The drawing

“We’re going to draw the four seasons of the year,” Mrs. Young, my first grade teacher, said.

She plucked a piece of chalk from the tray and drew two lines on the board, one intersecting the other. This made four quadrants, and she snapped her pointer stick on each, assigning the seasons. On the top left, she wrote S P R I N G. Summer made its appearance in the top right. Then came fall in the bottom left and winter in the bottom right.

Mrs. Young distributed pieces of paper, her posture erect. A polyester dress in shades of brown and a tan cardigan hung from her thin frame. Her shoes, chocolate brown patent leather, were slip-ons with a square heel. All of it was neat—and exacting.

When I got my paper, I dragged a pencil across it, making a vertical line, then crossed it with a horizontal one, imitating my teacher’s example. I would label it later. I positioned my 24-pack of Crayolas nearby but would save the coloring until my pencil drawings were done.

I gazed at Mrs. Young, now pacing the room. Contrary to her name, she was old. Fifty years old. How was she still alive and teaching? She had turned fifty weeks earlier and had written the digits on the chalkboard for us in writing so precise it was indiscernible to me from the font in my math book.

I jerked my thoughts back to my task. A few students around me had completed one season and were already onto the next. Yikes. If Mrs. Young saw me daydreaming, I might get in trouble. And she was no stranger to tugging a kid’s ear when the occasion called for it.

I sketched a tree in the top left square of my paper. I set to work drawing leaves on the ground. More skittered in a breeze that was stripping the tree of its foliage. A pumpkin squatted under the tree; a rake leaned against its trunk. I would fill in the leaves with shades of brown and gold when I was done with all the seasons, but for now, on to the next.

In the top right corner of my paper I drew a snowman. But there better be a kid by it, if this were to be as realistic as I envisioned. I created a boy. The wind in my picture blew, ruffling the scarf at his neck. I smiled. It was genius, this picture, if I could say so myself. Mrs. Young had asked for a simple drawing of every season, but I was a true artist and would give her a beautiful, intricate rendering of each.

I glanced around me. Several students already worked on picture four. I was behind—way behind. I moved on to the lower left. I shaped baby birds and fresh leaves on new branches and could almost smell the damp earth as I applied the final touches. In the bottom right came my favorite season of all. The sun shone on the boy, now wearing shorts. Sunglasses would complete his—

Oh no.

In the distraction of my creative bliss, I had messed up. It was supposed to be spring in the top left square, followed by summer in the top right. I had started with fall, then winter. My mouth went dry, and my hands moistened, the two body parts swapping jobs. What now? I snapped my attention again to the students around me. They were finishing their pictures, and I needed to start over. Would Mrs. Young be angry? Would she punish me? How could I survive this mistake?

My heart banged in its cage; my face ignited. I had only one solution. I turned over my pencil—pink rubber tip down—and went to work on my Rembrandt, erasing my creation.

The student next to me, apparently telepathic, leaned into my space and tapped a finger on my masterpiece. “Or you could just put the names of the seasons in the different boxes to match your pictures.”

Light doesn’t usually have a sound, but I heard the bulb in my head ping. She was brilliant. I could leave my pretty pictures where they were and just apply the labels to each where they sat on the paper. So what if the top left box was fall? If I labeled it F A L L, it would still be correct, wouldn’t it? Even though mine would be different from all the other students’ papers, it would still be right.

Back in first grade, I didn’t know what “thinking outside the box” meant, but with a classmate’s help that day, I practiced it. Today I’m almost as old as Mrs. Young was back then, and yet here I am, often fretting about how my picture looks different from the others’.

Be a little wild today. Make your picture stand out. And if you want to plunk fall into that top left box, so be it.

*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.

Hidden

My busyness has blocked my view lately, and I needed this reminder from myself, written in 2017. What have you seen lately?

*****

I drew my living room curtains open on almost three-thousand mornings without seeing it. Husband had a knack for identifying makes and models of vehicles, describing clothing down to the types of fabric, and naming obscure colors, but he had missed it too. Not even our girls had noted it, and at the time, they caught everything: the heaves in the sidewalk, the dogs at each house on the block, and the gardener at Ms. G’s who spritzed the soil with fertilizer and the air with his swears.

But one summer day, Husband saw it.

“What—?” he said, squinting out the front window at something across the street.

And for the first time, I saw it too.

He hustled out the door, and I followed. The lot kitty-corner from us was no longer empty. A narrow path led to a tiny blue house withdrawn to the back of the lot, as if too timid to join the other homes up near the sidewalk. A behemoth oak and bushes concealed the small structure. I had noticed the tree and the lawn in the past, but the house? Never.

An older man stood on the lot’s grassy expanse. He whistled to his unleashed golden retriever, and the dog bounded toward him. We made our way over.

Husband introduced himself, then me. “How long have you lived here?”

“Twenty-seven years,” said the man, motioning for the dog to sit.

We chatted with our new-to-us neighbor like it was the most natural thing in the world, as if his house hadn’t materialized—like Brigadoon from the mist—into our consciousness that morning.

“That was weird,” I said to Husband when we returned home.

“I know. All this time here, and I never saw that house.”

How many other things had we never seen in our neighborhood? Where did I place my attention, my perception, my focus? For years I had strolled by the little blue house but had never seen it—or the man who lived there. So, what about the other people around me?

I had often looked at the man and woman who screamed at each other in the street at the end of the block, but I had never seen them.

A woman—thin like a blade of prairie grass—walked by our house each morning, a backpack-clad child tethering her to the earth. I was aware of her, but I had never seen her.

What if I sharpened my gaze to the life around me instead of simply looking at it? What if my attention followed slim paths back to secret houses and city sidewalks into hidden lives?

What if we all really saw?

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

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

The obituary

Today I’m writing Husband’s obituary.

He sits across the living room from me—still breathing—and slurps from a cup of coffee as he tells me the events of his life. No pressing reason why we need to get it written today when his expiration date is a fuzzy question mark off in the distance. Or maybe that fuzzy question mark makes today the perfect day to tackle the job.

From the point when I became a dot on Husband’s timeline, I learned facts about him. Many of his earlier details, however, are blurry and out of order in my mind. So, as he talks, I type up the noteworthy parts—parts the masses expect to read regarding the deceased when the time comes.

My hands come off the keyboard, though, when Husband relays the pure gold, the stories too entertaining and earthy and precious to make the back of the funeral bulletin:

He mowed lawns for money at eight years old—before he was tall enough to reach the handle on the mower.  

Before he hit double-digits, he got caught for shoplifting a box of Hot Tamales.

On his paper route at age ten, a dog bullied him daily from behind a gate. One day, the animal popped the gate open, knocked Husband down, and stood on his chest, snarling, for what felt like thirty minutes.

On a mission trip at twenty-two, while he was driving a van of college students around in Brazil, a truck ran him off the road.  

Before we started dating, he came to a fundraiser where I was selling popcorn balls. He asked how much they cost. “A buck a one,” I said, and my face reddened at my fumbled words. And that was the moment he fell in love with me.  

But these—and other stories—don’t make it in.

Husband recounts the last of the history we need for his death document, and I finish typing it up and save it. While it’s bland and outlines only what he’s done—not who he is—it would please the kind of funeral director who likes to check the boxes. Because when someone dies, our culture prefers the table of contents to the book.

I reread the record of my man’s life up until now; it’s satisfactory. But we’ll keep the warm, living, and amusing tales to ourselves to enjoy today while he’s sitting across the living room from me, drinking his coffee.

Because those stories are too good for the obituary.

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

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

Happy fifth birthday, My Blonde Life!

This past week, my blog celebrated a milestone birthday!

Here’s what I wrote in the card:

Dear My Blonde Life,

Happy birthday! It’s hard to believe I’ve been tending to you every week since you came into the world five years ago. And since then, you’ve grown! I remember when you were just a few little installments; now you’re a big 260 posts.

Sometimes I’m too tired, too sick, or too uninspired to meet your needs. Thanks for being patient with me. You’ve made me better—better at commitment, consistency, and creativity. And when we spend time together, I enjoy you.

