Gal's Pal

On our first evening at the beach, I hovered in front of the sparse offerings of an ice-filled case in a local seafood market. It was, after all, Sunday evening. But the fresh Carolina shrimp looked good, and they were what we had come for.

"Who's next?" called a brawny fishmonger in his early thirties.

I looked around at the other patrons, but none of them acknowledged waiting for service. "I guess it's me," I said.

"What do you need, then, Gal?" he asked me in friendly twang.

Charmed, I placed my order. It's going to be a good week.

Believe It or Not

Many years ago now, a good friend of mine gave me the name of a pet psychic who had helped her through the loss of her dog. Since then, we have invited her to our home 4 or 5 times to communicate with our pets, too. Whether you approach such an experience with faith or strictly as an hour or so of entertainment, it is always well worth it. Diane's energy is warm and lovely and it's fun to get an answer when you talk to your pets.

Each visit has been a little different. The first time, Diane impressed us with all the things our dog told her about the our home, neighborhood, and the dog park. She even had some gossip about some of the other dog walkers she knew from going to the park with our dog walker. On that visit, our cat reinforced our impression of her as ever wary. She told the medium that there were several stray cats in the area and also that somebody was breaking into cars at night... both true.

The last time we had her here was when our beloved dog, Isabel, was very ill and we were wrestling with our own desire to keep her with us versus her pain and suffering. "She's ready to go," Diane said, and so we braced ourselves and let her go.

Three years later we have three new pets, and it seemed like a good time to check in with them. This morning's visit brought no surprises-- our dog and cats are happy, and Diane nailed their personalities and idiosyncrasies exactly, but we already knew them well. Often when she is here, Diane channels human spirits, too, and today was no exception. But again, even though it was extraordinary for someone who we haven't seen in three years to know so much about the events of the past months, her message from spirit was nothing I didn't know already.

Even so? It was nice to have some independent affirmation, and I look forward to the next time we see her again.

The Writing and the Writer

Over the last few years, our essay unit has become more and more structured, featuring step-by-step graphic organizers that we do as a class for every phase of the process. The formula is practical, but there is very little room for creative expression. Most kids go through the paces, some more compliantly than others. As a matter of course, we get the writing we expect, dull and predictable, which is also the writing we deserve.

I do have to hand it to those few writers who find a way to make these practice essays their own-- requesting to argue that Goldilocks was well within her rights and that the third little pig is overly controlling. Their writing is like a wild stallion that bucks at the bridle, and although their arguments are not always as neat and tidy as the box-and-bullet structure demands, I have no doubt at the end of the unit that they are the gifted among us.

Three of a Kind

We had just finished a rah rah, team building, cooperative learning demo in the staff meeting yesterday and were moving on to an "instructional showcase" when a wave of dismay hit me hard.

I just can't, I thought, and quietly excused myself to seek out the ladies room.

As I was leaving the restroom, I passed Heidi on her way in. "What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I need the same accommodation," she answered and headed into the head.

Back in the library, I ran into Emily. "I hate these things," she sighed. "I usually try to come late or find an excuse to leave."

They Have Those

My co-teacher and I decided to split up our inclusion class today and do the same activity in teacher-led small groups. A last minute glitch in our plans had us scrambling to regroup, and in the interest of time we separated them into boys and girls.

"Who do you want?" I asked him.

"I'll take the boys," he shrugged, and led them to an empty classroom next door.

The girls and I pushed a couple of tables together over near the whiteboard so that we could sit in unison as we worked our way through the lesson.

"It's so quiet!" one girl said. "I can't believe the boys make so much noise!"

I laughed and continued the lesson.

"It is so much easier to pay attention!" another girl remarked.

"You guys are doing a really good job!" I told them, and I realized that group praise had been missing from their class. It's tough to find something true and good when at least one adult in the room has spent most of the class time redirecting a few of the students. Added to that is the fact that the group dynamic is such that none of the students want to be singled out for praise, either.

We continued the class with this newfound attitude of competency. "Look at how much we got done!" one of the girls said with pride and disbelief. SHe turned to her classmates. "We should go to an all-girls school!"

