No foolin’

I wore long johns to church on Easter. If you live in Minnesota, you may also have been sweating through all four stanzas of “Jesus Christ is Risen Today!” on April Fool’s Day.


As a prank, I tried to convince my family members that the white hard-boiled eggs I was serving for breakfast were, in fact, dyed. This may go down in history as one of the worst ideas I have had before my first cup of coffee. As soon as I saw the worried looks of my loved ones, who clearly thought Mom had finally gone ’round the reality bend, I said “April Fools!” so they’d know my marbles were still where they were supposed to be. Women of a certain age, it seems, should never under any circumstances play April Fool’s jokes.

When I was growing up, parents hid Easter eggs in the house for their kids to find on Easter morning. This was a really bad idea since inevitably, an egg or two would stay hidden a little too long. My mother-in-law was a nurse who understood that very bad things could happen when kids found and consumed eggs a couple of weeks after Easter, and so she always hid the baskets instead. I still hide baskets for our big kids. Some day, if I’m lucky, I will hide baskets for grand babies.

We sang the hymns and found the baskets and shared a good meal together as a family. I am still roaming free after the worst April Fool’s joke ever. Our big kids have gone back to their adult lives after one more precious holiday at home. The bouquet of lilies and tulips on the dining room table reminds me that despite all evidence to the contrary, spring is actually a thing.

Tulips are proof that the season exists.

And that, my friends, is no joke.


Just kids

My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world.
-Jack Layton


I still think about who they were back then, and who they might have become if their lives hadn’t been taken from them. They were both sassy, fierce, beautiful girls. Girls nobody messed with. Girls that other girls viewed with a mixture of admiration and fear.

Time stopped for them the autumn of our senior year of high school. The rest of us marched forward into adulthood without them. In the four decades since they’ve been gone, we have grown up, raised families, and made livings. Most of us are grandparents today. Some of us are already retired. We will have our fortieth class reunion this summer. We will say their names.

We were changed as a class because we’d lost two classmates. We became kinder and more aware of how very fast everything can change. It was a brutal lesson to learn at seventeen. It is a lesson that, sadly, too many young people face before they graduate. Sometimes, it’s an accident that takes a life. Other times, it’s a suicide. For this generation, and with increasing frequency, it is a random shooting in a school.

Last weekend, I watched the television coverage of thousands upon thousands of teenagers holding signs, chanting slogans, and marching in cities throughout the U.S. and was struck with the realization that this generation of teenagers is both completely different and exactly the same as every generation that has preceded it when it comes to social protest.  Teenagers are wired to be passionate. They are stubborn and idealistic and hard to get along with, generally. They say what’s on their minds. They are fearless.

And until they face the death of someone their age, they think they’re immortal, too.

I know we were all of those things. I know we thought that, too.

And then we lost friends, and were forever changed.




Mud vacation and marbles

From 2015…

In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt. ~Margaret Atwood

Last week, as I sat in the porch for the first time since October,  I watched the neighbor kids splash through the puddles in the woods and listened to their giggling as they successfully crossed a big log in single file. It was one of those squishy March days that kids love and as I watched them play, I was suddenly transported back to my own March days of puddle splashing and marble trading during Mud Vacation.  The fact that the school buses that brought the kids from the country couldn’t make it through the thick muck of unpaved roads for a week or so every Spring meant a break for all of us once the snow melted.

Our north end neighborhood back then was full to overflowing with kids who burst from doorways every March, feral and free. We could be found waiting to take turns on the rope swing that hung from the tree in the Erickson family’s backyard or riding our bikes from the top of Hospital Hill all the way to King School and back. We walked down the old railroad grade behind the high school and came too close to the river swollen with runoff more often than our parents knew. We played in the shoulder-tall grass behind the Kolu family’s house, constructing mazes until our moms called us in for supper, round burrs stuck to our socks.  We started each day clean and ended it dirty, the way kids should.  We scraped our knees on the Dead-end running for home base and slammed every back door in the neighborhood too loudly and stood in kitchens we knew as well as our own gulping down grape Kool-Aid that someone’s mother had made.

