Silver lining? Sure.

The crunch! didn’t sound like $1,418.86.

It didn’t sound like much of anything at all–other than a bump into the snowbank in front of our house. I put the Toyota in reverse and drove off like I hadn’t just hit an iceberg on our lawn. But I figured it out later when I saw the drooping bumper and put two and two together. I’m quick that way.

The crunch happened sometime in March. On May 2, an auto body shop in St. Paul delivered the bleak news of the amount needed to mend my oopsy-daisy moment. And they also offered me the soonest available appointment: August 7. At least I could drive around in a dinged up auto all summer. There’s always a silver lining, I guess.

My cell phone rang on May 5, distracting me from thoughts of my car’s damage.

“I was just in an accident,” Dicka said on the other end of the line.

She explained another driver had drifted too far into her outer lane in a double left-turn-lane situation in Bloomington. Seeing it coming, Dicka had honked several times, but no. The two cars made contact, the other scraping the left side of the Honda.

“What do I do?” she said. “The lady who hit me is here with me right now.”

“Be sure to get photos of her license plate, driver's license, insurance information, and the damage.”

“She doesn’t have a driver’s license or insurance. She doesn’t speak English either.”

While my brain sifted through options, my girl left our conversation to talk with the woman again. In a minute, she came back to me. “She just pulled up Google Translate.”

“And?” I said. “What did it say?”

“‘It’s your fault’,” Dicka said.

“Oh, brother.”

When Dicka came home, I checked out the car. The foot-long scar only added to the old Honda’s patina. There’s always a silver lining, I guess.

On Monday, May 22, Ricka set out for our mechanic’s shop to drop off her Jetta for an oil change. Husband followed in his Ford F150 to give her a ride home. Traffic was thick and slow as they navigated their vehicles westbound on 694. Husband zipped ahead, but cars slowed to a stop around Ricka. As she sat in gridlock in the right lane, a car came from the rear, blasting ahead on the right shoulder. A space loomed between Ricka and the car behind her, but its driver gunned it to close the gap so Shoulder Speeder couldn’t steal the space. Bang!

“I just got rear-ended,” Ricka said to Husband on the phone.

My man pulled onto the shoulder, which was clear now, and backed up to our girl’s Jetta. He hopped out, assessed the two cars, and pronounced them both unscathed. The offending driver apologized. Later, Ricka described him as a young, construction worker-looking guy in a dirty shirt and work pants. And nice. She admitted she could’ve been warmer to him.

Late afternoon called for a trip back to the mechanic’s; the Jetta was done. Husband, the family’s faithful deliverer and fetcher of vehicles, drove the route for the second time that day. Ricka rolled away from the shop in her car, but Husband backed out of the place’s lot and into another Ford F150. Thud!

Apparently, the thud was enough to sag the other guy’s bumper, and he wasn’t pleased about it. Husband apologized. The man couldn’t find his insurance card, but he later emailed Husband the information, along with his own apology for his attitude from earlier. He even said his bumper didn’t seem too bad–he might have a plan to bend it back into place–and he’d keep us posted. There’s always a silver lining, I guess.

I’ve garnered a few takeaways from our month of May with its automotive woes. But they’re as bland as the retelling of our four vehicles’ fender bender stories, so I won’t bother you with them. What I can say is this: there’s always a silver lining, I guess.

Relax, dear people. This is just a stock photo. Our damages were so minimal they didn’t warrant any pictures.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

Art, art, art

Today, I awakened with a quickened heart rate, a fluttery stomach, and an enthusiasm that can’t be dampened, no matter the forecast. I’m excited for the weekend, and it’s only Thursday morning.

What’s this weekend? The 28th year of Art-A-Whirl, the largest art studio tour in the nation, and it’s free and open to the public. 1,200 artists, galleries, and businesses participate across Northeast Minneapolis at over 70 locations.

So, it’s art that’s on my mind today.

Enjoy this blog installment from the spring of 2018 about an art event in Northeast Minneapolis (not Art-A-Whirl, but in the same neighborhood.)

*****

Last Saturday night, the honored guests lined the walls of the Grain Belt Bottling House. Speechless, they poured out diverse stories, lights showcasing their beauty. I stood in front of each, listening. And hoping to understand.

Because art has volumes to say, if one has the ears to hear.

Party-goers strolled through the galleries of silent auction items, sipping drinks and chatting with friends and fellow parents, all attending the annual art event to raise funds for artist residencies at Marcy Open School in Minneapolis. Cocking their heads or adjusting their glasses, they leaned in and listened to the artwork too, and I remembered I coordinated the event years ago for exactly this: to bring humans together with creation.

My gaze landed on a piece of art—a framed poster advertising an Edward Hopper exhibit at the Walker Art Center. It beckoned me and spoke:

You and me? We’re perfect together. I match everything in your house. And remember how much you like Hopper? Get me! I’m yours!