Here’s a cookie to celebrate your big day! (Okay, it’s a three-day-old treat and a step down from the cakes of yesteryear, but hey! It’s been busy around here.)

Love,

Your mom/writer/friend

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

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

Travel stories: the epic family roadtrip (part 7)

Nothing anchoring me to terra firma—or my sanity—anymore, I sailed through the air.

While a sea of humanity washed by eleven stories below, waves of nausea crashed into me. My molars hurt from clenching them, but if I kept my mouth shut, maybe I wouldn’t vomit. Just as I had mustered the courage to make this jump, I would wrangle the determination to keep my stomach’s contents to myself. I could only imagine the surprise of anyone on the ground if I wasn’t successful.

I breathed through my nose and gripped the straps on my chest until I felt my fingernails sink into my palms. How much longer?

A minute—maybe ninety seconds?—and the landing platform materialized. When I got there, would they catch me like they did at the end of the camp’s zipline? No one had told us what would happen at the end of this ride, though. I preferred to see my family again before seeing Jesus, but what choice did I really have?

I hit the platform with a force that jerked me thirty feet back into the air. What now? I hung, suspended for some moments above Fremont Street, until someone reeled me in like a dying fish too scared to thrash anymore.

Once on the solid footing of the platform, I scrambled away from the edge. An employee unlatched me from my tether, and my legs wobbled. I could finally cast a side-glance at Husband.

“So how was it?” he said, looking refreshed from his ride, hair blown back in handsome waves.

I pinched my lips together and shook my head.

“Why do you keep doing this when you’re terrified?” No irritation laced his question—only curiosity.

“No clue.” But it wouldn’t happen again.

We took the stairs down, me fumbling for the railing, my steadiness not having returned yet. But my stomach was calming.

“Let’s look at our pictures,” Husband said, handing our photo retrieval info to the people behind the desk who looked like it would be their extreme pleasure to sell us pictures—at a crippling cost—of petrified me. “Aw, man.” Amusement sparkled in his eyes. “These are great.”

And there I was, caught on film, all round eyes and flared nostrils, my mouth a grim line while I clung to my ropes. Lovely. “I’m gonna pass on a pic of my trip through Hades.”

Minutes later, our three girls disembarked, smiling from the thrill of the late-night ride.

“How was it for you, Mom?”

I pasted on a plastic smile and nodded.

We checked out of our Vegas hotel and drove out to the desert to absorb a little culture. Along with other tourists, we strolled among Ugo Rondinone’s Seven Magic Mountains, a brightly-painted art installation of boulder totems, some as tall as thirty-five feet. On our way back to the car, a sign warned us that “Venomous snakes may be present. Please stay on designated path.” We were happy to comply.

Bound for Utah, we kept our car time short and sweet, ending in Springdale, a town nestled immediately outside the boundaries of Zion National Park. We frolicked in the warm outdoor pool with the other hotel guests while the jagged, brick-red mountains looked on, pleased to host us.

“You might want some better shoes for hiking,” Husband said, eyeballing my flip-flops at breakfast the next morning. He scooped scrambled eggs onto his plate.

I filled my coffee cup. “I’ll throw on tennis shoes, but we’re not doing anything too strenuous, are we?”

He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Check out that guy.”

A trim man in his late-sixties—sinewy leg muscles exposed below cargo shorts—loaded his plate with food until I thought the stack of pancakes might topple.

I gave a nod of appreciation. He was probably a beast on the mountain. “Impressive.”

Then the guy piled sausage patties on another plate already laden with fruit.

“That’s the kind of hiker who views food strictly as fuel.” Husband added a biscuit with gravy to his tray. “A little more advanced than us.”

We ate our food on the terrace, and I surveyed the guests around us, all avid hikers, from the looks of it. Everyone—decked out in special clothing and boots, wearing hats or visors, their water bottles at the ready—was silent while they tucked into their breakfasts.

“Have we gotten in over our heads?” I whispered, the denim skirt I wore feeling like a bad choice.

Husband read my mind. “You might want to rethink the skirt and put on some shorts.”

No cars were allowed in Zion National Park, so we parked and rode shuttles in, and they transported us throughout the area. Our bus driver’s sing-songy voice lilted through a mic and back to our seats as she highlighted the attractions to come.

“Up ahead is Angels Landing,” she said, “but it’s only for you advanced ones. See those hikers at the top of that mountain?” She pointed through the bus window. I squinted. Sure enough, specks inched along the distant summit. “It’s 5,785-feet high up there, and in parts, as narrow as twenty-eight inches wide with one-thousand foot drops on either side.” She sounded like an elementary school teacher who hoped to cover her annoyance with a cheery veneer. “There’s only a single chain to hold onto up there, so share it with your fellow hikers!”

Why, for the love of all things vacation, must people endanger their lives for fun? Or maybe the better question: Why must my family expect me to literally rise to every thrilling occasion? I hoped they didn’t have any expectations about this particular hiking challenge, but if they did, I had already prepared my two-letter response.

Still upbeat, our driver said something about the number of deaths linked with Angels Landing, but I tuned her out in favor of listening to the earth’s beauty around me. Magnificent rock exploded in deep reds and pointed skyward; my breath caught.

No one said another word about Angels Landing—probably named such because it would take heaven’s finest to save a person if that person took one false step—and we finished our time at Zion on novice hikes that showcased the majesty of the national park. One thing was certain: I didn’t need to stand on top of a mountain to fall in love with the grandeur around me.

The next day, “Beethoven’s 5 Secrets,” by The Piano Guys (and others), billowed from our car’s speakers as we entered Moab, Utah, a few miles from the giant red rock formations of Arches National Park. We accessed the park by car, but stopped at different points to amble around the natural sandstone arches, balanced rocks, and soaring pinnacles. Up until then, I had held Joshua Tree as my favorite, but the red-rock wonderland of Arches pulled my loyalty off-kilter. Maybe this one was the best of all.

The Zion and Arches National Parks were the natural wonder punctuation marks on our epic family roadtrip—and just what our hearts needed—but even in the presence of their shocking beauty, we wanted more. In the Honda again, we craned our necks and fixed our eyes on the horizon looking for it—looking for home. And we sped through the remaining states to get there.

Finally in Minnesota again, we tallied our souvenirs:

21 days

7,032.2 miles

6 national parks

13 states

1,308 songs

5 satisfied travelers

And many more good things to number, if one had enough paper for it.

In my own bed again that night, I thought of the truth of Ibn Battuta’s quote: “Traveling: it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.”

And so it has.

*****

Thank you for sharing the road with us! Enjoy the rest of the playlist which includes the following states (click on each for the link):

California, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, and Nebraska

(You can find the playlist for the first eight states at the end of the entry here.)

Zion National Park, Utah

Arches National Park, Utah

More Arches…

This stone formation at Arches is called “The Three Gossips.”

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

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

Travel stories: the epic family roadtrip (part 6)

“It’s hotter than a gypsy on fried chicken night,” Dicka said as we stopped at the visitor center in Death Valley’s aptly named Furnace Creek. The temperature read 109 degrees, so if that was warmer than the nomadic folk got, the kid wasn’t wrong.

Back in the car again, we spotted sand dunes, salt flats, and craters that tricked me into thinking we might be on another planet. Although otherworldly, we were definitely on planet Earth, navigating through a valley that covered 3,000 square miles—the hottest, driest, and lowest point in North America. As we curved through Artist’s Palette, the colors dazzled us. Metals had oxidized the clay of the mountainside, creating reds, yellows, greens, blues, and purples so vibrant it seemed humans had interfered with cans of spray paint.

Husband’s phone rang, his mother’s name popping up on the screen.

“We’re heading through Death Valley right now, but we shall fear no evil, because God is with us,” he told her, “and we’ve got ice water.”

As we exited the national park, he filled her in on our car adventures, and I sighed. What a relief our tire’s patch job held in the extreme heat, and our other vehicle troubles were miles behind us too.