When my own two kids were young, I’d tell them stories about “mud vacation” and they’d look at me like I’d lost my marbles. They did their own growing up on paved city streets in a middle-sized town on the prairie. Their own, much windier, memories are happy ones even though the idea that school would be canceled due to mud and not blizzards is a foreign one.  March blizzards or floods on the prairie, they understood. But mud having that much power over something as important as school?  Really?

Yes, Really.  Lovely, lovely mud.

Those neighbor kids I remember are scattered far and wide these days. A lot of them are grandparents now.  Last week, one of them mentioned a game of marbles on her Facebook page which of course, got us ALL talking about marbles in the way that old friends who don’t see each other very often are prone to do when a topic like marbles comes up.  We are grateful that while our marble bags have been missing for quite some time, that the “marbles” that matter are mostly all still there most days.

It just takes the smell of fresh mud, the happy sound of kids at play in March, or the mention of marbles between old friends who remember it all to remind us what we had before all the different roads we chose to travel in life were paved.

Safe travels

When our babies were small, my sister and I never flew anywhere together.

There was a good reason for this. We were each other’s back up in the event that one of us didn’t survive those years of child-rearing. We had enough of our grandmother’s fear of flying in us not to tempt fate. And so, during those years my sister flew, and I flew, but we never flew together.

The only exception was in 1993 when we left our two toddler sons with their fathers and boarded a flight to Korea to bring my daughter home. We decided that the Good Lord would not send the two of us on such an important mission only to let the plane crash on the way.

I am the queen of magical thinking when it comes to airplanes. During take-offs, for example, I revert back to my Catholic upbringing and imagine an army of really strong angels lifting the plane off the ground. During landings, I imagine the plane floating like a paper airplane toward Earth until it magically finds the sweet spot where it is supposed to land.

This type of delusional…er…magical thinking is what has allowed me, through the years, to travel by air. It’s why, whenever one of my kids is on a plane, I need them to let me know when they’re about to take off. If I don’t text “safe travels” to my daughter every time, how will the angels know when to spring into action? And so, I do. Every time.

Well all have our rituals. I have learned not to mess with what works.

I know mothers who are perfectly content miles above the ground. I have noticed them during turbulence. They do not even bother to look up from their magazines! I am in awe of those types of mothers.  They go with the flow, and do not worry about what they cannot control. Moms who feel no need to pester angels about airplanes or anything else, where their grown children are concerned.

I am not one of them. I need those angels.

Just ask my children.


You know you’ve reached the end of the line on winter weather and/or grocery shopping  when you throw a mini-tantrum at the self-checkout at Super One and you’re not a toddler.  I did that today.  I do not say this with any sense of pride, believe me. It was not my finest moment.

The tough thing about having a hissy-fit over technology at the self-checkout is that once you’ve accepted that the machine hates your guts, and you put everything BACK in your cart and huff away saying, “Nope. Nope. NOPE!” loudly to no one in particular, you end up at the back of a different line.

Another customer witnessed this sad display of mine. She was already in a line where actual human beings were checking customers through.  “Rough day?” she asked. “It’s good I don’t say everything that pops into my head.” She smiled. “I know. I’m right there with you. I hate those things, too.” I do not know who this woman is, but she saved me.

Thanks to her, by the time I set my groceries on the belt, I was back to being relatively nice to other people. My cashier was about my age and as she scanned my items, I told her how much I appreciated that she was an actual human being. She said, “Thanks so much for saying that. Five minutes ago we had a little scene here and I am really wondering about humanity.”

As I’d been shopping, I’d noticed the trio of young men she began to tell me about. I recall thinking they were an obnoxious, vulgar trio as they sauntered from one aisle to the next spewing profanity. Bad words. Ugly words. You know that word that got your mouth washed out with Irish Spring if you said it around your mother back when you were a kid?  Yup. That one. F-bombs and S-bombs were raining down all over the store within earshot of  little old ladies and young moms with toddlers strapped into carts.

They continued the bombing run all the way to the cashier. Exasperated, she gave them the look of death that mothers around the world are known for. Instead of shutting their mouths or being ashamed, one of the young men stood inches away from her ear and shouted the same words directly at her. “It’s like he was just daring me to do something!” she said.

As she finished ringing me up, we commiserated about the state of our current culture. How it is possible that three young men would think that behavior like that was funny or appropriate? We wondered why not one man in the store had thought to walk up to the three and put a stop to what they were doing. When you are a woman of a certain age, you pick your battles. With technology, and with foul-mouthed strangers, too.