All three of our girls had attended Marcy Open from kindergarten through eighth grade, and this was our last kid’s final year. How could I pass up this art? How could I deny school children rich arts-infused learning experiences by not buying it? I snapped up a pen, dangling on a string near the piece’s bid sheet. The starting bid was low, and my hopes were high.

After enjoying food donated by Alma, Brasa, Cocina Latina, Create Catering, and Ginger Hop, I buzzed back over to my piece. But I wasn’t the only one admiring it. In my absence, another appreciator of the work had swooped in, slashed his mark on the sheet, and disappeared into the crowd. I narrowed my eyes and struck a new mark. I wandered away, but soon checked back again. In such little time, someone had already been there with their bid. I grabbed the pen and went in. But the most recent writing was Husband’s. Safe. For now.

While Husband browsed art elsewhere, I continued my surveillance of the piece. And then I saw something else. Nearby hung a large hydro-stone relief sculpture of a man’s torso—with only one bid. But wait. It was scratched out! No bids? On something this majestic? So ancient Rome, so perfect. I jotted my bid number. If it came down to it, I could find a wall for it at home, couldn’t I? And wouldn’t it be fun to be the top bidder and surprise Husband?

The galleries closed. The bidding ceased. The pieces were mine. Husband strode toward me.

“Guess what I just won?” I said, bubbling over.

He raised an eyebrow. “Besides the Edward Hopper?”

I pointed to the stone-looking wonder near us. “This.”

“Seriously?” He shook his head and laughed.

A man sauntered over to us, nodding toward the relief sculpture. “What are you gonna do with your man body painting?”

I smiled. When it came to art, I had my plans. I always had my plans.

*****

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

First thing

“Here you go,” I say. “Drink this.”

I hand Husband a glass of whatever it is I'm into at the moment. He accepts it with a wrinkled nose because he knows me. I've been serving him questionable smoothies and juices for years. He'll toss it back, shudder, and go about his day. Sometimes he complains too much and even goes so far as to ask what's in the concoction.

“Do you wanna be healthy or don't you?” I usually say, feeling more like a mom than wife. If he presses further, that's when I might rattle off the ingredients or say something about how his spleen (or whatever organ I'm tending to that day) will love him tomorrow.

In my dogged pursuit of robust health, shiny vitality, and the Fountain of Youth, I like to ingest unusual things. I started drinking apple cider vinegar and lemon juice in water first thing in the morning about seven years ago. I added cinnamon to the mixture years later because I read it was even better that way. No, it’s hot water with lemon in the morning, an old neighbor said, so I tried that. Then I heard someone suggest taking a slug of olive oil mixed with lemon juice upon waking–it’ll cleanse your liver and gallbladder, see–but another source said one should mix cayenne pepper into the oily shot to improve its benefits.

A natural doctor recommended I combine diatomaceous earth, Trace Minerals, lemon juice, apple cider vinegar, cream of tartar (for the potassium), and Himalayan salt in twenty-four ounces of water and consume it on an empty stomach each morning. It would soothe my adrenals and get rid of the parasites that might be plaguing me. Shortly after, I read diatomaceous earth might be too rough on the system for long-term use, so I let it go.

Husband makes us a honey/turmeric/cayenne pepper/ginger “miracle cure” for when we’re sick, but even when I'm well, a spoonful to start the day feels like a treat if I lie to myself. Sometimes I wonder if I should drink aloe vera juice again, but I drank a gulp of it first thing each day back in ‘08, and it tasted so wrong I left it there. Now I hear our friends drink fresh celery juice when they wake up, and I'm wondering if I need to copy them.

I begin to witness a common theme in all my wellness cocktails, and Husband speaks what I haven't verbalized yet.

“Notice how a person has to drink all this stuff first thing in the morning on an empty stomach?” he says. “How does that go?”

He makes a solid point. Which first thing should be the first thing? No need to mention to him I have other first things to accomplish each day like oil pulling (sloshing coconut oil around in the mouth for twenty minutes) and running the NuFace (microcurrent) device over my skin before applying the all-important Vitamin C serum, which of course must be the first product of the day. He already sees my daily plodding along the gnarly path to longevity.

I'm scrolling through YouTube now, and uh-oh. I see something new. Apparently, garlic water is everything and probably something I need to adopt. But when during the day should I drink the stinky liquid that'll affect those around me?

Yep, you guessed it.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

Honeymoon

In my almost nine years of weekly blogging, I wonder if I ever told you about Husband’s and my honeymoon.

