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.

Rest/Watch

This week has been simple. No profound thoughts for the blog, it turns out, but I have been practicing my resting and watching. (Click here for last week’s blog installment on the topic.) It’s fun to imagine luxuriating on a couch (resting) while gazing through a window (watching), but it’s not like I can take off work for that kind of be-still-and-know behavior.  

I’m trusting and noticing more, though, and that’s the essence of life. When it’s so harsh it doesn’t make sense, I trust God’s got it. When it’s so kind it doesn’t make sense, I trust God’s got it. And I take note of it all. 

While I’m resting and watching and trusting and noticing, I peer through my real window at an actual scene: that snowman in the backyard—once a handsome, tall drink of (frozen) water—has face-planted, poor guy. But that’s neither here nor there—just like him now. 

What’s in your resting and watching? 

Uh-oh…

Rest in peace, big guy.

*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 island: Part 4

When the stream of humanity around my kitchen island trickles off, the stories halt, and the hum goes quiet, I stay there—and wonder how I’m doing.

I sit at the island, a little twitchy in the silence. Like when a child, grappling with the impossibility of calming her body in church, gets the giggles, and her dad reaches over with a pinch to the shoulder, skewering her with The Look. Not that I’d know anything about that.

“Wait. Where’d they go?” I ask myself, feeling left out, even though I know the bigger work is done in the alone place.

Rest. Watch. I notice the gaps and discrepancies in me.

My soul bounces like my leg under the table because there’s so much else happening beyond the stool and quartz—so much else to attend to, stew over, buzz about, spin around.

I fret over the little things—will the pipes to the upstairs bathroom freeze again in the projected minus sixteen degrees tonight? Better dribble the water from the faucets to be safe. And I agonize over the big things—will justice ever come for the crimes against little ones throughout the world? Better pour more resources into rescue efforts to be certain.

Rest. Watch. I switch my focus.

I read the ancient stories of Life. Sometimes the protagonist disappears into solitude. His followers keep going with their activities, and we’re to glean from their pursuits, but I’m distracted by the absence of their friend.

“Wait. Where’d He go?” I ask myself, feeling left out, even though I know the bigger work is done in the alone place.

REST. WATCH. I note the fullness and power of Him.

Come to me, all who are weary and heavily burdened, and I will give you rest.

My heart rate slows, and I SEE. Oh, to stay here forever and not struggle to return to this spot again and again.

I take a tip from my kitchen island; I take a tip from my Friend.

Rest. Watch.

*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 island: Part 3

I pulled leftovers from the fridge. Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka—ages 23, 21, and 18—buzzed around the kitchen, rummaging in the cupboards for chips, plating lunch items, and heating up their selections in the microwave. They settled onto stools on one side of the kitchen island, and I sat opposite them. Husband, away on a work trip, didn’t know the lunchtime conversation he was about to miss. And neither did I.

I gazed across the island at my girls. “So, any interesting updates?” I said, scooping up guac with a tortilla chip. But the mood in the room anchored my breezy question.

“I think God’s calling me to go,” Flicka said, her eyes watery. She talked about the five hundred—the number of missionaries the pastor, years ago, envisioned sending—and how she might be one of them.

“Me too, I think,” Ricka said, her expression solemn. She had spent months counting the cost, money having nothing to do with it.

Names peppered my thoughts—Amy Carmichael, Gladys Aylward, Lillian Trasher—all single women called to move the world, one war, epidemic, orphanage, or impoverished nation at a time.

My heart drooped. But hadn’t I bounced my babies on my hip, praying God would spark fires in them for humanity? That He would capture their affections and spur them on to greater things? Now here they were, talking about the uttermost parts of the earth while I sat with my guacamole, sensing the start of a rip in my soul.

“I wanted us to live close to each other,” Dicka said, and I felt my third girl’s statement like it was my own.

“I always wanted a Brodleville too,” Flicka said, referring to the fictitious name for the two-block area where four of her grandma’s siblings lived in Riverton, Wyoming. “But I know it’s not for me.”

I broke from the fragile moment and strode toward the box of tissues, perched on the counter for island moments like these. I placed it in front of Flicka. She drew one out.

“I think of the cabin life, living near family, doing weekends together,” she said, dabbing her nose. “I always wanted that.”

Ricka’s eyes filled. I slid the tissue box over. “Same here.”

Send me, send me, I’ll go anywhere, I’ll go anywhere, the song lyrics floated through the house like they’d been curated for the moment. Dicka sniffed. Ricka slid the Kleenexes to her younger sister. I saw Amy Carmichael rescuing over a thousand children out of prostitution in India. Gladys Aylward leading one-hundred Chinese orphans over mountains to safety during a military invasion. And Lillian Trasher growing an orphanage in Egypt that also housed widows during World War II. The Kleenex box came to rest in front of me.

An extravagant Love. A complicated calling. The promise of trials. Two-thirds of my girls were leaving us at some time, going to some place, and into all the unknowns. Peace mingled with longing and found a home in my chest.

And the island held us.

*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 island: Part 2

Our girls can always tell when I’m about to entertain a friend. The giveaway? The cheese plate I assemble and place on the kitchen island. And that day, I pulled one together too.

