later.

The truck stayed shut in the metal shed and we had a wonderful weekend in spite of the almost 100-degree heat. Fast forward to Tuesday. My husband was back to work, but the chicken remains were still in the back of the truck, and very smelly after a long weekend baking in the shed. Remember the 100-degree weather? Could I please take those bags to the dump for him because the dump would be closed by the time he got home from work and the stuff was really starting to smell? The kids were all at VBS, and I didn’t really have anything going on other than cleaning, so yes. As I went out to get the truck later that day, though, the smell hit me before I even got to the shed. It was really bad! It was a good thing it was going today. I drove the 20 miles to the dump, thinking it might air out a little on the drive, but no. As I pulled into the dump to unload, one of the workers came to help me, and he was immediately hit hard by the smell! “What do you have in there?” he asked. Embarrassed, (what hicks he would think we were, especially if I told him what it was) “Just garbage that was sitting out all weekend.”

I got out of there as fast as I could. I thought I better go get a car wash. That would get rid of whatever smell was left. I pulled up at the gas station, and there was a line at the car wash. I would just get gas first. I got out to get gas. It still really smelled! The guy across the pump from me made a face, “What do you have in there, a dead body?!” I wanted to die. “I just went to the dump,” I said. Thankfully I could pay with a credit card and hurry up and get in the car wash. I only had to wait for the car that just went into the wash. As I sat waiting, I saw the guy that was across the pump from me talking to the clerk, pointing at me in my truck. Both of them looked at me. I really wanted this to be over. Pretty soon the clerk came out and walked all the way around my truck, looking into the back end. I'm sure she thought I was taking a load of garbage through the car wash. I had cleaned the back end out thoroughly, I promised. She completed her tour around the truck, looked at me with a “Where are you from?” look, and walked back in the store without saying anything. I would get this car wash and get out of there! I finally got through and decided to stop and have coffee with my sister. I deserved it after one of the most embarrassing days of my life. I drove up and parked across the street from her house. She was out watering her flowers as I pulled up. She turned around to greet me, made a face and said, “What is that smell?!” I am NEVER going to the dump for my husband again.

Katrina, Valley City, North Dakota

*****

Over 12 years ago, I gave my mom the perfect story to start a conversation. It goes something like this.

Elementary students are taught the importance of safety, and my Litchville-Marion kindergarten class was having an important presentation given by Barnes County’s police department. All seven of us kindergartners were enthralled with handcuffs, guns, and badges, so we listened intently and waited for our chance to ask the officer if he’d ever tazed anyone. After the presentation, the officers handed out coloring books filled with directions on what to do during different emergency situations, and our teacher created a theme for the week: If You Need Help Call.

My family lived on a small farm outside the town of Litchville, ND. My mom constantly drove us kids to appointments and activities, and managed to work out a schedule to fit all of us—except for one day. Her plan was to load my baby brother into the car, pick up my middle brother, and head to town. However, my oldest brother ended up sick, so my mom packed all three of my brothers and brought them all with her to the doctor, which meant my oldest brother wouldn’t be home to look after me when I was done with school. I had to take the bus home, which wasn’t so bad because our bus driver often gave us candy bars.

My mother wouldn’t be home after school now, so she told me to watch a movie, and she would be home before it was done. Her directions to run the VCR seemed simple, but we all know how it goes with technology.

After the final bell, I hopped onto the bus full of loud, smelly, and scary big kids. Since we lived out in the country on a small farm, my big brothers and I were always the last ones off the bus. After close to an hour riding on the bus without my brothers that day, the familiar big red barn came into view.

As usual, the bus driver dropped me off at the mailbox, and I ran as fast as I could to the house, anxious to watch whatever movie I wanted. With no loud brothers to boss me around or drag me outside for a game of tackle football, I could enjoy my afternoon in peace, but as I walked into our eerily quiet farmhouse, a feeling of loneliness and panic overwhelmed me. I’d never been home by myself before, and it scared the heebie-jeebies out of me when I realized no one would be there to protect me if someone tried to break in and kidnap me.

I went to pick out a movie, but not just any old movie. I was finally going to be watching a movie of my choice and not be out-voted by the male population of the house. This movie had to be a princess movie! But which one? I finally chose one of my many princess movies and was loading it into the VCR when I realized again how nervous I was to be home alone.

Maybe you’re thinking, “What kind of mother leaves her five-year-old daughter home alone?” I’ll tell you. The kind of mom who didn’t have any choice and thought it would be easy for her daughter to sit and watch a movie. But it takes a special kind of kid to make watching a movie into a fiasco involving the police.

I turned on the TV and tried to get the movie to play. It felt like hours, but I probably struggled with the VCR for four minutes. Realizing I needed help, I scrounged through drawers and found my coloring book full of helpful suggestions from the police who had visited school. Scanning through it, I landed on the page with HELP written across the top in big, bold letters. I grabbed the phone and dialed the number written on the page. Expecting to hear my dad’s voice on the other end, I was terrified by the strange woman’s voice saying, “911. What’s your emergency?” After just learning about stranger danger, I quickly hung up the phone. I would be doomed to a life without my princess movie.

Instead of crying, I headed outside to see if our neighbor was in the field next to our shed. I spotted his tractor and could tell he was working his way toward me, but then a white pickup came barreling down the gravel road in the direction of the farm. My neighbor in the tractor drove farther and farther away from me, leaving me to fight off the stranger by myself. The image of a big, scary man shoving me into his pickup and taking me away from my family flashed through my mind, and I ran at lightning speed back to the safety of our house.

Fear clawed at my chest, and I hid in the darkest corner of our living room. When the knock at the door came, I crept up to the window. A big man with a gun. The super cool badge. Handcuffs dangling from his belt. It was a police officer! Apparently my luck had shifted because now I could get the help I needed. I opened the door to the large but kind-looking man. He asked me where my parents were, and I happily declared I was the only one home. Concern crossed his face, but he continued his questioning and ended up coming in to get an exclusive interview and tour of the house.

The police officer fixed the VCR and showed me how to play my princess movie. My dad came home shortly after, so the officer was unable to stay and watch Beauty and the Beast with me.

Minutes later, my mom came in, tears streaming down her face and grabbed me by the arms. I thought she was angry, but she hugged me tight and declared how worried she was when she received a phone call from her sister who was contacted by the police department. My dad quickly informed her no one was hurt. Only then was she able to recover from that heart-stopping experience.

Rose, Valley City, North Dakota

*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.