Did I mention we spent our first night as husband and wife at the C’mon Inn in Thief River Falls and the next day drove to Winnipeg where we spent our second night in the honeymoon suite at the Radisson, but at $290/night we couldn’t afford to stay longer, so we moved to the Best Western for the rest of the week? Did I say we ate so much delicious food at Homer’s, The Marigold, The Gourmet, The Terrace Club Dining Room (overlooking the racetrack at the Assiniboia Downs), Victor’s, and the Old Spaghetti Factory we had no choice but to belly up each evening in front of the TV? Did I tell you we had accidentally chosen a week in the Canadian city when not much was going on except for the Fringe Festival (of course we checked it out), so one day we paddled a rented boat at The Forks for thirty minutes, and another day we drove to Grand Beach to sunbathe even though it was chilly? Did I happen to mention our Best Western was under construction the whole time, and jackhammers drove out any of our hopes for afternoon naps? Do you recall I tried to nap one day anyway, but Husband’s long, steamy shower set off the fire alarm, forcing him out of the bathroom au naturel and sopping, and he jumped onto the bed, and while bouncing, waved a towel at the shrieking detector in attempts to silence it? And did I tell you how that didn’t work, and maintenance had to come to deal with it, but nothing about that event or the other mishaps that week changed how we felt about each other?

Well, there you go.

Leaving our wedding, changed into our honeymoon clothes

Wonder how I remember all the crazy details in my story? Thanks, diary from 1992!

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

Come spring: update

Remember my blog post last October about lugging my pots of plants inside the house for the winter? How I was worried about hurting myself in the process–they’re shockingly heavy–but I didn’t? How I planned to speak kind words to those growing things until they could go outside again in the spring? Remember all that? No? I was kind of underwhelmed by the topic too, truth be told. But I’m here today to update you anyway because you’re my faithful blog reader. Or maybe you’re not.

The plants are doing fine. And by fine, I mean below average.

For the last six months, they’ve been living a bland existence next to that sliding glass door downstairs. I water them but probably not enough. Sometimes I say nice things to them like, “Well, look at you go!” or “I see you,” varying my tone from overly exuberant to mildly flirty, but it feels a little contrived, and I don’t necessarily mean it. Maybe that’s why they’re just alive instead of thriving. I haven’t done too much for them, but if we’re being honest, what have they done for me?  

Except they brought what we’re calling fruit flies into the house to enjoy all winter. So there’s that.

Here’s the link from last fall’s blog, so you can compare conditions. Also, here are some unremarkable pictures for your Thursday. 

It speaks

Roiling mists, mingling colors, undulating shades of darkness or light.

I’m always driving toward it, but it’s never my destination. When I’m gardening, it encircles me. When I go for a walk, it scrolls by me. Do I always notice it? No, because I’m busy down here–we’re busy down here–scurrying, speeding, bustling. But this nature movie rolls on–even when no one is watching–in its own kind of busy.

And in its silence, it speaks.

Now I pay closer attention because I’d be rude to ignore the present, packaged in its cloudy wrapping. Minute by minute, the backdrop switches. I see Him unfurl the canvas, click through the slideshow, raise the shade to reveal something new behind it. The endless, morphing background for the photo shoot of life.

And in its silence, it speaks.

“I have to catch a pic of this,” I say to Flicka one day when the morning’s pinks are too electric to miss, the oranges too fiery to ignore. But my phone’s camera dulls the beauty, stealing its edge and muting its voice. I wrinkle my nose, annoyed, because I want a stunning photo to go with my blog entry.

“We can always photoshop it,” my girl says.

I shake my head. “I’ll figure out something else.”

My eyes are the best cameras, and my heart the best recording device.

I sit down to read, and of course it says what I see and hear.

The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge. They have no speech, they use no words; no sound is heard from them. Yet their voice goes out into all the earth, their words to the ends of the world.

I gaze out the window at the sky again. And in its silence, it speaks.

Both pics above are from our Hawaii trip, 2021. No Photoshop needed.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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.

Heat wave

In raging winter fashion, a snowstorm dumped ten inches on us on April 1. Yesterday, April 12, we hit 90 degrees. If the weather in Minnesota were on meds, it would definitely need an adjustment. 

Today will be another warm one. But I like heat, so I’m bringing up an old topic (from June of 2021) that warms my heart. Enjoy it again with your iced tea or a hot something (if it’s still winter at your place.)

*****

“This is miserable,” the people around me say, plucking the fabric of their shirts away from their chests.

They’re sweaty and cranky, so I go silent. I can’t lie; I love this heat wave. The peer pressure to complain runs strong, though. Like in high school when my friends griped about diagramming sentences in English class.

“This is stupid,” they’d say on their way to the chalkboard, whispering so Miss Helgeson couldn’t hear them.

To fit in, I nodded. But I loved dissecting those sentences so much I thought my heart might explode. I even pictured one day sitting in heaven—in a coffee shop in the heart of the celestial city—drawing vertical, horizontal, and diagonal lines on paper, identifying groups of words and bringing them structure at last for all of eternity.

Husband walks to the thermostat now and clicks it lower by a degree or two, and I remember I’m writing about temperature and not grammar.