Just Wow

I was sitting in the leg lift machine at the gym and adjusting the backrest so that my knees would be at the correct pivot point when I glanced up. A woman who was probably in her thirties had take residence on the mats in front of me with two 15 pound dumbbells.

I pulled the pin and adjusted the weight down to 45, considering if I wanted a challenge or not.

She assumed a push-up position and placed the dumbbells shoulder width apart.

I decided to do 3 sets of 15 reps.

She did a perfect push up on the weights, and then switched to one arm by lifting one of the dumbbells into a chest row.

I pushed my jaw up and my legs down.

We continued that way until I was finished.

George and Gracie Moment

I have a student in my homeroom who is developmentally a bit behind her sixth grade peers. Every morning she bursts into the room and with a huge sigh proclaims, "Phew! I made it!" panting all the way over to her seat, even though she is there several minutes before the bell.

Despite my daily reassurance that she is on time, the mini-drama repeats every morning with little variation, as it did this morning.

"It's okay," I said. "You are right on time! Great job!"

But today there was more. Her eyes grew wide. "I was almost late because we had to take Grandma to the airport," she reported breathlessly. "She had to go home to Minnesota."

Having spent so much time in that state recently myself, I asked her, "Do you know where your grandma lives in in Minnesota?"

"No," she answered. "Where?"

A Little Sting

The Birchmere is much more organized than the last time I was there. The club is general admission, and for shows starting at 7:30 the box office and bar open at 5. Ticket holders receive a first-come-first-served number like at a bakery or deli counter. At 6 when the doors to the venue open, people are allowed to claim their seats only when their numbers are called.

But what about the tickets? you may ask. Patrons present their electronic tickets to be scanned after surrendering their number, but before entering the hall. This system was entirely new to me, but I felt like Heidi and I were navigating it all pretty well until they called our number and I showed them my barcode. "That's one ticket," the door guy said. "Where's the other one?"

"Uh," I answered, and he briskly directed us to the side where two young men I had not noticed earlier stood.

As I fumbled with my phone, they suggested that Heidi go ahead in and get our seats. Their kindness did not make me any less flustered as I swiped and tapped my phone screen desperately trying to remember where I had retrieved that one ticket from before adding it to my wallet for convenience.

But the guy who helped me was very patient, adopting a tone I have often used myself when directing students through a necessary but way too-complicated process on their iPads. Open Safari, I don't see the tab, open a new one, go to Ticketmaster, log in, hit skip, tap my tickets, swipe over, there it is, and with a quick little beep he scanned it with his own phone and I was on my way.

But not before I gave him a high five, mostly just to slap the feeling of being old right out of myself.

All the Fall

Many Saturday mornings you can find me puttering in the kitchen:sipping coffee, listening to the news, cooking breakfast, and baking vegan muffins for Heidi to take in her lunch. That hasn't been so for a couple of months, though. A combination of out of town travel and other commitments has kept me from my Saturday routine since early September.

Back then, autumn was no more than wishful thinking and a few apples at the farmers market. In fact, the last thing I baked was a blueberry coffee cake with a miso streusel.

On the third Saturday of November, though, fall has definitely arrived; our potted plants have been brought in, the wood rack is filled, and the weather is downright chilly. And this morning? I baked pumpkin gingerbread muffins with apples and cranberries.

That's more like it.

Not Today, Children

"Take your hood off, please," I asked a student who came to my room for the after school Anime Club.

"Why?" a friend of his asked with some attitude. "School is over." She looked at me with more than a little defiance.

"Oh yeah?" I said, meeting her gaze. "Then go home."

He took his hood off.

She stayed.

What is Jeopardy?

I like the game; I even tried out for the show, but in truth, I haven't regularly watched Jeopardy in years. I'm usually writing or cooking at that hour, and so the show dropped from my routine.

But, the same was not true for my mother. She was an inveterate fan, even going so far as to record the show on her DVR so that she, and any guest, could watch at their convenience. And we did! In the many days I was fortunate enough to spend with my mom in the last months of her life, we watched Jeopardy together on most of them. Last April we saw James Holzhauer's first victory and in October we saw the waning episodes of his championship in reruns at the hospital. Like so many devotees of the game, my mom was both impressed and dismayed by his dominating, 2 million dollar, buzzsaw reign.

