Time

I sit in the 5:30 a.m. silence, the passing seconds needling me. It’s Thursday, and I’m set to do what I always do, but I come up empty.

What do I write today, Lord? I’m out of ideas, and I don’t have time.

You always have time.

And that’s my answer. That’s how it comes, all the inspiration over the years. If it’s good, it drops into my spirit in the stillness–when I’m patient enough to listen.

I’m obsessed with time–like my dad was–and if my insides had a leg to bounce, they’d be doing just that as I note the movement of the minute hand on the analog clock above the kitchen sink.

I put the brakes on my nature, forcing my thrumming to stop. NO. I will breathe and write, write and breathe. And for the first time in all these years, I think this is God’s mercy over my life to slow me with the written word–His and my own.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:

a time to be born, and a time to die;

a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;

a time to kill, and a time to heal;

a time to break down, and a time to build up;

a time to weep, and a time to laugh;

a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;

a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

a time to seek, and a time to lose;

a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

a time to tear, and a time to sew;

a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

a time to love, and a time to hate;

a time for war, and a time for peace.

If The Byrds’ hit song from 1965, “Turn! Turn! Turn!”, is playing in your mind right now, I offer either an “I’m sorry” or a “you’re welcome,” depending on your outlook.

Inspired by Ecclesiastes, I’m opting for balance over productivity on the only July 13, 2023 I’ll ever have.

What are you choosing for your time today?

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The mail

“If, somewhere, any possible world can exist, then somewhere there is any letter that could possibly be written. Somewhere, all those checks really were in the mail.” Terry Pratchett

I spy that little white truck rolling by. It halts in front of every house in our cul-de-sac each day, and as soon as it’s gone, I scurry out there. There’s a mini sense of suspense built into my daily life by what could be left behind. Mail delights me.

My family thinks it’s weird. Unlike me, they don’t believe there could be anything in that box and likely, money. But I have that kind of faith.

“Is there a check in the mail today?” I ask Husband who signed up for the preview through Informed Delivery notifications. I could sign up for it too, but it’s more fun to ask him every twenty-four hours, minus Sundays.

“No, but you’ve been selected to represent concerned citizens of Minneapolis in front of the U.S. Senate,” he said one day.

I’d rather have his usual “Probably.”

Last week, our mortgage company sent an escrow overage refund, AND a rebate arrived from Menards (for store credit), keeping my expectations of funds in the mailbox ripping around the yard like a puppy just released from his kennel. A letter also came from the National Cremation Society.

Husband read it aloud. “‘How long do you plan on living?’”

“It does not say that.” But I stole a peek at the paper anyway.

He laughed. “Actually, ‘How long have you lived at your current residence?’”

I suppose there’s nothing like the thought of death to ground us, though, while we’re going through the mail.

One day a few weeks ago, I clicked off half my brain to sift through the USPS’s offerings. From the looks of it, there was no cause for elation. I slid my finger under the edge of one piece, opening it. The U.S. Census Bureau. It contained a questionnaire of several pages. Who fills this out? Surely there’s a way for the U.S. government to count its citizens without relying on them to get out a pen and tell the truth on paper about who lives in their house. But wait. A five-dollar bill was also tucked inside. Since when? Did they send every American household five bucks as an incentive to complete the form?

The papers went straight into the recycling, and Abe Lincoln made a beeline for Husband’s wallet. I texted a friend. She had gotten the same letter but no money, and no, she had never heard of such a thing.

Oh, dear mail! You sure offer a burst of anticipation every day anywhere from noon to three o’clock. (Or sometimes it’s later, like that one day when I didn’t see you until the next morning because you had been delivered so late the previous day, but no matter.) Thank you for the daily fun.

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Freedom

I post this blog installment every couple of years because the reminder of freedom is always timely. Life has changed for us since I wrote this in 2018—Lala is no longer with us, and we live in a new neighborhood—but the truths still hold.

Happy 4th of July!