Passing through the Mojave Desert yet again, Husband pointed the car toward our next destination, Las Vegas. But it wasn’t long before I caught him squinting at the car’s dash lights.

“What?” I said, a niggling worry growing.

He fiddled with a button. “What does the little wrench symbol mean?”

Whenever vehicle indicator lights appear, panic sweeps my memory clean. And this time was no exception. What did that symbol mean again? Dread raced up my spine, and my fingers fluttered—faster than my heart—through the pages of the Honda’s owner manual. But all was well; we were just due for a service appointment—or to have that little notification light turned off. Either way, the desert wouldn’t claim us today.

We entered Las Vegas under a cloak of darkness, a requirement if one were to truly capture the essence of the famous Nevada destination. Who imagines Sin City bathed in the light of day anyway?  

From our hotel, we caught an Uber to Fremont Street, in the heart of the downtown’s casino corridor, excited to view the city from the air. Strolling along the electrified streets to find the SlotZilla Zipline, Dicka’s eyes flashed like the strobes around us. Wonder danced across her features.

“I wanna have my bachelorette party here.”

Just what a mother wants to hear. I groaned. “Say it isn’t so.”

But shock value is fun on a family trip, especially when one is fifteen and hopefully far from marriage.

We arrived at the SlotZilla, a zipline boasting a height of eleven stories and a length of five city blocks. I remembered my fear of heights, of course, but I had done fine year after year flying on the Screamin’ Eagle Zipline across a ravine speckled with trees in rural Minnesota on our family camp weekends. So, how would this be different?

SlotZilla’s young employees suited us up with all the lines and carabiners that would save our lives, should it come to it. I assessed their ages—and their casual strap-tightening ways. Were they old enough to feel empathy for strangers—i.e., value other people’s lives? How often did someone get fired for cutting corners in this job? But each worry that surfaced I punched back down with memories of my successful ziplining past. This flight overlooking the famous street would be nothing. As easy as Sunday morning—and the Screamin’ Eagle.

We waited in 90-degree heat for over an hour with countless others in an open-air building that was no more than a massive scaffolding system eleven stories above ground. Our jump time was 11:00 p.m. and we would fly in groups over Fremont Street while an eighties rock n’ roll cover band serenaded us.

Husband and I were somehow grouped with two strangers, while our girls were together several jumps behind us. Soon, we were at the front of the line. Like cattle, the four of us were herded into our individual stalls. When our metal grates opened again, we scrambled into prone positions on our respective vinyl mattresses, an employee hooking up the straps on our backs to lines from above. We’d be zooming Superman-style through the late-night air.

And that’s when the queasiness kicked in.

“You okay?” Husband mouthed to me from his mattress one compartment over. The crowds and music were blaring, my fears deafening. What had I done, agreeing to this?

“I might throw up,” I mouthed back.

A pity look. “Don’t do that.”

Our mattresses lowered then, separating from our bodies, while we dangled in the air, suspended by cables.

“When you get to the edge, use your hands to push off,” some young pup who worked there yelled, like this was supposed to be fun. “Ready?”

No. One-hundred times no.

“We’re leaving together,” the rock band’s rendition of Europe’s song blasted, “But still it’s farewell, and maybe we’ll come back to earth, who can tell?”

Who can tell? The lyrics of “The Final Countdown” weren’t making this better. “I guess there is no one to blame, we’re leaving the ground—” The metal doors in front of us, like garage doors, once blocking out the view of Fremont Street and the partying hordes far below, opened, and a mechanical system propelled us forward. “Will things ever be the same again?” The edge loomed just ahead. Here it came. “It’s the final countdown.”

Ready or not…

*****

Come back next week for the final installment of the story (for sure this time. I promise.) I’ll also include the rest of the links to our epic trip playlist.

But at least it felt like 111.

There’s our little family-mobile in Death Valley.

Oh, the electricity bills in Las Vegas!

And oh, what fun I’m having preparing for the Slotzilla.

Gratuitous snack pic from a gas station in Bakersfield, California. No, we didn’t.

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

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

Travel stories: the epic family roadtrip (part 5)

Husband signaled left into the Courtyard San Luis Obispo where we would stay for the night.

Before the turn, though, I saw it; off in the distance—no more than a half mile away—I spied a beacon of light shining on a business. Could it be? Yes, a Honda dealership stood by the highway, ready to save us. “The Hallelujah Chorus” played in my head. Husband maneuvered the car into a parking spot at the hotel, grinding us to a halt.

The next morning, Sunset Honda on Los Osos Valley Road rescued us. While running a brisk business, they still agreed to take care of our vehicle’s needs. All we had ahead of us for the day was the grueling work of sunning by the pool and splashing in its warm waters while we waited for the folks at the dealership to do their magic.

Hours later, the phone rang.

“Your car’s done,” the service advisor on the other end of the line said.

Husband and I walked to the dealership to retrieve our ride. We waited for the paperwork.

“You know how Scripture says to be kind to the stranger sojourning in a foreign land?” I whispered to him.

“Yeah?” he said.

I tapped on the little name plate by the computer. “Seems Erik here at Sunset Honda took notes.”

Erik returned to us with a stack of papers for us to keep as a memento. “We replaced the back brake pads, rotors, and calipers. You should be good now.”

We got back on the road, only behind by seven hours and thirteen-hundred dollars. Off to San Francisco…

We chased down our headlights to the home of the Golden Gate Bridge. We ate dinner at one of the few original seafood restaurants on Fisherman’s Wharf, Sabella and La Torre. And the next day we requested a lift to Dumpling Time, a dim sum restaurant in the Design District. Our cab driver hadn’t heard of the place and doled out a warning.

“If there are only five people in the restaurant, don’t eat there,” he said. “That’s my rule of thumb.”

When he dropped us off, though, the place was bustling, the wait substantial enough that we guessed we were in for a treat. And we were.

Later, we found more souvenir stickers for our car topper, rode a cable car around town, and oohed and aahed at the sea lions slabbed out on Pier 39, rooting extra hard for the lazy one who couldn’t hoist himself up on the dock, much as he tried.

We hoofed it to the Haight-Ashbury area, but before picking our way through the vintage clothing shops, we stopped for some refreshments. I reviewed the drink menu:

“Summer of Love IPA: We chose to go with flavors that fondly remind us of a beautiful hippie’s armpit on Haight Street circa ’67. Need convincing? Think dank and musty with essential oils of pithy grapefruit and burning pine and sage. Make sense now? Drink up and we’re sure you’ll agree.”

I showed the description to Husband, two thoughts zipping through my mind: 1. I would definitely order the homemade kombucha now, and 2. where could I snag a writing job like that?

Far too soon for us, we said goodbye to the sourdough, goodbye to that big bridge, and goodbye to the Painted Ladies, a famous and colorful row of Victorian houses across from Alamo Square.

Goodbye, City by the Bay.

After a night in Visalia, California, near Fresno, we drove through farm country. We identified groves of trees bearing oranges, peaches, and walnuts, but were stumped by the crops that sort of looked like corn. We rolled through the tiny town of Lemon Cove, population 308, and who would ever notice such a small place? Except that it reminded me why I preferred a roadtrip to a plane ride. Big hubs didn’t usually offer charming roadside fruit stands in the shape of big oranges.

At our next stop in the Kings Canyon and Sequoia National Parks, I hopped out of the car. But something embedded in our front tire caught my eye: a large nail.

“Wonderful,” I said, pointing out the intruder to Husband. “Just great.”

“We’ll get it patched,” he said with as much emotion as if I had declared my water bottle empty.

We had more important things like big trees to look at now, and soon came the reminder that hikes were usually longer than their signs indicated. We went on a hunt to see “The world’s biggest tree stump” (or similar pronouncement), only to retrace our steps after more than thirty minutes of following the trail to find it with no success.

The first rain of our epic roadtrip sprinkled us as we appreciated the General Grant tree, the largest giant sequoia in Kings Canyon. And the skies drenched us as we hustled with other tourists to admire the General Sherman tree, the world’s largest, if measured by volume, in Sequoia National Park.