And of course, when I saw that he had made the finals of the Tournament of Champions, along with Francois and Emma, champions I had also watched with my mom, I had to tune in. So tonight? I am multitasking: both typing and calling out my answers, all of them in the form of a question, obviously.

In Negotiation

Call me crazy, but with limited space in our apartment-sized living room, I don’t think a 6 foot tall cat structure should be part of the furniture. Oh, it was me who ordered the monstrosity, but it was Heidi who really wanted such a thing, and I guess I figured with a new, more compact couch and chair, that we could accommodate it. But once we put it together and the cats loved it, the battle lines were drawn.

But really? It is 3 to 1 with an abstention from the dog, so I guess it stays.

For now. 

Invaluable

"Is that Apple Watch worth it?" asked the young cashier at the grocery store next to the gym as I tapped it on the card reader to pay.

I shrugged. "Well, it just did that," I said, "and I use it to track my exercise." I gestured at my workout clothes. "And," I continued thoughtfully, "I'm a teacher, so sometimes it's helpful to be able to check my texts without looking at my phone."

But I had lost him at "teacher".

"Props to you!" he exclaimed. "The most undervalued profession!"

"Thanks," I told him.

"I mean it!" he said. "I am in touch with all my teachers even though I graduated a couple of years ago. They have given me so much! I will never forget them! Thank you for being a teacher!"

I'd say the watch was worth it just for that.

I Heart Buffalo

Even when you have a long road trip ahead of you there is nothing so magical as waking up to snow silently falling. A pretty dust on the grass and and a wee bit of white clinging perfectly to every pine bough and tree branch is also impossible to disdain.

Especially when the roads are clear!

Long Distance Notifications

From time to time today my watch would chime with some alert or another. Twice it was to tell me that there was a severe traffic incident back in Arlington, which, given the location would not have affected me even were I not 500 miles away in Buffalo, NY. Once it was to say that we no longer need to boil our water in Arlington, which was an ordeal resulting from the water main break that I was relieved to miss.

And three times I was notified that light rain was starting in Minneapolis, which was so sorrowfully irrelevant that I got a little lump in my throat.

November Winds

On this November weekend in Buffalo we walk the dog along the same neighborhood streets as we do in July and at Christmas. Gone, however, are the long golden evenings of summer, not yet replaced by merry lights reflected on blankets of snow. Instead, bare boughs shake in a blustery gale blowing dry leaves over faded pumpkins.

I consider myself a cold weather person, always preferring to be too cold rather than uncomfortably warm. Today, though, the wind was a scalpel resecting any hearty resilience I might muster. Shoulders hunched and head bowed I cringed against the cold and wondered what this winter will bring.

Because I know that the weather is far from out of the ordinary, and the rawness? Is all mine.

A Season Come Early

Reports of a water main break murmured on the radio in the background while we were preparing for school this morning. And the lunches were packed, the garbage on the curb, and the dog properly walked before my phone started blowing up.

No school today! the news gleefully spread.

An unexpected four day weekend was a gift indeed. In fact, we are packing our bags right now for an early departure to Buffalo, no substitutes needed. It will be a quick trip, indeed, but Tuesday is all planned with the activities left undone today, and that only leaves a 3 day week ahead.

And? As my co-teacher kindly pointed out via text this morning, it's supposed to snow on Tuesday.

Please Fence Me In

I started each class today with a little review of rules and expectations, both mine and the school's. I think it went pretty well.

A long time ago a friend of mine told me about an experiment some psychologists did on babies. They put some crawlers in the middle of a big open field and observed their reactions. Most of the children stayed tightly bunched together where they left them. Then they put the same kids in an open area that was fenced. In that situation the little ones crawled and toddled as far as they could within the limits they had.

My friend's point? Boundaries are healthy and necessary for kids. Knowing there are limits provides the safety to explore right up to them. (Even so, there will always be a few kids who will find a way over, around, and through the fence. We need those people who ignore restrictions.)

I thought of her today at the end of my reminders. The students were more than receptive. They nodded and got right to work when I was done. It was more of a pep talk than a scolding.

And maybe? After nearly a month of the unpredictability of substitutes, they were glad that the fence was back in place.