But here’s the thing. Sometimes, on a Sunday morning before a snow storm in March you get lucky, and women you don’t know save you. They tell you that despite all evidence to the contrary, that it’s all going to be okay. That we are going to be okay.

And you kind of believe it.

Again, and again, and again

There’s nothing sillier than a five-year old. When mine were that age, every bodily function was an absolute hoot. They watched that big purple dinosaur and sang “I love you/you love me/we’re a happy family.” Five is the year my son learned how to put a VCR tape in by himself. That winter, he got the stomach flu and binge watched “The Little Engine That Could” like his own daily affirmation until he quit barfing. In addition to the little engine, he was obsessed with space aliens. My daughter, by comparison, was obsessed with all things pink. Pink bedroom walls, pink shoes, pink, pink, pink. Five was still being tucked in at night. It was fluorescent orange macaroni and cheese from the blue box and learning to ride a bike without training wheels. Five was kindergarten. It was Mrs. “Ostrich” for one, and Miss Polly for the other.

Do you remember your own kids at five?  Or fourteen? What about eighteen or twenty-one? It all runs together once they’re gone until someone or something reminds you of who they were.

I was reminded of Five this morning. A young woman I know teaches busy, silly, loud, barf-y five-year olds. She creates magic with construction paper, glitter, and a special paste in a huge white tub that smells like wintergreen. When she isn’t teaching them, she is herding them like a mother Mallard. Kindergarten teachers are required to herd. I think there’s probably a herding clause in the contract. When she isn’t teaching or herding, sometimes being a kindergarten teacher makes her cry.  Sometimes, it’s the complete silence and cooperation of ducklings during a school “lock down” that does it.

Our nation is reeling from a school shooting. Again. I’ve written about this topic too many times. Again, and again. I’ve written about it as I’ve inched closer to my own retirement. I’ve written about it as my daughter, the middle school teacher and her friend, the kindergarten teacher, have graduated from college and started their own teaching careers. I have loved being a teacher since the first day I stood at the front of my own classroom. This was over thirty years ago. Back then, the idea that teachers and students would have to be trained to prepare for “active shooter” situations would have been as unfathomable as being required to prepare for an invasion of little green men from Mars.  And yet, here we are. On planet Earth. In the United States of America. In the year 2018.

Here we are.  Again.





Great Men

My grandmother always said that she felt 18 years old “on the inside” her whole life. Even when she was 80, she still said this.  I don’t know what age I am on the inside. It’s interesting to think about, though. All I know for sure is that even though I’m at the age where most of my friends are already grandparents, and my hair is silver, and I’m starting to ponder things like retirement, whenever I see an obituary of someone my age, I always think, “too young.”

It happened again yesterday. We were next door neighbors when our kids were small. He was a carpenter and stone mason who worked with his hands his whole life in the same community where he was born. When our house needed a new roof, he roofed it. His sons played in our backyard and shot thousands of baskets in their driveway. Thump. Thump. Thump.  His middle son, Jordan, and our son are still close. This makes my heart glad. It’s a big, lonely, world without good friends.

He and his wife raised three sons. That’s a lot of groceries and gallons of milk and football cleats to replace. It’s a lot of scout badges to earn and pinewood derby cars to race. It’s hours and hours (and hours!) of sitting on hard bleachers in stuffy gyms and frigid football stands. His sons went to college where all three continued their athletic careers. This meant more stuffy gyms and cold football stadiums. Two have advanced degrees now. His oldest son is married, with a son of his own. All three sons are young men who would make any father proud.

Lately, it seems that society’s definition of what makes a man “great” has changed. The bar seems pretty low. This is particularly true if you turn on the news or spend even ten minutes listening to the bleating of a politician, professional athlete, or television personality. They’re all wrong.

It’s hard work for a man to be truly great. Really hard work. This is because men learn how to be men from watching their fathers. If their fathers are kind, they are kind. If their fathers work hard, they will work hard, too. The measure of a man is not what he leaves behind, but who.

Great men know this and live it every day.

They don’t need to shout it from the rooftops.

For Jordan…..Love, Ben’s Mom.