After meeting General Sherman, we drove out of the parking lot, and a sound I hoped to never hear again met my ears. A scraping noise—from the back end of the car. Husband heard it too and I knew it, because he gave me that look.

“Sometimes the brakes sound a little rough after it’s been raining,” I said, hoping what I said was true.

I shelved my dread. As much as I wanted to worry, what was the point? We had giant trees to love and hug and photograph. We tooled along the switchbacks in Sequoia National Park while Joni Mitchell sang to us.

“California, I’m coming home

I’m going to see the folks I dig

I’ll even kiss a sunset pig

California, I’m coming home.”

We shifted our plans and spent a second night in Visalia, foregoing Yosemite in favor of buying some peace of mind at yet another Honda dealership.

“The brakes are fine, but the backing plate was rusted out,” Husband reported back later after his date with the car. “They just took it off altogether. They wouldn’t touch the nail, but I found a place that removed it. Those guys didn’t have a lot of confidence in the patch job, though.”

The next day, our sightseeing would take us to Death Valley in the northern Mojave Desert, one of the hottest places in the world, along with deserts in the Middle East.

I grimaced.

We would tootle along in a place that still held the record—at 134 degrees—for the highest air temperature ever recorded at the surface of Earth. But what of our car?

Well, here was hoping our tire wouldn’t blow.

*****

Still want some more traveling adventures? Come back next week for what may or may not be the finale.

The Painted Ladies, San Francisco

Our discovery at Kings Canyon.

What the sign says.

Tree huggers.

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

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

Travel stories: the epic family roadtrip (part 4)

Every mountain I saw as we cruised along the 105 into Los Angeles looked like the one that wore the Hollywood sign. Excitement zipped through me as I perused our list of things to come in the City of Angels.

“Could we add fish pedicures to our list?” Dicka said.

“I don’t know about that.” I envisioned the strange spa treatment, tiny fish nibbling the dead skin off my kid’s feet. Husband had heard of it too.

“They use baby piranhas they have to flick off before they draw blood,” he said with a straight face.

I jumped in. “You have to sign a waiver in case it goes too far.”

Dicka didn’t seem as amused as we were with the fish jokes. Our conversation, as eclectic as our playlist, bounced through more topics.

Husband pointed at a car one lane over. “The guy driving that Lexus is drinking wine—in an actual wine glass.”

Soon, we neared our destination and spotted our lovely hotel. We pulled into the circular drive of the Marina Del Rey Marriott on Venice Beach, and into a valet situation, our Honda Pilot looking like it had been “rode hard and put up wet,” as the expression goes. I held my head high, pretending we belonged there, while Husband checked in. He came out again, and in front of all the fancy people—some valet attendants and numerous guests—he climbed up to open our luggage topper, blasted with souvenir stickers from hither and yon, and tossed duffle bags down to the girls who caught them and loaded them onto a cart, squishing my pride under our baggage in the process.

We wasted zero time diving into our list of activities. The ocean called to us, and we answered. We rented skates from a hut on the beach; Husband, Flicka, and Dicka chose rollerblades while Ricka and I opted for roller skates. The short distance from the rental place to get onto the main path was treacherous.

Cracks in the cement, sand on the walk, people cutting in front of us... Forget the steep cliff lookouts, maybe this was how I would die. Husband must have read the panic in my eyes.

“Only one hour, and we’ll get off these death traps,” he said.

But as the path smoothed, so did our skating skills, and the hour zoomed by us almost as fast as the talented locals did. At last we wrestled off our skates and returned them. Out in a square, people performed various acts for spare change.

“Everything in the Bible is future,” a guy in a leopard-print loincloth shouted to passersby, a cobra writhing around his neck.

We walked on, browsing beach shops and counting all the off-leash dogs who were breathing ocean air and living their best lives alongside their humans. We ate sushi at a place near the Santa Monica Pier, and the girls later glimpsed the ocean at dusk from the rollercoaster’s dazzling heights.

But heights don’t last forever, so we came back down to earth to do what mortals do, since our dirty laundry was taking over our bags and the sticker inside the vehicle was nudging us to change the oil already.

In clean clothes and a happier Honda the next day, we drove to Studio City to snap pictures of the Brady Bunch house. A fence obscured much of our view, and nearby houses crowded the famous home. Wasn’t the property more spacious on TV—more magical? My memories of the beloved fictitious family’s dwelling said yes. But here we were, parked in front of the iconic place, hemmed in by other homes with no Alice to greet us and no Bobby to zing a football over the fence and narrowly miss our car.

We drove on to Hollywood Boulevard, captured photos of two-dimensional stars shining up from the sidewalk we strode on, and there was the Hollywood sign on Mount Lee in the distance. We asked a stranger to take some pictures of us, the word “Hollywood” visible in the background of our photos if a person squinted hard enough.

It was time for a snack, so we rolled along Sunset Boulevard to Chateau Mormont, a restaurant where famous directors and producers brunched. We parked on a narrow, twisting road behind the swanky West Hollywood establishment, and good thing, because valets stood poised to serve us, and it was better if they didn’t have to look upon our family-mobile, tatted up with stickers from every last place. Would our casual attire suffice, though?

We were seated right away, and we gazed around us, but refrained from gawking or getting the giggles over absolutely nothing, which is highly tempting when you’re supposed to behave.

“I sure hope our credit card isn’t flagged for unusual activity here,” I whispered to Husband. “It’s used to places like Aldi and Target, so—”

The server came up just then, delivering special versions of chicken fingers and calamari to our table. We savored the deliciousness, soaked in the atmosphere we weren’t allowed to photograph, and returned to the car hungry for more.

We grabbed a few slices at Dough, a pizza restaurant on Sunset Strip where Sean Lennon had once eaten, a sign on the wall was happy to tell us. The place sat a stone’s throw from the Viper Room where River Phoenix collapsed on the sidewalk and died of a drug overdose in 1993. On our drive back to the hotel, we made a pass through Rodeo Drive just to say we had and slept our last night in Los Angeles.

The next morning, a Sunday, we pulled into the parking lot of the Belasco Theater, and a “Welcome Home” sign told us we belonged. We found seats in the old theater, home to Hillsong LA, one of many Hillsong churches throughout the world. My soul had thrilled to Hillsong’s original music for years, and now here we were, ready to worship with our west coast brothers and sisters whom we hadn’t met. We sat among them, the visit reigniting our hearts.

“People

Come together

Strange as neighbors

Our blood is one.

Children

Of generations

Of every nation

Of kingdom come.”

We drove along a cliff-hugging ribbon of road they call the Pacific Coast Highway. The storied scenic route took us to brunch at Marmalade Café in Malibu. And we must have made a good choice, because we spied an actor there, finishing his meal with friends.

“Was that Ethan Hawke?” I asked the hostess later on our way out.

“Yeah,” she said like it was nothing, “he eats here most Sundays.”

We ventured on, making a stop in Santa Barbara—the American Riviera, as they call it—to drink in the Spanish colonial heritage evident in the Mediterranean-style white stucco of the buildings downtown. Meandering bougainvillea sprawled across red-tiled rooftops, and Ricka decided making a life there wouldn’t be a bad idea.

Returning to the car for the last leg of our day’s journey, I marveled at the perfection of the day—no, of the days—we had enjoyed together so far. The vehicle was acting nicely, and so were the rest of us. What could go wrong now? Probably nothing. We were over halfway through the trip, the car approaching the four-thousand-mile mark, and all was well.

With Husband behind the wheel, more hours on the highway flitted away from us. Dusk gave way to darkness as we headed up the coast to San Luis Obispo, our stop for the night. My eyelids fluttered shut.

As we came to a stop at a red light within the city limits, a grinding noise came from the back end of the car. Uh-oh. I jerked awake, switching my eyelids open. What was that?

No one wants to hear that particular sound coming from their car, especially so many miles from home. My hopes—and stomach—plummeted. But maybe it was nothing.