No Excuses

Now that my mom is gone, what she would have wanted for me seems so clear. I started exercising more back in April as a way to handle the extreme stress I was feeling because of her grave health condition. When she died, that burden was lifted and, in my grief, the last thing I wanted to do was go work out, but I knew Mom would have been disappointed if I didn't.

On one of her last days, I jokingly told her that I was about to lose 25% of my blog readership. We laughed, but when she died, I didn't want to write anymore either. Again, I understood how annoyed she would have been if I used her loss as an excuse to stop.

She was never one to make excuses, and growing up, my siblings and I thought she was kind of a hardass. Looking back at her whole life, though, I can see what grit she had, how it helped her, and why she wanted that for us, too.

Unattended

I never do it.

I am a rule follower, and there has never been a time in the almost 40 years I've been driving that I have left the gas pump unattended. Even in rain, snow, frigid temps, or blazing heat, I am on hand waiting for that tell-tale thump that signals the auto shut-off. And then? I obediently replace the nozzle, push the no receipt button, screw on my gas cap, and close that tiny door.

But not today. For some reason, I thought it was more important to return to my car and hear the end of a segment on Morning Edition. But as I listened, I kept my eyes on the pump display. When it hit 17 gallons, I was surprised that the tank had been sooooo empty, but when it hit 18 I cussed What the fuck? and shoved open the car door only to watch in embarrassment as the two women at the adjoining pumps dashed through a fountain of gasoline to squeeze the handle off. And then I, too, waded sheepishly through the puddle of petrol sloshing against my tires to do what I have done so many times.

Replace that nozzle.

I guess that's why they have that sign.

Hand-me-downs

Confronting my mom's apartment was overwhelming: not only was there a lot of stuff, but the thought of dismantling her home was more heartbreaking than we could manage right then. And so, because my mother was so amazingly organized, my brother and sister and I were able to leave that enormous task to another day.

While we were there, though, Courtney, Heidi, Annabelle, Emily, Aunt Harriett, and I did take the opportunity to raid her fabulous clothes closet from time to time. I needed a swimsuit; she had several, and the same was true for shoes, pants, tops, vests, and coats in the week we spent together before her funeral. We didn't feel guilty in the least: all of us knew that my pragmatic mother would have wholly approved.

In fact today Heidi wore a pair of my mom's pants to school, while I wore a fleece vest she got on our Alaska trip and her short Ugg boots. I know I took comfort in my outfit every single time I thought about it, and when the day was done, a quick glance at my watch showed that I had literally walked 3 miles in my mother's shoes.

Sadly, that journey has just begun.

My Spin

I miss my mom, and I find myself cooking as if she were visiting. Tonight? It's cauliflower pizza on the menu, one of my mom's specialties, but, being me, of course I couldn't just follow the recipe.

Oh no, rather than bake the pizza neatly on a sheet pan as directed, I had to preheat the pizza stone to 500 and roll, toss, and stretch my free form crust onto the peel before topping it with a hearty mixture of cauliflower, onions, and cheese.

As I gave the pizza a shake to make sure I could slide it on the stone, the topping flew off the edges. "Uh oh, Ma," I said, "this could be a problem."

And I knew that had she been here, she would have been torn between I told you so... and You can do it!

Choosing to go with the latter, I opened the oven and, with a little wrist action and a pair of tongs, was able to get that pizza baking. The final product was delicious, and I like to think that my mom would have thought so, too.

Doing Dishes

I spent the early part of my evening washing dishes. A lot of dishes. 11 dinner plates, 12 salad plates, 12 bread plates, 12 soup bowls, 12 monkey bowls, 11 1/2 saucers, 11 coffee cups, a creamer, a sugar bowl (with lid!), a gravy boat, a covered casserole, a large platter, small platter, and a oblong serving bowl. It was my grandmother's china service for twelve.

My mom's sister passed it along to me this afternoon in an enormous cardboard box. When we arrived home, I found the dishes wrapped in sections of the Washington Post from July to September 1972. My grandmother died in April of that year, and someone had carefully packed her china when my grandfather sold the house and moved in with my Aunt Harriett. The newspaper was yellowed and smelled of the decades it had spent in Harriett's basement. A stink bug jumped out at me from the first bowl, and so we dragged the heavy box out to the front stoop where I unwrapped the other 89 pieces.