Living in Minnesota, I’m chilled for seven months out of every year and continually scheming ways to warm myself amongst family members who like it brisk. If I were a single lady, I’d pass on the air conditioning altogether, but here I am doing life with this overheated group.

Husband proposes traveling to Iceland sometime and staying in an ice hotel there. I read about the novelty accommodations. Architects and designers have made sleeping on blocks of ice inviting. They’ve even created amenities like frosty cocktail bars and ice-molded dinnerware to add to the adventure. I shiver and close out the tab on my online search.

I saw a YouTube video once about why summer is “women’s winter.” In the skit, the women at the office wear furs and still freeze, their lips bluer than their skin, while the men lounge in front of their computers in shorts and tank tops, tossing around a beach ball. One commenter says, “I never truly understood this sketch. Then I visited America. Now I understand.” Yes, in this country, because of air conditioning, women stow space heaters under their desks in July.

I recall bundling up to go sledding with the kids one winter. My many layers turned me into an immobile sausage. With that memory in mind, I say to one of my girls, “There’s only so much clothing you can put on, but to cool down, you can always take off more.”

She snaps her gaze at me. “I think the real expression is just the opposite.”

I recollect my Norse Mythology class in college and the knowledge that Hel—the underworld for the ignoble dead—is located in Niflheim, a realm of primordial ice and cold. To imagine hell is freezing tells me much about the ancient Scandinavian peoples and what they found insufferable. Enough said.

The forecast promises a high of 99 today (with a heat advisory), up from yesterday’s 95 degrees. Whether it was President Truman who said it first or not, the quote is true: If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.

To twist this adage for my purposes, I’ll say this much: The lawn chair in the “kitchen” is calling me right now, and I’m heading out there with my iced coffee ASAP. You’re welcome to join me, if you can stand it.

This central air is too much.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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.

Hem

I turn the edge in—and again once more onto itself. I lower the presser foot on the fold I made, and it’s go time. I push the pedal under the table with my foot, and at first, it's slow. Chuka, chuka, chuka. The needle punches in and out of the cotton blend. Up, down, up, down. I press harder with my toe now, accelerating the operation. Zzzzzzzzzzzz. A finished seam flows behind the dipping needle.

Minutes earlier, Ricka modeled for me, wearing the dress I now amend. She wanted the skirt to hit her just right, so according to her tastes, I snipped off the rejected inches, allowing extra for the fold I stitch through now.

It’s going well, this editing assignment in fabric. I complete the dress’s bottom with my machine, closing the circle. Now a little backstitch at the end to seal it. Ricka waits for the final clipping of dangling threads, and the thrifting find is new to her, updated for her—a different sundress from the one a stranger once wore.

I contemplate the edge I cut. What if I had left it in its naked state, vulnerable to internal and external threats? Given enough time, washing would unravel it, daylight would fade it, and wear would fray it. Instead, I rescued the rawness from itself, protecting and covering it on all sides. No one would consider me cruel for removing its exposure to the world, tucking it away safely for its own beauty and good.

And now, maybe you’re thinking what I’m thinking.

You hem me in, behind and before, and lay Your hand upon me.

Oh, the best sewing project of all: us. But stitched in love—always in love.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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.

Your fun facts and stories

Last week, I asked you readers for your fun facts. You could tell me about your unique hobbies, interesting talents, unusual activities, or funny stories. Here’s what you sent me.

*****

While at one of the many jobs I had in college, I was in a tall office building riding an elevator. As the door was about to close on the main floor, I heard a man shout, "Is there room for one more in there?" Without looking up, I responded with a cheerful "Hop in!" As he was hopping in, I looked up to see that the man only had one leg. I'm sure my face was bright red, but we both laughed.

Adonis, Mounds View, Minnesota

*****

I am a semi-professional ear piercer, having pierced around 30 pairs of ears.

Also, when I plug my nose, I can blow bubbles out of my eyes.

Scott, Fridley, Minnesota

*****

I learned to drive using a manual shift stick so I am proficient in that. I can also drive a "3 on a tree". I can change my own oil if I have to. I am also endorsed on my driver's license to operate a motorcycle... had that endorsement since 1993. I haven't been on a bike in a long time but keep the endorsement in honor of my late brother. I can also drive a skid loader which, I must admit, is the funnest of all motorized vehicles I have operated. I'm also a retired horse trainer... gotta throw the animal factor in there