The light turned green, and Husband pressed on the gas. I flicked my gaze at him. His mouth formed a grim line. Another stoplight. We slowed again, but with each tap of the brakes, the sound of metal grating against metal jarred my world, rattling our travel plans. It was a Sunday night—too late for a mechanic—and our hotel was still several miles away.

Now what?

*****

Come back next week for the next installment of the story.

The Brady Bunch house. But no Carol to greet us. Boo.

Hollywood Boulevard

If you squint hard enough, you can see the Hollywood sign behind us in that mountain.

The Pacific Coast Highway

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

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

Travel stories: the epic family roadtrip (part 3)

Through the car’s speakers, R. Carlos Nakai’s mournful cedar flute in “Song for the Morning Star” pierced my heart as we pulled into the Grand Canyon’s South Rim lookout point.

The girls, noshing on cactus candy and green apple scorpion suckers, jumped out of the back seat and strode to the canyon’s edge for a look.

Standing with the family and staring into the vastness, I nodded, releasing a sigh. “That’s a big hole.”

What else could one say? The grandeur was richer than words, more striking than the pictures we’d capture to remind ourselves of our encounter with the Divine.

Over lunch, Husband mentioned a sightseeing possibility. “I was thinking we could make a stop in Oatman today.”

“What’s there?” I wrinkled my nose, the desire to get to Palm Springs thrumming inside me. “Is it worth the time?”

He shrugged. “Look it up and see what you think.”

I skimmed an article about the town, and the writer had me at “kitschy Arizona ghost town, inconveniently located on Route 66” and “if you’re not careful, the feral burros will steal your ice cream cone.”  

“We have to go,” I said.

Husband navigated twisting mountain roads all the way to our destination. Burros sauntered down the main street of Oatman, slowing our entrance. Clearly, they owned the place. We parked, and the animals, greedy for attention and treats, headed over to meet us. The girls scrambled from the car to pet them, and even before our visit began, I knew I needed a t-shirt to commemorate it.

We bought bags of hay pellets at a shop, and while the girls ingratiated themselves with the town’s wildlife, I stepped into the old Oatman Hotel where Clark Gable and Carole Lombard had stayed for a night on their honeymoon. I climbed the creaky steps to their private quarters on the second floor, now on display for the public, and breathed in the musty surroundings, their suite small and humble—a stark contrast to their opulent Hollywood marriage.

I headed back outside toward Dicka who was petting a foal under a nearby tree. A lady rolled up in her car next to my girl and lowered her window.

“Don’t give the baby hay,” she said. “His mama still feeds him.”

I joined Dicka in the shade. Someone had affixed a post-it note to the animal’s forehead: “Don’t feed me! I’m still nursing.”

“They’re serious about this,” I said, petting the little one too. “That’s good.”

We browsed the shops’ trinkets and ate ice cream we kept away from the burros. Our hay pellets spent, we waved goodbye to the old mining town with its furry wanderers and their vigilant caretakers, and pointed the Honda toward Palm Springs.

We stopped at a gas station at Vidal Junction at the intersection of 95 and 62 to fill our tank with $4.79/gallon gas. The place struck me as a last-chance stop, so I loaded up on gallons of water. Back on the road, the car gobbled up the miles, the route forlorn and the Mojave Desert desolate. No other vehicles shared the road with us for miles in either direction, and I shivered despite the 111-degree heat.

What if our air conditioning went out? What if we broke down? Could we get a cell phone signal out here? And if so, how long until AAA could locate us?

I tried to shake off my worries and shift to more positive thoughts. “So, how many bodies are buried out here, do you think?”

“Probably a ton,” Husband said. 

I squinted at the brave, sparse plants poking through the desert’s sun-baked soil. “That’s what I figured.”

My first name means “palm tree,” and an intense love for the tropical plants was woven into my DNA from the beginning. The tall ones, a hospitable species, lined up in formation to welcome us into Palm Springs, and I knew right then our two nights in the southern California city would only make me crave more. But two would have to do.

We trekked out to Joshua Tree National Park where two desert ecosystems collide. My mind played U2’s 1987 album—“I still haven’t found what I’m looking for”—but there I found it as I gazed at the twisted, bristled Joshua trees, their shape reminding me of something Theodor Geisel, the illustrator for Dr. Seuss’ books, might have sketched, and a quick Google search showed me I wasn’t the only one who thought so.

We waited out the sun—and won—choosing our seating among the massive rocks for the star show Husband had read all about. Our “chairs” warmed us in the darkening, cooling desert. I leaned back against Husband’s chest, and we soaked in the night. The darkness could’ve eaten me whole, and I would’ve been okay with it.

The stars might have dazzled us if the full moon hadn’t outshone them. Still, the beauty muted our speech, quieting us.

A lizard darted away. Crickets chattered. A breeze grazed our bare legs. My heart swelled.

I love you too, I heard on the wind.

Before leaving Palm Springs the next morning, I needed a taste of Old Hollywood to go with my latté. I led the family on a drive-by tour of actors’ homes, which would’ve been called stalking if the famous homeowners were still alive.

I rattled off each address to Husband, Dicka looked up the star connected with it and read aloud a summary of his or her life, and when we found the place, I took a photo. I checked Sammy Davis Jr., Elvis, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Marilyn Monroe, Nat King Cole, Dean Martin, Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy, and Frank Sinatra off my list—all the homes within a few miles of each other. Some of the houses had been tended to better than others, but all of them were pretty and surprisingly normal, owned now by probably normal people too.

As we departed the Sonoran Desert city, a pang of something I couldn’t name flitted through my chest. I tucked away my list of names. All gone now. 

On to the City of Angels…

*****

Tune in next week for the fourth installment of the story! It’s just starting to get good…

The burros of Oatman, Arizona

While I was buying him treats, this one was staring at me through the shop window.

Joshua Tree National Park, California

Waiting for the sun to set at Joshua Tree National Park

Marilyn Monroe’s place, 1326 Rose Avenue, Palm Springs, California

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

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

Travel stories: the epic family roadtrip (part 2)

It wouldn’t be a family trip if I didn’t think I was going to die at least once.

But this was no rafting excursion like the one we took in Quebec in 2015 where I emerged from the rapids, gagging water in front of our tour guide, the fear of drowning still pulsing through my veins. No, Sedona Pines Resort in Sedona, Arizona, coddled us. Could the safe, secluded life in our timeshare last forever? Mini-golf, free laundry facilities, a glorious swimming pool, and a main office brimming with all the free movies or games we could wish to borrow told me yes. But we couldn’t stay in our cabins with that majestic red rock singing to us beyond the windows. So, we pulled on our hiking attire and set out, choosing a jaunt to Devil’s Bridge, the largest natural sandstone arch in the Sedona area.

The trek was 1.8 miles roundtrip and easy, one source said; it wouldn’t leave you breathless, but the views would. We parked at the trailhead and walked in.

Forty-five minutes into our hike, I turned to Husband. “We must be getting closer.”

A few hikers returning from the top greeted us with nods. “You’re almost there.”

We saw the sign then, designating that spot as the beginning of the 1.8 miles. And so we carried on, climbing the well-traveled path. Soon it brought us out onto a clearing of flat rocks for our first real view. Hikers speckled the area, their gazes trained on the vistas beyond. I looked where they were looking, and my stomach plummeted.

As a child I had tormented my dad on family trips, running up to rocky precipices and faking like I would jump. Dad would huff out an “Uff da!” and look away. One time he was brave enough to collapse onto his belly, low-crawl to the edge of a cliff for a peek, and drag himself back to safety. Somewhere along the way, I had become him.

“You go on ahead,” I said, waving off the family. They could climb up on their own to see the prince of darkness’ platform, or whatever it was called. I would sit, avoid death, and steady my breathing.

Husband returned from the summit with a photo of Dicka on the five-foot wide “bridge”—no guard rails or fences to keep her on it—and I snapped my focus away. If I had only known the little she was standing on…

I hiked back down the mountain with my family, leaving my queasiness behind on that rock.