*****

With each explosion of fireworks, Lala, our dog, presses harder against me, and I feel her trembling. She doesn’t understand there’s a celebration going on and no one’s really bombing us.

Our dog isn’t the only one who struggles; I’m told the neighborhood’s many canines quake in their coats around this time each year, sometimes even refusing to step paw outside to answer nature’s call. They’re free to go out, of course, but to them, the pyrotechnics in the night sky signal sure terror, and the endless pops imprison them in fear inside their houses.

Unlike Lala, I know I’m free. And I’m free in more ways than I live.

Freedom frames my thoughts as I drive east on Dowling Avenue, pointed toward the grocery store where I’m free to spend my money how I like before it closes early for the July holiday. On my way, I pass a house where two large tents festoon the side yard. Ribbons of smoke curl skyward from two grills. A tall slim man approaches one of them and maybe he’s holding a spatula, but who cares, because he’s dressed in exactly two clothing items: a red Speedo and an American flag worn as a cape. Husband’s at work, but I have to phone him this minute anyway, because the brand of freedom I just witnessed should be shared with others.

As I drive on, I count my freedoms on Independence Day, and like the sighting of the guy in the Speedo, they surprise me:

I’m free to live a life that doesn’t look like the next person’s.

I’m free to do the right thing, even when it’s hard.

I’m free to serve others more than I do.

I’m free to keep the words that are in my head out of my mouth.

I’m free to not worry today. Or tomorrow.

I’m free to tell people I love them, even if they may not return the sentiment.

How are you free?

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Like a tree

Among the white tents with their canvas sides still lowered, vendors meander, their voices low. It’s a quiet, steady set-up on this Sunday morning. I’m early to church, so I use this time to watch the Stone Arch Bridge Festival preparation from a bench close to the river. A bus hisses to a stop on Hennepin and First. A train clatters by on a nearby bridge. I sip my latté.

Paella Depot, MeeMa’s Coffee, Firehouse Foods, Amish Annie Donuts, and Top Dog are the food truck names I spy from my post. I eye the things man has made and something he hasn’t. That tree, stronger than the cityscape, has seen a few festivals and runners and strollers and bikers in its years. And it doesn’t care what humans set up or take down around it. Its branches are skyward, pointing back to everything.

He is like a tree planted by the waters that sends out its roots toward the stream.

I set down my coffee and rub my arms. It’s chilly out here for me at seventy degrees. Wasn’t it supposed to hit almost ninety today? I consider the tree. What variation of temperatures does it know, standing like a sentinel by the Mississippi?

It does not fear when the heat comes, and its leaves are always green.

The people by the river scurry with their plans. They have lists to accomplish, a deadline to meet. But the festival scene drops away from my notice, and it’s back to the tree.

It does not worry in a year of drought, nor does it cease to produce fruit.

I think of my own worries, my fruit, my roots. Maybe I’m not immovable like the tree, but I can point my branches back to everything.

He is like a tree…

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This, that, and a tortoise

The week passed in a haze and not just because of the Canadian wildfires (yikes to the air quality around these parts!) My work called for heavy screen time (Rise, Inc. rolled out a new case management system), which meant not enough personal screen time to write a decent blog for you.

While my face was buried in work, I learned it was time to put our Honda to rest. We seem to enjoy keeping vehicles on life support, but the mechanic called our beloved Pilot’s time of death yesterday, June 14, at 3:33 p.m. We’re mourning the loss of the old girl who faithfully carted us around–and not only us but also the many relatives, friends, and thirty-two kids we hosted through Safe Families for Children. She was trustworthy (mostly) and showed us a grand time all the way to California and back on our Epic Family Road Trip of 2019 (and spent only two times in the shop for brake issues on that trip, if memory serves me right.)

But enough eulogizing our SUV. You didn’t come here today for the breezy recap of our week’s minutia; you came for something creative, which you won’t get (refer to the first paragraph, please.)