Shantell, Maple Grove, Minnesota

*****

I'm sharing 2. One, I am a Newcomer English Language Learner Teacher in North Kansas City, MO. Newcomer is the term for someone who has recently arrived in the U.S. One of the things I love to do is make home visits. I've had a lot of adventures over the years, like showing up in apartment buildings where I don't have the exact apartment address, just the building number, and walking through the dim hallways (I ALWAYS hear the beeping of expired batteries in Smoke Detectors) listening for foreign language sounds coming from doors or the smells of foreign cooking. I usually find my students by locating their voices inside. It helps me to find out the unspoken needs of folks, like underwear in size 5, weatherstripping to keep out the wind from around the doors, or help registering a new TV for Roku. This last week I came to an Afghan home and was greeted by six children and their mom. Everyone rushed forward to shake my hand, including the two- and three-year-old tikes. I was served hot milk tea, dried fruit and nuts, and rice with generous helpings of sour yogurt on it and lovely bread to tear and dip. As the youngsters summersaulted for me on the couch cushions and the mom barked orders for her boys to get out their prayer rugs and pray, I sat silently and prayed too. The nine year old asked me why didn't I pray. I shared that I do, all the time. I just don't use a prayer rug. I told him I talked to God all the time and thanked him for the day. That didn't make much sense to him, since prayer for him meant saying certain things in a certain way, at five specific times a day on a prayer rug, facing Mecca. After teatime, I read a book with 7th grader Wasiullah and recorded it, sounding out the words carefully and left the book with him, so he could practice reading on his Spring Break. Caps for Sale and the Mindful Monkeys by Esphyr Slovbodkina will be read over and over to the little ones in his house all Break.

2: Our family enjoys Grace Theater Cafe now and then. That is where we invite friends over for an evening. All ages love it. We choose a movie, and then serve snacks along the theme. When people arrive, they receive an envelope of pretend money. They pay an entry fee from that envelope and get their hand stamped. They may help prepare the snacks and make the concessions sign. Roles are negotiated for concession sales. The movie begins. At intermission, concession sales begin in earnest. The GRACE part is when you run out of money, you go back to the source and get more. This is good practice for discerning a price, paying, making change, and getting customer service experience. Tonight's movie is "Treasures of the Snow" based on the book by Patricia M. St. John. We'll make a Swiss bread braid to be consumed during the movie. We also made a favorite: Peanut Butter Chocolate Bars and picked up treats that our guests requested: Mike and Ike's, Whoppers, and Sour Gummy Worms.

We are cleaning house right now for our guests. The participants are ages 58 and 54, 19, 16, 13, 11, and 9. Everyone will enjoy!

Jill, Kansas City, Missouri

Auntie Rachel gets her ears pierced!

*****

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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.

Fun facts, anyone?

Today, I want to hear about you.

What’s a fun fact about you? It might be a unique hobby, funny talent, or unusual activity you did. The sky is the limit.

If you’d like me to share your fun fact in next week’s blog installment, click HERE to tell me about it. (Or subscribers, simply hit reply to this email.) Note: Please include your first name, city, and state with your submission.

Here’s my fun fact:

For my second job, I work as an on-air model on national TV at a home shopping network based out of Eden Prairie, Minnesota. I model fashion, fitness, and beauty. Of all the beauty products over the years, one of them was a sunless tanner. About five of us models were chosen for the string of shows. All the women were asked to use the product from head to toe for the days leading up to the shows—all but me. My instructions? To apply the product on only my left arm and left leg.

I agreed to the request because I’m game for anything. Over several days, I watched one half of me turn a golden, sun-kissed shade of July while the other side stayed a color happiest under a pair of snowpants. The producers and directors loved it.

What I didn’t mention about my role as ShopHQ’s half-tan lady was that I had a summer wedding to attend two days before the airing of the first tanning show.

Yeah.

*****

No, this is just a stock photo. I couldn’t find one of me in my half-tan state. Also, no actual sun was used in the making of my story.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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 E-word

March skies scatter snow over our lives again. This winter has given us 120 days of falling flakes—or at least that’s what they say. Gazing through the window, my spirit goes a little numb, like my feet would if I bared them outside right now. My focus on the scene dulls. 

“This is endless,” I say to the people in my house. And there’s that E-word again. 

If I didn’t say it out loud, I thought it thousands of times in the months caring for my dying father, a post-bone marrow transplant patient. I’ve said it about health and dental concerns that span years with no resolution. And I’ve walked like it’s true through decades of stubborn circumstances that affect our family. 

Two weeks ago, I saw our realtor, a good friend now after what we survived together in our home-buying ordeal. 

“We’ve been in the house a year now,” I said. “Can you believe it?” 

“Have you seen a therapist?” She said. “You should still see a therapist.” 

I told her no, I haven’t, but had she? I reminded her she suffered the brunt of the maltreatment, trying to shield us from a belligerent seller bent on driving us out of our purchase agreement. Her mention, though, summoned memories of those terrible fifteen months—the injury we sustained from standing, the anxiety over what was stolen from us, the frequent illnesses from stress, THE ENDLESS. 

I waited in The Quiet many times in those months, speaking the same words I said today over something as silly as snow. But one day was different.

“This is endless,” I said into the silence. 

My love is endless. 

I sat in the truth that day, wrecked by the response, reduced by peace, soothed by love. 

No worth-the-wait platitudes. No promises of an ending date. No guarantee of a satisfied conclusion. Only pervasive, persistent, perpetual love. 