The Gin Blossoms’ “Follow You Down” played on our daytrip to Sierra Vista, our home from 1998-2002, reminding me I had done just that back in the day when Husband’s job called him to the Mexican border.

We pulled up in front of the Sierra Vista Community Hospital to show Flicka and Ricka where they were born, but the memorable spot was gone, replaced by Cochise College. I took a picture of our desert babies in front of it anyway—for me. Then we drove to the house we had brought our swaddled bundles home to, but it was a blank brick box. Hadn’t there been some cacti in the front back then, or some color from something? I clicked a picture of the girls on the street in front of the old place anyway, hoping my memories remained stronger than the truth. And we moved on.

The skies above Tombstone, Arizona, were cloudless azure that day—just like I imagine they were on the day of the Gunfight at O.K. Corral. We parked near the main street, trading the car’s air conditioning for the dusty heat of the infamous town, strolling through the streets as we described the 1880s skirmish to the girls.

“Never heard of it,” Ricka said.

My jaw slackened. “How is that possible?”

I ran a Google search on my phone, listing off all the players in the historical event, hoping to trigger something in the girls’ minds. Although not a participant in the gunfight, the name of another Old West outlaw popped up on my screen.

“Billy the Kid is trending today,” I said.

Husband laughed. “Why?”

“It’s his birthday.”

We celebrated with ice cream while we admired the world’s largest rose tree, a 134-year-old beauty that spanned 8,000 square feet, and near it, I spied a man eating a rolled-up piece of flatbread.

I pointed out the familiar-looking food to the girls, an uncanny likeness to a treat they knew. “Do you see that?”

Ricka chuckled. “Lefse.”

I told the man what it looked like to us Minnesotans, describing the Norwegian confection to him.

He smiled. “They make these tortillas over there.” He nodded to a place down the street. “The stuff you buy in the store is garbage.”

We cruised on to the old copper mining town of Bisbee, then rolled along to Douglas, to the wall at the Mexican border where years earlier a younger Husband had sat for long shifts behind the wheel of a government Chevy Tahoe, red dust from the desert staining his olive-green uniform.

The hospital and the house from our past as we knew them may have disappeared, but the view outside our car windows—and Meat Puppets’ lyrics streaming through the vehicle—told me my memories of the border were sharp.

“They may seem rearranged

In the backwater swirling, there is

Something that’ll never change.”

Sedona Pines Resort in our rearview mirror, we drove to Horseshoe Bend, an incised meander of the Colorado River, near Page, Arizona.

“You better bring plenty of water,” the lady at the attraction’s entrance said. “You’ll be walking for thirty minutes.”

We climbed out of the car, and along with the multitudes, trudged the distance in 102-degree heat, first up a stretch of sandy hill, then down a beachy path that curled toward the lookout spot. A horseshoe-shaped body of water glistened a thousand feet below us. I respected the edge, scanning the scene once before turning to drink in the sight of the visitors. Oh, to identify all those languages…

The world followed us to our hotel that night in Page where we all splashed together in the hottest swimming pool of my life, apparently built more for community than cooling. I dove under and resurfaced. Swedish words floated on the breeze. I swam to the deep end. A sentence in French bobbed by me. I dog-paddled in a circle. Chinese dotted the air, punctuated with a laugh.

World peace might be a ways off, but in this pool we’d all be okay.

*****

Come back next week for the third installment of the story.

A unit at Sedona Pines Resort

Horseshoe Bend, Page, Arizona

Life on the road with hula lady

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

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

Travel stories: the epic family roadtrip (part 1)

These days, everything is epic—people’s skills, fair rides, skydiving, meals. I once even heard a lamp described as epic.

The word is tossed around like a tin can headed for the recycling bin. But when Husband, Flicka, Ricka, Dicka, and I climbed into the old Honda Pilot on July 10, 2019, I imagined our driving to California and back in twenty-one days might satisfy the true definition of the word: long, grand, and maybe even heroic. Hopefully not too heroic.

Luggage stowed in our roof carrier, we stuck a hula lady air freshener on the dash for a festive touch. The party could start now. So, with a turn of the car key at 6:00 a.m., our adventure roared to life. To make the journey sweeter, the girls had gathered 1,308 songs into a playlist to match the states we’d cover, and they explained the criteria for the music: each song must have the state mentioned in its lyrics OR the band/artist performing it must either be from the state or have a significant tie to it.

The first song, “Unsatisfied” by the Minnesota band, The Replacements, drifted from our speakers, and I hoped the title wouldn’t become our trip’s anthem. As we rolled along our first mile, I scanned some other song titles, spying Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama.”

I turned to the playlist ladies. “You know we’re not going to Alabama.”

“Yeah,” Dicka said, “but Steve Gaines who joined the band in 1976 was from Oklahoma, and we’re driving through there.”

In a blink, Iowa came and went with the crooning of the Everly Brothers. After our first night in Joplin, Missouri, we got on the road, and the local wildlife caught our attention. Loose dogs sniffed along the highway and creeping turtles crossed our path. Outside of Wentworth, we saw a dead opossum and our first deceased armadillo, its guts spilling from its shell.

“Can’t you get leprosy from armadillos?” Husband said.

I almost spit out my coffee. “What?”

“Remember that episode of Royal Pains where the guy got sick from his armadillo belt?”

We crossed the next state border to Anne Murray’s “I can see Arkansas,” but I couldn’t get the sticky song of Shindig Society’s “Oh, Arkansas” out of my head as we wandered around Christ of the Ozarks and Thorncrown Chapel. The girls decided Eureka Springs was a vacation destination with its colorful Victorian-style cottages and winding up-and-down streets and walkways. But we still had miles to go and states to traverse—like Oklahoma and Texas—before we could sleep.

“The sky just seems bigger here,” Flicka said as we blew through the Lone Star State at dusk.

Rick Pickren’s “O Fair New Mexico” floated through the air as we covered yet another state line in two days. We rested our heads at a hotel in Tucumcari. As I climbed into bed, I remembered seventeen years earlier—the last time we slept in New Mexico—dreaming for our two girls who were only two years and six months old at the time, their lives sewn into ours in every way. Not like now at ages nineteen, seventeen, and fifteen. Over time, life had taught our three girls to think their own thoughts. And in their beds nearby, they snoozed away, enough trips around the sun to dream their own dreams too.

When one says it’s hot in the Southwest, someone inevitably chimes in with the dry heat comment. The third day of our trip, we entered Arizona’s Petrified Forest National Park, which straddles Interstate 40, east of Flagstaff. We drove through the park’s ninety-three degree dry heat, stopping for photo shoots among the large deposits of petrified wood and highly-eroded, colorful badlands. We inhaled views of the Painted Desert—strips of lavender running alongside bands of red in the rock—to take with us as we put more miles behind the Honda.

We ended our day at our timeshare in Sedona, Arizona, the brilliant red-rock buttes hemming us in to a place we didn’t want to let go.

Maybe we would stay…

*****

Come back next week for the second installment of the story. In the meantime, enjoy our family’s music playlist which covers the first eight states (click on each for the link):

Minnesota, Iowa, Missouri, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona

Flicka (in Missouri) capturing photos of her biggest obsession: cows

Christ of the Ozarks, Arkansas

An old gas station somewhere on Route 66

Husband and Dicka in the Petrified Forest National Park, Arizona

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

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

Of trips and water

7,032.2 miles in all.

Yesterday we returned home from our family’s twenty-one day road trip covering about a quarter of the United States. I have countless memories to savor.

And a box of mail to tackle.

And calls to make for appointments, and emails to return for work.

And a garden as demanding as a cranky one-year old who needs lunch and a nap pronto.

While I toss in my third load of dirty laundry—yikes! The swimsuits in that plastic bag are still damp from the hotel’s pool two nights ago—enjoy this story of a vacation we took in 2015.

*****

My scrolling finger halted at her post.