It wasn’t anything too extravagant, that cheese plate. Likely a little asiago, a little goat, a little sharp cheddar—all from Aldi—with crackers from Trader Joe’s. Probably a few almonds on the side. Maybe a sliced apple. See, the food doesn’t matter; it’s only a decoration for the main event.

When I plan a visit with a friend, it goes on the calendar as “hang out with _____” (fill in the name) as if it’s a trivial encounter. When it happens, though, it’s a meeting between two women, sparking a heavenly interest. And God leans down, listens in, and writes a book of remembrance for us—just like it says in Malachi.

And so it was that day in June when Kay came over. As usual, we started our visit over snacks, sitting across from each other at the kitchen island, sharing recommendations for face oils and night serums. Soon enough, though, the weight of The Presence entered, beckoning us into deeper matters.

And so, we followed.

“Marriage isn’t a fairy tale,” Kay said, munching on an almond. “But figuring out each other’s love languages helps.”

I nodded, plucking a cracker from the tray. “Funny how loving someone in their language can turn anything around.”

Our house, with its flow of people, means a colorful mix of visitors. A few passed through that day too, and soon Flicka appeared on a stool next to me. Kay and I kept talking.

“When your spouse is weak,” Kay said, “be the strength they need, right? And speaking of strength...” She pointed at her wrist, etched with ink. “That’s why I have this one.” A reference, Nehemiah 8:10, marked her skin—an eternal reminder of joy.

A nineteen-year-old boy, a friend of the girls, drew out a stool and sat by Kay. Our party of two at the island had doubled. Kay and I kept talking.

“I leaned on ‘the joy of the Lord is my strength’ after baby number four,” my friend said. “I had horrific postpartum depression.”

“I’ve heard of it,” the boy said, “but what is it?”

She described the sharp changes for some women after giving birth—the shifting moods, the continual exhaustion, the deep sadness. He listened, eyes wide, a slow nod his only movement.

I pulled back, assessing the scene in my kitchen. Two seasoned wives and mothers spoke truth about marriage and childbirth to two young people who came to hear it. And I thought of future conversations—and the new others yet to come.

Kay and I kept talking. And the island kept listening.

(Come back next week for more island stories.)

NEW: Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? Do you feel a little lighter, freer, or moved after reading it? 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)

Well, look at that. The island’s snacks made it into one of Dicka’s Instagram stories.

The island: Part 1

Today I think of our island. Not the tropical variety, although wouldn’t I love to own one right about now, in the middle of this Minnesota winter? Instead, I’m thinking about the nine-foot-long feature, capped in quartz, stretching across our kitchen.

Long before our house was fully realized—when it was still mostly an architectural idea sketched on paper—I had a vision. Husband stood at the stove, cooking for the masses, and I wiped down the countertops. Joy fueled our movements. The French adjective quotidien, meaning daily, springs to mind as I recall the vision, and the word frames the scene. What’s more daily than a kitchen island in the center of everything?

We use our island hard, and I assume discussions will happen around it. When we bought the house, though, I imagined the bulk of heartfelt exchanges and weighty thoughts would be birthed in the sunroom. What I didn’t anticipate was that our kitchen focal point would host stories so soon, so often, so deep, and from the least likely. But so it is.

“I wasn’t a good husband early on,” the handyman says, backing out from under our kitchen sink. He straightens to standing, splays his palms on our kitchen island, and switches his gaze between Husband and me. His son, his associate, stands nearby, attention trained on his dad now. “I neglected my wife and family. I wanted my work more than I wanted them.”

The older man’s eyes turn glossy, and I wonder how his sleuthing out a solution for our electrical situation (the dishwasher and garbage disposal had been wired into the same outlet) could bring a personal story.

“We got married pretty fast, since my wife was already pregnant with this one," he goes on, thumbing toward his son.

“This is the first I’m hearing about it,” the son says, his expression neutral.

The older man waves away his grown kid’s comment. “We were a mess, but that was then. God shook me into the man I am today.” He swallows a quaver. “Hard as you-know-what, but I wouldn’t change it for anything.”

Gratefulness overshadows my surprise at the sudden story. This man doesn’t know us, and yet he speaks. I glimpse Husband’s reaction, and it matches my own. The electrical issue doesn’t seem so important now, and we keep listening—to him and to all the others who come after him in the following days, weeks, and months. (Because we have a lot of goings-on over here.)

And the island listens too.

(Come back next week for more island stories.)

New year, new word (your responses)

Last week, I invited you, my readers, to submit your words for 2023. From what you sent me, 2023 will be filled with excitement and promise. Enjoy!

*****

In years past my words have always been focused on healing or managing some sort of pain or angst. One year it was ‘breathe’ and for two years it was ‘release’ (that was a hard task for me!) Last year, a phrase, ‘it’s what I’m working with’… a hopefully humorous move toward self-acceptance.

This year I wanted my word to represent living, doing, being bold and sassy in the face of anxiety and fear. My ‘word’ this year describes how I will choose to conduct myself toward joy… I will be ‘gutsy-glorious!’