Not surprisingly, after 47 years, they all needed a gentle scrub, and so I carefully carried the piles into the kitchen counter and filled the sink with warm, soapy water. There I dunked and wiped and rinsed and dried each piece of the Noritake porcelain stamped Made in Occupied Japan, admiring as I washed the tiny bouquets of zinnias and the red and gold band circling every one.

As I worked I couldn't help wondering who the last person was to wash these dishes. Was it my grandmother, after a dinner with friends? My grandfather, doing his part to help out at the end of evening of entertaining? Could it have been my mom, after a holiday meal? And when I was done, I knew the answer to that question, and it kind of made me sad that it was me.

That's What You Do

Here's a riddle I love:

First you throw away the outside
and cook the inside,
then you eat the outside
and throw away the inside.

The answer?

Corn on the cob.

Yesterday I bought some peeled corn on the cob from the grocery store. Out of season as it is, it was packaged in a colorful pre-printed cardboard tray with a message in a playful font  printed on one side. Remove, Heat, and Eat! it directed, implying the amazing convenience of the product.

Uh?

Yah.

It's corn.

She's Back

"How were the kids today?" a colleague asked me on my first day back to school in 3 1/2 weeks.

I considered my answer. They were happy to see me-- the pleasure and relief on their faces was genuine. And I felt lucky to return on Halloween, a day when it was easy to deflect any conversation. Not surprisingly, their writing pieces seemed a little unformed, but that may have been the case even if I had been there. What stuck out to me most was the casual disregard for rules and procedures I know I clearly explained.

"They were sweet, but definitely a little untamed," I answered truthfully.

She nodded.

"But that's going to change in a hurry!" I added.

Here's What I'll Say

If people ask me how I'm doing:

I'm glad to be back.

Even though it doesn't feel like it will be true.

According to Paul

Traveling home alone today after three weeks in Minnesota, I wanted a window seat, but all they had was the aisle, even when I double-checked at the airport. I wondered if, for some reason, I was meant to try an outside seat for a change, and I fought my bitter disappointment all the way down the jetway.

Arriving at 12D, I first noted that there was no window on the row, and I was also a bit relieved not to have to inconvenience the guy already sitting in the middle seat. "Don't get too comfortable," he reminded me as I fastened my seatbelt, "we're going to have to get up." A few minutes later we did just that to allow another guy to take his windowless seat.

"Hi, I'm Paul," said the first guy to the second.

"I'm Paul, too," the other man answered and they shook hands.

I didn't have to guess what was going to happen next.

"We're both Paul," the middle guy said to me.

"I heard," I told him. "That's easy to remember."

"What about you?"

"I'm Tracey."

"What do you do, Tracey?" he continued.

"I'm a teacher," I told him.

"I'm a southern boy," he laughed. "I hope you won't correct my grammar."

"I won't," I said, "I'll just silently judge you. But it won't be too bad-- I teach in Virginia."

"What brings you here?" he asked.

And that was a question I didn't expect. "My mom passed away last week," I answered, because I wasn't prepared to say anything else.

He grabbed my hand in his. "I'm so sorry," he said.

"Thank you," I said automatically, as I have many, many times in the last 8 days.

"I can tell you are just wrecked," he said.

"How?" I asked.

"Your eyes are so sad," he answered. "Losing my mom was the hardest thing I have ever been through," he continued, his eyes welling up. "I will keep you and your family in my prayers." And he gave my hand a squeeze. "Find a good movie to watch," he advised, and left me alone for the rest of the flight.

Morning Will Come; It Has No Choice

At this moment, I am all alone in my mother's apartment for the first time ever. All of our guests have gone, my sister and her family flew out this evening, Heidi, Emily and the boys are thrift shopping with Aunt Harriett and Larry, and Bill has stepped out.

How strange it is!

As my mother grew weaker my brother and sister and I contracted, swaddling her in the tightest wrapping of our love and attention that we could. When she died, we stayed bound together in our grief. But now we are unraveling because we must, each of us obligated to return to our lives--

wishing it wasn't so, knowing it is for the best. 