The woman’s message of water rang out above the rest on the internet, because beauty is louder. I drank in the picture: a waterfall in North Minneapolis. Residents commented on the post; some had never before heard the news of the phenomenon in our neighborhood. And I had forgotten all about it.

I clipped a leash on our dog Lala, and she and I broke away from life to refresh my memory of the crashing water—too alive to only be locked up in a photo circulating Facebook—and strolled to Webber Park on a sixty-degree day in February.

At Shingle Creek Falls, water exploded in freedom over the rocky edge, and its mists passed the handrails, speckling my arms with droplets. A question—more fitting for an elementary school kid than a woman my age—formed in my mind: If I had to, could I navigate this waterfall in an inner tube or raft and live to tell the story?

The question washed me back into my wetsuit and helmet, back to our family rafting trip in Québec in 2015. We had chosen the stimulating Class 4-5 rapids excursion at the Expedition Nouvelle Vague. Even so, our guide, a college-age California surfer type with a French accent, pulled us over to the riverbank at different points on our watery adventure to offer exciting swimming opportunities.

“And why would we want to do that?” I whispered to Husband.

He shrugged. “For fun?”

“When I say ‘go’, dive in and swim upstream toward that rock,” said the guide, pointing to a stone column in the distance. “Then, when I blow the whistle, flip onto your back and put your feet up like this.” He dropped to the ground and put himself into La-Z-Boy recliner position. “And ride the rapids down to that quiet part. Okay?” He jumped back onto his feet. “Who’s first?”

One of my eyes twitched as I watched my three ducklings—wide-eyed and silent—line up on a broad, flat rock on the river’s edge. My stomach did a flip. If I lacked confidence, would I survive the stunt? The guide wouldn’t let me drown, would he? And if my children witnessed my death today, would they ever swim or travel again?

One by one, my ducklings jumped off the rock, swam upstream until the guide blasted his whistle, then obediently pivoted and rode the rapids down into the still patch of river—exactly as instructed. They swam to the side and hopped out of the water.

“Wanna go next?” Husband said to me.

“Not really.” My heart thrashed like the waters around me.

Husband dove in, not swimming as far upstream as the girls had, swiveled at the whistle, and the rapids carried him beyond the girls’ stopping point. If he drifted much farther, would he hit the portion of the river called The Meat Grinder? The guide paddled to him in a kayak and towed Husband back to shore.

The guide sauntered over to me. “Ready?” 

“I don’t think so.” The hammer in my chest nearly pounded a hole through my ribcage.

“C’mon,” he said, all surfer charm. “You’ll love it.”

Did I want to be the adventurous mom, game to try anything with the family? If so, it was now or never. Now or never! I jumped.

The girls had made resurfacing look so easy. I swam hard, fighting for the rock, but it was much farther upstream than I had hoped. FWEET! Was that the whistle already? I rolled onto my back, popped my feet up as instructed, sucked some water, and choked through the churning rapids. Panic clawed its way up my throat. The lashing waves finally spewed me out into the calm, but I flapped around like a baby in a kiddie pool anyway, gasping for air.

“Here,” said the guide, his expression as serene as the water around us. How had he rowed over to me so fast? “Grab on.”

I flopped an arm over the end of his kayak and gagged all the way to the riverbank. Husband and the ducklings shot me pity looks as I dragged myself back onto dry land.

The next out-of-raft diversion was a twenty-foot cliff jump into the Jacques-Cartier River.

“Are you ready?” The guide smiled at me.

“No,” I said, still shaking from the swim.

Husband and the girls scaled the rocky climb, pointed for the top of the cliff.

“Aw, c’mon. Chance in a lifetime,” said the guide.

“This is a hard pass this time,” I said, my open palm patting the air. “A definite ‘no’.”

I had survived my adventurous mom duties minus any spinal cord injuries—or even scrapes. I reclined on a rock and basked in the sun as everyone else plunged into the river.

Lala tugged me back to the secret waterfall of North Minneapolis. Like the river in Québec, this water was a far cry from the staid stream coming daily from my kitchen faucet. This water was an awe-inspiring thing, and I could appreciate its savage beauty from a distance.

No wetsuit required.

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

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

More trips

Last week, I asked you, my readers, what your favorite (or most memorable) trips were as kids. Three of you shared your memories. Enjoy the stories!

*****

It’s sounds and smells, mostly, and of course sights, that hold the strings to my memories. Since my dad worked for the airlines, we took advantage of flight benefits. One of the best trip memories was when I was twelve, visiting my aunt and uncle, missionaries to Liberia, Africa, prior to the civil war.

Getting off the plane in the middle of the tarmac with a crowd of people surrounding us was intimidating. The heavy scent of unbathed humanity was overwhelming. I don’t remember people wearing uniforms and wondered why they were there and what did they want? Fortunately, my uncle arrived to wave the crowds away and we whisked to his house in a car. I think I was too young to know how lucky we were to have seasoned relatives navigate the unknown for us.

I recall watching a boy pointing out baby crocodiles snapping feistily in an oil drum. Respectful of a gigantic colony of army ants making their way across a road, my uncle warned, “they’ll eat your tires if they crawl over them, and anything else they find.”

In the recordings of my mind, I hear the voices of kids through the screen door selling green and yellow oranges and calling out, “Bock, bock!” (the sound of a hand knocking). I remember screaming when the iguana fell from the ceiling, bouncing off my sister’s head and landing on the floor.

We drove to the “bush” as the country was called, in a Land Rover. My dad had to hop out and guide my uncle across a log bridge over a creek and mushy ground. That was scary for me, but we made it! We ate in a hut without a door with chickens wandering in and out, hoping I might drop something tasty. Swimming in the salted surf, not realizing how tides worked and having waves hurl me down onto the reef below, rolling me in sea urchin spikes so that they embedded in my palms and soles of my feet. I recall my mom with a needle, getting the little ends out, which of course had broken off under my skin.

I recollect trying to climb a coconut tree—and being completely unsuccessful. How could those little kids shinny up the vertical smooth bark trunks??!

It was in Liberia that I discovered that powdered milk chilled by ice cubes is not so bad, and that heads are made for balancing big heavy things. Not mine, though. The heaviest thing I seem to balance are these memories, that come to the surface when I smell a mango or taste plantain, or see a chicken at my sister’s place greeting me as I come close, to see if I might drop some morsel for their snack.

Jill, Kansas City, MO

*****

As a 12-year-old, with my brother, 5, and my parents, we went from Indiana to California in a 1974 2-door Chevy Vega with no air conditioning. In the summer.

I think I slept through the entire state of Nebraska, drowsy on Dramamine.

We stopped in Colorado Springs to see my cousins and an aunt, and thought that the brakes were failing in the mountains because they squealed so loudly.

My uncle and his family lived in New Mexico. I remember surprising everyone by eating authentic, really spicy Mexican food.

In Arizona we saw the Grand Canyon. It went on for forever.

Through the desert in summer, it was 112°F when my dad registered at the hotel in Needles, California. He was so hot he couldn't remember his name to sign in.

Los Angeles's Disneyland and Knott's Berry Farm were huge hits. My brother was obsessed with the huge feet of the cartoon characters, especially Goofy. I enjoyed the rides even though I had sat in the car for a week+. My folks took a side trip to Las Vegas, Nevada.

Our end destination was grandmother's house, near San Francisco in Richmond, CA. She was a welcome respite from our major car travels. She and my aunt took us around Berkeley to bookstores (I've always been an avid reader) and San Francisco for more shopping, Fisherman's Wharf, Ghirardelli Square, and Pam Pam's Steak Restaurant. We relaxed in her yard under the lemon tree and played in the court with the neighbor kids.

Over the years we drove (once), flew (many times) and even took trains (twice) to see grandmother and the Golden State. Each time was a thrill, but 1974 was the most memorable.

Kip, Saint Paul, Minnesota

*****

As dairy farmers, my parents didn’t vacation often, or really at all.  The last vacation I remember our family taking before the Holsteins came into play was a family reunion in the rolling hills of Western ND.  I remember not listening to my mom and tumbling out of the back seat of the old yellow hatchback with my bare feet and not heeding her warnings to put on my shoes.  I promptly stepped right on a cactus.  Lesson learned.  