Deborah, Beldenville, Wisconsin

*****

Word for 2023: Mine is rejuvenate. After a fall in 2018 that changed my life, I declare I am putting that all behind me and plan to rejuvenate my body, mind and soul by feasting on God’s Word.

Charlene, Deer Creek, Minnesota

*****

My word for 2023: Regenerate

Becky, Mahtomedi, Minnesota

*****

Trust (v.) = to believe in the reliability, strength, ability of someone or something

No idea what’s coming

Running anyhow

Trying too hard

Giving up?

No. Giving in . . .

To Him.

Avis, Newfolden, Minnesota

*****

The following submission contains excerpts from Dori’s blog, With Robin and Flowers. (Click HERE to subscribe. It’s a delightful read. You’ll thank me later.):

The phrase that came to my mind was “love is patient.”

At the dinner table tonight, after a rather pleasant day, one of my children got an attitude about the meal. Because, actually, this person preferred it (for once) and wanted a third enormous helping.

“No, that’s enough. You need to eat the other meals offered you during the day.”

Head hanging, the tiny person mumbled.

“Sorry, what was that?” Philip [their father] asked over his by-now-cold bowl of noodles.

“I wish I had my own home. So I could be alone.”

I bit my lip to keep from chortling—or snapping how I wish I had my own home to be alone in too.

From the mouth of babes spring some real fleshly truth, people.

So often, I feel deeply blessed by the duties that consume my life.

But sometimes, the duties test me. Like, TEST ME.

The housekeeping, with its cyclical pattern of dirty clean dirty clean, and all elements (clothes, floors, surfaces, dishes, children, dog…) at varying points in that process. If you want everything clean at once, well, too bad. Hire someone.

My sister-in-law once said, “Before I became a parent, I used to think I was so patient…” and I instantly fell prey to the covetous heart—as I realized, I could never have said such a thing about myself. Many people have told me how nice I am, but nice isn’t the same as patient. In fact, I’ve come to believe that my supposed “niceness” is merely the polite combination of deafness, a quick smile, and nonconfrontationalness.

My Dad often says to me, “We’re all on a journey,” and my achiever beaver side pulls out a checklist. “So can we just get there already?!”

But as hippie as it sounds to say, the journey so often is the destination, in that this life is the one God is using to make us more like Christ.

The hurry-up-edness buried not so deep in my soul just can’t with it sometimes. I want to know why and why not now.

The bread has been in for forty-five minutes. It should be done by now. (I don’t have time for this!)

I taught this child how to do that, for a super long time. Why can’t they just be good at it already?! (I don’t have time for this!)

In the TV series The Chosen, why can’t Jesus just tell Peter to knock it off and make him and Matthew get along from the beginning? “Your brother (in Christ) is your best friend. Now hug it out and act like you love each other.” (Jesus’s ministry is just for three years. HE doesn’t have time for this!)

But He does. And He doesn’t hurry them along. This earthly reflection on the life of Christ takes me back to His Word: how patient He has always been. And then I think of my life. How patient He has always been with me.

Perhaps one habit I’ll take into 2023 is slowing my responses. Is authenticity to our truest fleshiest state actually being honest? Or is deferring ourselves to Our Elder, our Father in Heaven, the best picture of truth?

Dori, Sparta, Wisconsin

New year, new word (2023 edition)

It’s time for our yearly word game. Okay, it’s not really a game, but I like words, so it’s fun for me.

In early December, my word for 2023 sparked to mind while I sat in the quiet place. And it’s one I haven’t figured out yet:

KEY

What does KEY mean for me? Is it a means of gaining or preventing entrance? Or, is it something that provides a solution? Does it have anything to do with open and shut doors? Time will tell.

Now let’s talk about you.

If you choose a yearly word too and would like to share it, send me a message HERE with your word for 2023 and why you chose it. I’ll publish your writing in next week’s blog, along with your first name and city/state. (Subscribers, simply hit reply to this email.)

Pretty feet

From our bedroom window overlooking the backyard this morning, the old-timey lamppost by our pool house wears what looks like a two-foot cap of new snow, and I can imagine Mr. Tumnus leaning against it, arms crossed, gazing back at me.

I chuckle and head into the kitchen for some gingerbread-flavored coffee—I'll use the French press today—and Maverick City’s version of the African-American spiritual drifts through our home audio system:

Go, tell it on the mountain, Over the hills and everywhere

Go, tell it on the mountain, That Jesus Christ is born

It’s a joyful rendition, but the song’s origins, dating back to 1865 or so, were borne of pain. The musical gift, one of many contributions from an enslaved people, stops me in my tracks, and I go for its inspiration.

How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him who brings good news, who publishes peace, who brings good news of happiness, who publishes salvation, who says to Zion, “Your God reigns.”

My heart sings with hope, and I wonder if I have pretty feet. I hope so—even though I haven’t had a pedicure in ages and in Minnesota they’re buried inside mukluks six months out of the year anyway. Thankfully, it’s not about their appearance but about where they’re going.

And I promise to keep mine moving.

Go, tell it on the mountain, Over the hills and everywhere

Go, tell it on the mountain, That Jesus Christ is born