I try to watch my mouth, aware of the weight of calling something that is not as though it were. But when I slip up and let the E-word spill out, those better words come back, and my soul knows the beautiful reality.  

My love is endless. 

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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.

Furry neighbors

This morning, I awoke from a dream about Lala, our pit bull. She passed away last August, but in the dream, I scrambled to find dog care for her because we were leaving on a trip.

Over my coffee, I thought of all the dog adventures we lived in the old place. The flurry of canine activity in our lives knew no limits. But you can see that for yourself.

Enjoy this story from 2015.

*****

One evening at dusk, we spied her waddling around the alley near our garbage can. Concerned she had lost her way, the girls asked Husband if they could let her into the yard. He said yes, and the dog—whom we didn’t recognize—scuttled inside. Her looks were not nearly as remarkable as her odor. She had gotten into something stinky in the alley, and we decided if a smell could have a relative, hers would be the first cousin to a skunk.

I could tell she was a friendly pit bull—beating her tail back and forth when we talked to her—and had probably never missed a meal in her life. She sniffed our yard, poking her nose into my planters and pots. She was a low rider compared with Lala and twice as thick, and the two romped around the yard. I grabbed ahold of her collar and read the name on the brass tag: Ginger. Her owner had etched a phone number on the other side, but the last digit was illegible.

“We can dial the ten combinations and see,” Flicka offered.

“Let’s just get her on a leash and see if we can find where she lives,” I said.

Clipping a leash to her collar was the easy part. But Ginger had neither the aptitude nor the willingness to walk on a lead. She plopped onto the ground.

“Any idea how to get her to walk?” I said.

The girls hooted in high-pitched voices, trying to coax Ginger to move.

“Let’s go,” Husband said to the animal.

He took the leash from me and managed to get Ginger out of the yard, the girls scampering alongside him. I stayed back in the house, hoping for the best while I cleared away the dinner dishes. Soon, the group returned, but there was Ginger—still at the end of the leash.

“We checked with a bunch of neighbors, but she doesn’t belong to any of them,” Ricka said.

“She must live on the block. Just look at her,” I said, pointing at her girth. “She couldn’t have wandered far.”

This time I took the leash, determined to find her family myself, but maneuvering Ginger was like walking a furry brick wall.

“Let’s try Peace and Freedom’s house,” I said to the girls.

We entered the neighbor boys’ back yard and rapped on the door. Their mother answered.

“Is she yours?” I said. Freedom was suddenly in the doorway too.

“Yeah, thanks,” the woman said. “We didn’t know she got out.”

“She must’ve jumped the fence,” said Freedom.

Fat chance, I thought.

Another day, a neighbor across the alley came over with his pit bull, Daisy. He introduced himself as J.T.

“Could these two play together?” he said, indicating Lala and Daisy. “She’s good with other dogs.”

“Sure,” Husband said.

Daisy played for a while and came over again the next day for a play date. And the day after that. At first J.T. hung out while the two played. Soon, though, he began dropping off his dog, saying he’d be back for her later. We didn’t mind. Aside from her penchant for digging, Daisy had a sweet disposition.

One day, J.T. knocked on our door. He asked if he could leave Daisy to play.

“Just for a half an hour,” I said. “I have to leave the house at 3:00.”

Three o’clock came. No J.T. I let a few minutes slide by. I called his cell phone, but the number he had given me had been disconnected.

Since it was just our houseguest—ten-month-old Rashad—and me at home, I formed a plan. First, holding the baby in one arm, I lured Lala back into the house. With my free hand I attempted to wrangle the leash onto Daisy, but she was as easy to lasso as an eel. I started to leave, heading to J.T.’s to tell him to come and get her, but before I could clasp the gate behind me, Daisy scooted out and dashed off.

Worried about being late to pick up my girls from school and now concerned about Daisy’s whereabouts, I hustled to J.T.’s with Rashad on my hip. I dodged toys and trikes in his yard before I got to his front door. Music blared from J.T.’s upstairs apartment. I knocked first, rang the bell, and caught the attention of the downstairs tenant. She screamed up to J.T. He sauntered to the door, looking disheveled.

“You got a baby?” he said, scratching his bare chest.

“Daisy got out of the yard. You have to come and get her. I’ve gotta go.”

I strode to the car, buckled Rashad into his car seat, and drove off, leaving J.T. to scour the alley for Daisy. Before I turned the corner at the end of the alley, though, I glanced in the rearview mirror just as the man caught his dog.

J.T. and Daisy showed up in our yard later that week. This time, the man also had his kids in tow. He introduced them and rattled off their ages—five, three, and two years old. He asked if the dogs could play again.

“How about an hour this time?” I said.

Daisy zoomed around the yard with Lala, and before I knew it, J.T. disappeared, leaving his three kids behind too. Unlike me, they weren’t surprised. Instead, they grinned, seemingly unconcerned about being left in the impromptu care of strangers.