I did, however, land on a delightful story from a Twin Cities’ news station, and I think you might enjoy it too.

KSTP’s newscaster, Paul Folger, tracked down Toby, the Galapagos tortoise, who lived at Saint Paul’s Como Zoo from 1958 to 1974. Back in the day, the children at the zoo loved Toby. He gave them rides, and as the legend goes, Dad plopped me on top of the big guy at some point in 1972. When the massive turtle moved a centimeter underneath me, I startled and cried. I guess my two-year-old brain thought he was a rock instead of a reptile.

Toby’s tortoise friend, Lady Godiva, passed away in 1974, and Toby was moved from Minnesota into a breeding program in Hawaii that same year. I imagine him suffering the trauma of his friend’s death as well as the stress of relocation, and I feel for the slow-moving guy. But that’s just me projecting, so who knows.

Just recently, the Mayor’s Office in Honolulu called Paul at KSTP to let him know Toby was living his best life in Hawaii, no longer giving rides but instead relaxing and eating his favorite snack, cactus. He lives in a habitat with other tortoises, and he’s 91 years old, which is young, since Galapagos tortoises can live beyond 150 years.

Oh, and Toby knows his name. When someone calls him, he stretches out his neck in response, and he poses for photo shoots too. Isn’t that cute?

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The pool

“It looks like a shipwreck out there,” I said a month ago to our houseguests. Might as well speak the truth out loud, I figured. When a disaster lives in your backyard, there’s no hiding it. 

But let’s go back to the beginning, so I can tell you the whole story.

During the summer of 2022, we limped through the process of making our pool swimmable. New to the house, we heard stories from the neighbors, and they told us no one had used our backyard water feature in a number of years. We waved away the situation. We would fix it up, we said, and I think the words no problem punctuated our replies. 

Husband toiled away, de-mucking the slough like a champ. He scooped out rotten leaves for days. Next, he turned on the pump, but when it wouldn’t fire up for more than a few seconds, he came this close to buying a new one on the recommendation of two pool companies.

We phoned Dolf, our electrician, and he sleuthed out the situation, pinpointing the actual root of our troubles. He rewired the shed to power the pump to filter the pool to bring us the swimming experience we enjoyed last summer. The man didn’t look like a superhero, but he scaled the heights of our expectations all the same, and at the end of the story, he stood at the very top of our dreams, his cape flapping in the summer breezes.

A valuable truth I’ve learned from writers’ conferences over the years is this: good stories brim with seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Conflicts keep the plot rolling, the pages turning, see. And unfortunately, our swimming pool became a good story. 

We opened our pool on July 6, 2022. Delights abounded; romantic notions of the pool were realized and all that. 

Then we spied The Tear. 

It started out as a little gash on either side of one of the jets. Husband patched the problem. But as our glorious summer ripped on, so did our pool liner. Our already short swim season screeched to a halt in early September because our swimming hole was losing water at an alarming pace–so alarming the people at Sparkle Pools said it would run us about $700/month to keep replacing the gallons that drained away. (I got the water bill for the summer months in November, though, and happily, they were wrong.) 

We covered the sad pool with its shredded liner for the winter, but the leaks were so bad the water level sank lower than it should have. Husband slid boards under the tarp to support it, but the arctic winds of Minnesota during The Dark Months yanked it back and flung the supporting rocks and sandbags into the abyss.

In the spring of 2023, we ordered a new liner. The week before Memorial weekend, a new-to-us pool company came in, pulled away the old liner, and inspected the situation underneath it. Uh-oh. But no problem; it would only run us a couple thousand dollars to repair the walls and flooring and patch it with new concrete before installing the fresh liner. What choice did we have? The repair job done, the crew stretched the new vinyl inside the gaping maw. 

Husband and I wondered aloud why we couldn’t just call the fire department to come with their big ol’ hose to take on the next step and fill the thing. Apparently, they don’t do that, so we did what the others do: we filled the new beaut with our garden hose over three days.