 Once at the family farm where the reunion was held, we set up our tent, which is where I found myself napping one day.  I woke up to find the saltine I’d spread with spray cheese (fun, portable camping snacks!) had been eaten by a farm cat. I remember I was upset at the loss of the cracker, but happy for the cat sighting! 

Jen, Grand Forks, North Dakota

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

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

Trips

“Oh, the places you’ll go!” Dr. Seuss

Today I’d like to hear from you.

As a child, did you travel with your family or friends? If so, what was your favorite trip? What made it memorable?

I’ll get us started.

When I was a kid, my family of seven traveled the country by station wagon for our vacations. Birthed by education-loving parents, my siblings and I learned a few things when our car stopped at the following places (to name some): Robert Frost’s grave; Arlington National Cemetery; the Library of Congress; the U.S. Supreme Court, the U.S. Capitol, the White House; National Gallery of Art; the presidential libraries and museums of Hoover, Truman, Kennedy, and Nixon; the Smithsonian, where I remember the dresses of the First Ladies, FDR’s wheelchair, and Lindbergh’s The Spirit of St. Louis; and Ford Theatre where Lincoln was shot and the house across the street where he died, the narrow bed still stained with his blood.

But not all were history lessons. We kids frolicked in the powdery sand of White Sands National Monument in New Mexico. We splashed around in the pool at the Sip ‘n Dip Motel in Montana, entertaining patrons of the tiki bar who had an underwater view of our aquatic tricks. And we watched Dad climb out of the vehicle in Yellowstone and edge a little too close to a bison. The animal charged him, and I can still see Dad sprinting back to the safety of the car in his short shorts, dark socks, and Florsheims.

Now it’s your turn. Write me a note about a memorable childhood trip and send it here. Subscribers, simply hit reply to this email. I will publish your memories in next week’s blog installment. Please include your first name and location (city and state.)

Until then, happy trails!

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

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

Kindness (again)

“Kill them with kindness,” Dad always said when we kids aired our frustrations about difficult people.

It wasn’t a fresh quote—many people before and after him used it too—but it still etched a groove into my life.

As an adult, I see the simplest advice can be the best—but the hardest. And when it comes to kindness towards strangers, stopping to help might shake up one’s day. What do you think?

Enjoy this post, first published in 2016.

*****

We arrived at La Gare Montparnasse, one of Paris’ six largest train stations, after a three-hour train ride from La Rochelle. Dr. Janis, our chaperone, disembarked with us nine college students. We had spent the previous six weeks that summer of 1994 in a study abroad program, and now our adventure was almost over. One night in Paris, and we would all go our separate ways.

Right there on the platform, Janis—as we called him—caught our attention one last time with a flamboyant wave of his arms. He lowered onto all fours and kissed the quai, pronouncing himself libre of his responsibilities. Then he stood up, brushed himself off, and walked away, leaving us with our overwhelming piles of luggage.

To save our dwindling francs, we chose to take the metro instead of a taxi to the youth hostel. But we were unwise in our planning; each of us had three monstrous suitcases to manage, made heavier and more unwieldy by the added weight of purchases we had made during our stay.

We scraped together our ingenuity, inventing ways to make it through the turnstiles before they closed on us, and we devised techniques to get on and off the train in the twenty seconds the doors stood open at each stop. But despite our best plans, all but one of us made it onto the train at the first station. We darted frantic looks at each other and at our lagging friend who struggled to load her carrying cart onto the train. As she strained, red-faced, the warning buzzer sounded. Five seconds left. Two of us lunged for the door, hoping to help her board. But would we make it?

Just then, a man inside the train reached out and lifted her cart inside for her, and she scrambled on after it. The doors closed. I steadied my breathing, contemplating the close call.  

When it was time for us to get off, the doors opened, and the countdown began. Twenty seconds to unload our burdens from the train. But someone removed our suitcases for us and set them on the platform. How could they have carried off those behemoth nightmares so quickly? I scanned the area, but couldn’t find the helper—or helpers—who had saved my friends and me.

After three trains, two transfers, many sets of stairs, and almost two hours of travel on the metro with our ridiculous baggage, we arrived at 151, avenue Ledru-Rollin, our clothes drenched with sweat and our hands swollen.

That evening at the Bastille Hostel, I reclined in my bottom bunk and remembered the kindness of the strangers on the train who had helped us that day. It was probably nothing for them, but their assistance had made life easier for nine traveling students.

Early August’s driving rain assaulted the pavement in the church parking lot. So many cars this Sunday morning in 2004, and I hadn’t arrived early enough for a front row spot. I pulled the car into an open space and turned off the ignition. For fifteen seconds, I considered my exit strategy. Husband was working, so I’d do this thing alone. After forming a plan and summoning the courage, I jumped out, looped the strap of the diaper bag over my shoulder, and poked my head inside the back seat.

“See how hard it’s raining, girls?” I glanced at Flicka and Ricka—my four and two year olds—in their car seats as I detached three-month-old Dicka’s infant seat from its base. Rain pelted my lower back as I worked. “Now listen. We’re going to get inside the church fast. You two hold onto me as we walk, okay?”

My oldest ones released themselves from their seats and scrambled out of the car. Flicka grabbed onto the hem of my shirt, but Ricka scuttled off toward the nearest mini pond. A vehicle rolled by a few feet from her. My heart lurched.

“Ricka, come back.” I hooked the infant seat on my arm. “I don’t want you getting hit by a car.”

My two year old looked at me. “Okay, Mama.” Then she examined the puddle again and tapped her toe into it.

Lightning split the sky, and thunder cracked. I locked the car with my gaze glued on Ricka. She scampered back to me and clutched onto the edge of my shirt. We began our trek across the parking lot, pointed for the door. But on the way, the torrent soaked us, and the baby sputtered; the canopy of the infant seat kept out the rain as well as an open window. I shook the wet hair from my face. Hair styling and makeup application was all vanity anyway, I told myself.

“Can you have thunder without lightning?” Flicka skipped at my side, tugging down my shirt with each hop.

“I don’t know.” I side-stepped a pool of water. “Maybe not?”

Ricka, distracted by another puddle, dropped her grip on me, and I tossed a prayer into the soggy, grey sky. Please let us all just get inside. We hobbled at a snail’s pace. Only twenty yards to go…

A man exited the church doors, popped open an umbrella, and bounded toward us.

“Looks like you could use a little help.” He held the umbrella above my head as he walked with us.

I laughed, imagining black lines of mascara streaking my cheeks. “You have no idea.”

During the service, I recalled the kindness of the man with the umbrella. It was likely nothing for him, but his gesture improved the day for one mom and her three kids.

One day in 2014, Husband drove down Fremont Avenue on our way to the store. He squinted at the car ahead of us. Then he flicked on the headlights, flashing them back and forth. Brights, dims. Brights, dims.

I furrowed my brow. “What?”

“They left their cell phone on their bumper.”

Before reaching the stoplight at Dowling Avenue North, the driver pulled over to the side of the road. Husband drove up behind her, put the car in park, and hopped out. He plucked the cell phone from the bumper of the vehicle and headed with it to the driver’s side. The woman rolled down her window and spoke with him. Husband handed her the phone, strode back to our car, and slid into the driver’s seat.

“How did it go?” I said.

He shrugged. “She was happy.”

Later that day, I thought of Husband’s kindness toward a stranger. It was nothing for him, but maybe his help made life less stressful for the woman who got her phone back.

A hand to lift a heavy suitcase off the metro, an umbrella over the head of a struggling mom, willingness to stop long enough to return a cell phone. The world brims with people’s small deeds of kindness. They don’t make the news, and they aren’t dazzling enough to be captured for YouTube. But for the giver and receiver, those little actions tear apart boredom, shake up apathy, and dent a person’s jaded outlook.

Big opportunities to save someone may never come. But every day the small needs of others speckle our paths and invite us to act.

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

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