One day, our family was enjoying ice cream in Uptown when my cell phone rang.

“There’s a dog in your back yard,” Dallas, our next-door neighbor, said. He gave me a description. “Do you want me to call Animal Control?”

“No. I know that dog. We’re on our way home.”

Back at the house, Husband went over to have a chat with J.T., but our neighbor wasn’t home. Instead, he talked with his brother, laying out some parameters. The man apologized and retrieved the dog from our yard.

We never saw J.T. again. But we saw his kids and their uncle—and sometimes Daisy who would come to play on our turf and terms.

They say it takes a village to raise a kid. But maybe it takes a village to raise the furry neighbors too—or at least provide them a little entertainment before helping them find their way home.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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.

Winter Nacht

“It’s ugly,” one of Husband’s siblings said. “You can have it.”

Excitement exploded my day. The oil painting lived in the front closet at my in-laws’ house, next to the vacuum cleaner, in my memory, and behind the winter coats. Once the possession of Great-aunt Lala, who passed away in the fall of 2005 at the age of 101, the work of art became Husband’s and mine.

I peered at the back of the large piece. On it, the artist, Gertrude Doederlein, had fastened a card, now yellowed by age. The Art Institute of Chicago, it said, and “Sixty-fourth Annual Exhibition by Artists of Chicago and Vicinity, 1961.” She had penned its title there too: Winter Nacht. Captivated by the vibrant work, I moved the painting from wall to wall over fifteen years in our North Minneapolis home. And without any plan on my part, my décor always matched the colors on the canvas, no matter how errant my selections.

Our acquisition made me grin. Winter night. Sure, I could see it. A swirl of snow in the dark, obscuring city lights and blotting out the landscape. The cold scene warmed me. I raised my little ones around it and sipped endless cups of coffee over countless days in its presence.

But in July of 2020, a new idea struck me.

I looked at the card on the back of the painting again and emailed the Art Institute of Chicago. Two months later, Aaron Rutt, the assistant director of the Ryerson & Burnham Libraries Research Center at the museum, sent me a response. In it, he provided links to the artist’s file in the Chicago Artists Archive and The Doederlein Gallery at Saint Luke Academy on West Belmont Avenue in Chicago.

The final link in the email was to Gertrude Doederlein’s obituary in the Chicago Tribune. The former kindergarten teacher and artist died in 1993 at age 89, her life as vivid as her paintings. She introduced a looser style of teaching she called child-centered, not curriculum-centered. She wore fishnet stockings in her sixties and pants long before it was acceptable for women to do so. She studied painting in Italy and took classes at Salzburg Academy too.

Oh, and her submission of our very own Winter Nacht to the exhibition at the Art Institute of Chicago in 1961? It wasn’t selected.

We have a new house now, but Gertrude’s brushstrokes still spice up our lives, welcoming us daily as we climb the stairs to our living room. As for Great-aunt Lala’s connection? The two women were friends, and the painting was a gift. Simple as that. And now it’s a gift to us, along with the “ugly” pieces of Lala’s jewelry I wear on the regular.

But maybe that’s a different story for another time.

No, it’s not an isosceles trapezoid in shape— just hung up high, and this was the best shot I could get. Winter Nacht, oil on canvas, 29” x 43”

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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.

Olive

“Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.” — Charles Dudley Warner

The projections first showed seven inches of snow for Tuesday, twelve to eighteen for Wednesday, and a final dumping of seven on Thursday to round out the monster storm, which they named Olive.

“I think Oswald would be a better name,” Ricka said. “It sounds meaner.”

Mean or not, we all stayed in. Husband’s days off matched those of the proposed blizzard, and my supervisor ordered us employees to work from home. I pattered away on my laptop, waiting for the onslaught of flakes. Expectation pulsed through my system. I glanced out the window and clicked on weather updates. Winds of up to 40 miles per hour would whip up the fallen inches, they warned. While Tuesday night had dropped a little precipitation, the scene on Wednesday morning was quiet.

I left my workspace at the dining room table, refilled my coffee cup, and joined Husband and Flicka in the living room.

“You know the 42% you see right now?” Flicka said, pointing at the weather forecast on my phone’s screen. “It doesn’t mean the chance of it snowing is 42%. It's the percentage of area—your area, in this case—where it will snow.”

“What?” I frowned. “I’ve never heard that before in my life.”

“The chance of snow is always 50/50. It either will snow or it won’t.”

“That can’t be true,” I said. “But let’s ask the resident meteorologist.”

My man’s years in Aeronautical Studies at the University of North Dakota way back when garnered him an almost meteorology minor, so he would know. He looked up from his phone.

“Yeah, that’s not right,” he said to Flicka.

We tossed around reported theories and amended forecasts. I went back to work to join a virtual team meeting. I gazed out the window. I sat through a dental insurance Zoom presentation. I checked weather updates.