The Eve

You all were so kind to invite 25 people over for dinner on the night before your mom's funeral seemed to be the prevailing sentiment as our guests wished us good night. But I don't think we would have had it any other way. A gathering of friends and family from out of town and my mom's family of friends from here was a warm way to spend our last evening all together.

Plus, knowing that the house would start filling at 4 PM gave us a deadline to tie up all the loose ends for the funeral in the morning. And so, eulogy written, slideshow complete, gifts chosen and packed, picture printed and framed, bellies full of pizza and chocolate cake, and kitchen cleaned, we have all turned in to get some rest for what will be a very difficult day.

Maybe So

"Will you send me a sign?" my aunt asked my mother as she held her hand in the hospital.

"Yes," my mom answered without hesitation.

"Can you tell me what it will be?" her sister asked.

"You'll know it when you see it," Mom said.

And it seems to be true. A few hours after my mom died we saw three rainbows on our way back to the Twin Cities from Rochester.

"It's the trinity," said my aunt.

"It's one for each of you three kids," someone else told us later.

So, maybe? We have been seeing signs all week. Any silver lining or lucky break feels like a message from my mom telling us we're all going to be all right and she is, too. 

Dressing for the Occasion

"I refused to pack funeral clothes," my sister sighed when I picked her up from the airport on Saturday to take her down to Rochester where my mom was in the hospital.

"Bill doesn't have any either," I told her about my brother who had arrived the day before.

We both teared up because we knew they would need them, and probably much sooner than anyone expected.

As for me, when I had flown out to Minnesota a couple of weeks earlier it was because I was gravely concerned about my mom, but the thought of dressing for a funeral never entered my mind.

And so today, I found myself shopping for just such an outfit. Heidi and my sister went with me, and the three of trolled through several sections in the ladies' department at the Macys across the street from my mom's condo. Our group effort turned up a nice pair of black slacks with a raised velvet pattern and a fitted black sweater with a rhinestone-adorned peter pan collar. It was definitely a departure from my usual look, but as I scrutinized my reflection I nodded at myself in the mirror. "Mom would have liked this outfit," I said. "I'll take it."

How it Should Have Been

In my former life, I would have been cussing this afternoon because I scheduled a dentist appointment on the day before conferences. It would have seemed like a gigantic headache to manage such conflicting demands upon my time, but walking up to the dentist and then back to school would have cleared my head. By the end of the day I would have been prepared for conferences commencing at 7 AM with sparkling clean teeth.

In my new reality, I placed an order with the caterer for lunch for 100 guests in the church reception hall following my mom's funeral and spent a couple hours putting a slideshow of photos together for the memorial. And in this life, I bought four copies of the local paper because her obituary was published today. And I read the outpour of wonderful comments and remembrances of her on Facebook after we shared the news that we lost her.

On either timeline, I have Heidi by my side, and thank the heavens today I also have my sister and brother and sister-in-law and aunt.

More Words, but Never Enough

Beloved mother, sister, grandmother, and friend passed away October 21, 2019.

She is survived by her daughters, Tracey (Heidi) and Courtney (Jordan), her son, Bill (Emily), her sister Harriett (Larry), and her grandchildren Victor, Treat, Richard, and Annabelle.

Born in 1939 to Ada and Frank Riley, Fran grew up in Greenbelt, MD. She was a resident of Bloomington and Edina for the last 25 years, where she pursued a rewarding career in public affairs which allowed her to connect and contribute to the community.

Fran traveled all over the world and loved cooking for her family of friends. In retirement, she continued to serve the community as a volunteer, most notably as a kindergarten reading buddy at Valley View Elementary School, Oasis for Youth, and the Book’em used book sale.

Her family and friends grieve the loss of Fran, but know how lucky we were to have had her in our lives. We will miss her.

There will be a visitation with family on Monday, October 28, at 10 AM at St. Joan of Arc Catholic Church in Minneapolis with a mass to follow at 11 AM. In lieu of flowers, her family asks that donations be made in her name to a charity of your choice, or to one of the causes she supported: Fraser, Oasis for Youth, or St. Joan of Arc Outreach Fund.

Four Words

I love you, Mom.