All final touches in place, we officially opened our pool yesterday, June 7, 2023–one month earlier than last year. And really, so far, so good.

Enjoy the below pictures to either brighten your day or serve as a cautionary tale to take into your hopefully-wiser-than-us future. 

Photo 1: My Favorite Pool Boy (a.k.a. Husband) from the summer of 2022, vacuuming the thing. See what I circled, though? Yeah, yikes. 

Photo 2: The post-winter shipwreck. *sigh*

Photo 3: The concrete repair work and Dicka, not too thrilled with it (but at least she had her iced coffee.)

Photo 4: The installation of the new liner.

Photo 5: The pool today, June 8, 2023.

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Ziklag

“David at Ziklag.”

I unpeeled the covers, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and stood. David at Ziklag.

What was that?

I shuffled into the bathroom and trudged through my groggy first motions of the day. I moved from there to the closet, out to the coffee pot, and over to the couch. Still two hours until my workday, and enough time to listen. It came again.

David at Ziklag.

The man’s name and location puzzled me. It wasn’t a reminder of the previous day’s reading, a memory of a recent study, or a recollection of a conversation with a friend. No, it was a fresh nudge to search for more.

Since I already knew who and where, I dove in for the what. The story was vague to me—and only one of many I’d put my eyes on at some point at some time.

David and his men came back from battle to their town of Ziklag to find it burned to the ground. The enemy had taken all the women and children captive. David and his six-hundred men bawled their eyes out until they were exhausted. Some of the men threatened to stone David because he was their leader, and this was a mess. He called a priest, prayed, and strengthened himself. An inspired idea came to him, and he rallied his army.

On the way to take back what was stolen from them, the warriors came upon an Egyptian—unresponsive but alive. They tended to the young man for three days, giving him water and food until he revived. He told them he was a servant of the same enemy who had devoured their lives, stealing everything, and because he was sick, his master had left him behind. Could he join them on their way, though? David said yes, and the man promised to take them to the people they sought, if they agreed not to give him back to his master.

David and his men—four hundred of them now because two hundred were too tired to go into battle and stayed back with the baggage—fought their enemy and recovered what was theirs—their wives, children, and property. AND NOTHING WAS MISSING. They even took a great spoil.

When it came time to divide the winnings, the four-hundred men complained about the two hundred who had stayed behind. Why should they get anything? But David said no, they should have their portion too. And from that day on, it became law: share and share alike.

I sat with the stories, four lessons emerging in front of my eyes, and I imagined them as titles: Plundered, Caring for Another on the Way, Recovery, The Great Sharing.

So, which one did I need? Which counted most for my life and the lives around me? Or a better question: if this progression mattered for today, where was I in the story?

Two days later, a friend who knew nothing about my wake-up words sent me a sermon from YouTube. It had to do with victory over this or that in life, and sure enough, “David at Ziklag” came out of the speaker's mouth. The day after, a podcaster talked about standing strong in adversity. Somewhere in the middle, she dropped the words, “like David at Ziklag.” Why was this obscure story of an ancient warrior (and later king) showing up again and again?

As I write this today, I can't say I know the application. What does it mean for my life? I might be in the Caring for Another on the Way stage, but who knows?

Or maybe I'm meant to tell you right now because this story is for you.

What do you think?

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Silver lining? Sure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?” I said. “What did it say?”

“‘It’s your fault’,” Dicka said.

“Oh, brother.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Art, art, art

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

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

So, it’s art that’s on my mind today.

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seriously?” He shook his head and laughed.

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

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

*****

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First thing

“Here you go,” I say. “Drink this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yep, you guessed it.

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Honeymoon

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

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

Well, there you go.

Leaving our wedding, changed into our honeymoon clothes

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

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Come spring: update

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

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

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

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

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

It speaks

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

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

And in its silence, it speaks.

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

And in its silence, it speaks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heat wave

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This central air is too much.

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

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

Hem

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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