Look, work, check, work. Up, down, up, down. Flames in the fireplace bounced in anticipation too, mirroring my movements.

I read of whiteout conditions, wicked gusts, biting cold. But it didn’t look that bad. Weren’t the winds supposed to buffet our house and great clots of snow smack our windows? It seemed mild—at least from our vantage point.

I’m underwhelmed so far, a friend texted. Me too, I texted back.

But then I woke up Thursday morning and looked outside.

The End.

So, how’s the weather at your place?

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

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

Love week

The older I get, the more I see love as an entity apart from romance. Knowing what real love is, it’s hard to even connect the two—and I’m not sure why people do it. And thus end my musings for Valentine’s week.

The following is a love story I last posted in 2019. After all these years, I still think of Mona.

*****

I pulled the Honda up to the curb in front of Healing House. For the protection of the women who were enrolled and living there with their children, the address of the place was unpublished. I glanced at the placement information I had received in the Urgent Needs email. Mona, the woman I had come to meet—the biological mother—had gotten in a fight with another woman and was being kicked out of Healing House’s eighteen-month program. And now she needed coverage for her baby girl for one week while she found other living arrangements for the two of them.

I climbed out of the vehicle, glancing at the infant car seat in the back, knowing it would soon carry an eight-month-old passenger. I strode to the front entrance and pressed the buzzer.

A young woman came to the door. “Are you the host mom from Safe Families for Children?”

“Yes, I am. Are you Mona?”

She nodded, a shy smile playing on her lips, and motioned for me to follow her. “I already have her things packed for you. I hope it’s enough.”

On the floor next to the front desk sat several brimming garbage bags and numerous pieces of baby equipment. Our family had served kids who owned very little, and the five-month-old twins had come to our home with only the clothes on their bodies, a few diapers, and enough formula to get us through the first night. The sight of the large amount of baggage in front of me pricked my heart. “It’s more than enough.”

“Wanna see Adele now?” Mona’s eyes shone.

We walked down a long hallway to a sunny nursery. A childcare worker bounced a baby on her hip and handed a toy to a toddler who tugged on her shirt. When we stepped inside the room, the woman brought the baby to us.

“She’s darling.” I reached out for Adele and took her into my arms. She smiled at me, and so did Mona.

I gave her back to her mother for our walk out to my car. Mona buckled her baby into the car seat, kissing her first on the forehead and then once on each cheek. She closed the door and turned to me.

“Thank you.” Her words, warm with untold stories, lit her face.

I touched her sleeve. “I’m happy to help, Mona.”

Later that day, after dinner and playtime with Adele, it was time to say goodnight. I whisked her away from my girls, and they followed me into the guest room. They poked through the clothing bags, oohing and aahing over the tiny dresses.

I made funny faces at the baby while I changed her diaper. “Can one of you find something for her to wear to bed?”

Flicka handed me a pair of pajamas, and Ricka chose Adele’s outfit for the next day.

Dicka pulled something square and flat from one of the bags. “Mom, look. This was in there with the clothes.”

A Baby’s First Year calendar. I remembered recording the tender details of my babies’ first years in calendars like this one. And like Mona, I had captured all the firsts too—the first tooth, the first time sleeping through the night, the first step.

Dicka settled onto the guest bed and flipped through the calendar’s pages. After I had zipped Adele into the fuzzy pajamas, I sat down too, snuggling the baby on my lap. I gazed at the document in Dicka’s hands as if it were a priceless artifact. Because it was.

Mona had chronicled Adele’s birth and filled in the family tree. In more blanks designated for the baby, she had instead written about Adele’s father, telling the story of how they had first met when he moved onto her block—just a few houses down from hers—one summer. As the warm winds swept in that July, so had their love, and the two were inseparable. He was her Once-in-a-Lifetime, a good man, and she was proud of him—and Adele would be too one day. Though her words were cheery, pain lived in the spaces between Mona’s sentences.

I drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “We should put this away.”

Dicka nodded, closing the calendar and tucking it back in with the clothing.

The days with Adele fluttered by, and she spent her waking hours glued to Dicka’s hip.

“You can let her have some floor time, honey,” I called from the kitchen while I made dinner one night. “It would be good for her.”

“No, that’s okay,” Dicka hollered back. “I don’t mind.”

At the end of the week, I met Mona again.

“We looked at the calendar you packed with Adele’s clothes.” I deposited the baby into her arms. “I hope that was okay.”

“Yeah.” She beamed, her eyes sparking with life.

I remembered the other mothers we had served during our time as a host family. All of them had bigger dreams for their kids. All of them were brave. And all of them had the kind of love that could let a baby go to strangers for a while because of something better in the end.

But memories of Mona rose above the rest. Her words, bleeding out beauty on the page for her daughter to one day read, marked me and reminded me that in her life—as in mine—love had come first.

It always comes first.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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.