No Words

Back and Forth Again

This afternoon I made my third run from Rochester to the Minneapolis-St. Paul Airport in as many days. 150 miles round trip on rolling highways through farm fields and prairie, over streams and rivers, and dairy plants and a refinery, the round trip takes about two and a half or three hours. It was worth every minute on the road to get my brother, my sister, and my aunt down here to see my mom in the hospital.

Plus my fondness for both this part of the country and road trips is well-known in the family. "Just think," my brother told my mom today, "when Tracey and Heidi retire to Rochester, Tracey can make a little extra cash running an airport shuttle!"

That got a smile.

Long-Distance Dining

I was lying on the couch in my mom's hospital ring when my phone chimed with a text: Your dasher is approaching with your order, it read. The delivery guy in question, however, was approaching my front door in Virginia, where Heidi, Emily, Riley, and Treat had gathered and ordered takeout for dinner.

A moment later my phone rang. The dasher? was confused by the house numbers in our complex. "Oh, you're not too far, off," I told him, and gave him a little more precise direction.

It was another Ding! a minute later that assured me the food was there, and dinner was served. Bon Appetite! you guys.

Birds of Prey

In addition to being a world-class health care facility, he Mayo Clinic is home to a Peregrine Falcon nesting box. Early today, I told my brother Bill the story that a friend of my mom's who works here at the clinic told us.

"My office window faces south," he said, and the designers of the building back in the 1950s engineered these clever metal louvres to keep the building from betting too hot in the summer. The only problem is, the falcons like them too, and every so often there are gruesome little bird parts hanging outside my window."

Bill and I looked way up to the top of the Mayo Building. "I guess they're up there," I shrugged. "I'm not sure when and if they migrate."

A little later in my mom's hospital room, Bill walked quickly over to the window and looked up. "I saw two little feathers float down," he said, "but no Falcons are up there."

A little while later after that, he went down to the street level and outside to smoke. Back up here, he reported his own gory little finding: a pair of wings lying on the sidewalk, connected only by sinew and feathers.

I'd guess that means the falcons are still in town.

Jokey Jokester

I was loaded down with shopping bags and a rotisserie chicken from Costco yesterday when I returned from a few quick errands. Setting down the 12 pack of seltzer water, I fumbled in my pocket for the fob that would admit me to the apartment building. A gray haired guy of about my age waved at me from the lobby, pretended to walk away, and then turned around grinning and pushed open the door.

"I guess I can help you out!" he laughed.

"That's mighty nice of ya!" I said drily.

"Not really," he laughed again. "Where's my payment?"

I jerked my head to the strawberry box balanced in the crook of my arm with the chicken in it. "Do you want a leg or a wing?" I asked.

"Neither!" he answered. "I'm having pizza tonight!"

Mirror, Mirror Down the Hall

And... Airbnb #4. I rose early this morning and packed up all the stuff I have accumulated over the last 9 days and hauled it from Apt 228 to Apt 310, down the long hall and up a floor. "At least you know how to work the elevator," my mom said.

The new unit is almost identical with the exception of the full length mirror in the living room that is replaced with a door to a second bedroom with ensuite bath. It's a nice floor plan, but since I'm by myself?

I really miss the mirror.

Code Orange

The news we received from the nurse practitioner in charge of my mother's case was not what we hoped, and there seemed no end in sight to the 2 tubes in my mom's nose. When she left the room, we looked at each other and sighed. "I have got to find a way to get that orange juice!" my mom said, breaking the mood with plucky pragmatism.

It was true, she hasn't been able to have anything other than 2 popsicles a day for the last 5 days, and the week before that she was too nauseous to eat. This afternoon when I went to get a quick sandwich for lunch, I spotted a pint of my mom's favorite OJ, and with her next procedure 24 hours away, I added it to my order and brought it upstairs.

And I'm glad I did-- my mom sipped a few satisfying ounces through a straw, with no ill effects. Maybe after 2 weeks in the hospital, it's time to bend a few rules.

Flannel and Fleece

"Thank you for my birthday present," my nephew said on the phone today.

"I didn't give you anything, yet," I laughed. "Sorry! I was thinking of a flannel shirt, though. Your mom told me you don't have one."

He was uncertain what I was talking about, and so my sister and I described what we were talking about.

"If it's soft and cozy," he said, "I'm in!"

I know what he means. Since I've been here in Minnesota with my mom in the hospital, I've bought pajama bottoms, woolen mukluks, a soft sweatshirt, a sweater, and today? Knit slippers with a fleece lining. They offer me a bit of comfort.

And when I hung up, I popped open my laptop and found the perfect, fleece-lined flannel hoodie for my nephew.

Prisoner of the Mind

I was a little flustered when I checked into my new airbnb this afternoon. To begin with, the instructions were extremely complicated, involving an electronic directory, a lockbox, and a key fob. When at last I had made it into the building, I headed through the lobby and rounded a corner to the elevator.

Boarding the single car by myself, I turned to face the door and pushed the button for the second floor. A moment later, I heard the ding, but the doors did not open. I punched the button again, and heard a faint sliding somewhere, but the stainless in front of me stayed shut tight. Am I really stuck in this elevator? I thought, and problem-solving, I tried the button for the third floor.

The elevator rose, but the same thing happened: ding, a quiet swish, and me looking at immovable doors. I pushed 2 again, and accepting that I was really trapped, I tapped the red SOS button. A recording asked me to state my concern. "I'm stuck in an elevator!" I answered with irritation, and after a pause, a phone, who knows where, began to ring.

Wondering how long I was going to be trapped, I sighed and turned to lean on the wall to my left. It was then I noticed the second set of doors behind me... wide open. "Hello?" a tinny voice hailed me from the speaker on the wall, but I was already halfway down the hall, and on my way out? I took the stairs.

Location, Location, Location

It was kind of a cold, gray, wet day here, and I spent most of the afternoon in a toasty room, kicking back in a recliner, watching Hallmark movies with my mom as tiny snowflakes drifted from the leaden sky.

If we had been anywhere other than the hospital? It would have been a perfectly delightful Saturday. As it was? It was still pretty decent.

Wait Until Tomorrow

I was upset that my mom was in the hospital, but as I flew west I was kind of looking forward to revisiting Rochester, MN after spending a month here this summer. And on my first day here, the city did not disappoint. In 70 degree temperatures and under classic blue October skies I revisited the lake and other parks we enjoyed in August, now turned from summer green to orange and yellow and red and golden brown. Day two was equally stunning.

But every time I praised the town and the weather to a native, I got the same answer: "Sure, it's nice today... but, wait until tomorrow (or the weekend, or next week)!" I remembered a similar attitude among the folks I met here this summer: whenever I gave Rochester a compliment, they frowned and raised their eyebrows.

Today? Was not a glorious day. We woke in gray light to the quiet tapping of sleet on the window. The temperature was in the 30s and a frigid wind blew everywhere, and gusted bitterly in the canyons between the tall buildings of the Mayo Clinic. Low clouds threatened in a leaden sky, and we did not see even a peek of sunlight all day. On the way to the airport to drop my sister, fat flakes of snow squalled dryly against the windshield.

Did I finally see what they meant? No! I just put on my turtleneck and sweater, zipped up my vest and went about my business. Oh, and I bought a pair of toasty slippers at the HyVee.

Maybe I'll hate it here tomorrow.

Picky Patron

Even though I mastered the art of iced coffee with limited equipment at our airbnb, we had to extend our stay in Rochester and since that place wasn't available we found ourselves another rental. This one is larger and a little more upscale, and it has ice, but even so it is far from perfect.

First of all there is the creepy basement situation. Remodeled to be some kind of master suite, it features a sitting room with sliding doors to a bedroom which connects to another room that has been outfitted as a walk-in closet. All of them are just a little off, but it is the bathroom that made me walk quickly for the stairs. It, too, is several rooms-- one for the commode, one for the sink, and one which is tiled in the strangest way, finished with and dripping pattern of of stones that look like dark lava or some kind of weird goo. Hanging crookedly from the ceiling is a large rectangular rain shower head. There is no curtain or doors-- it's like a very strange locker room group shower.

Then there are the house rules.. allow me to quote some of the more memorable passages:

We are always supporting HEALTH LIFE STYLE, providing the homy and comfortable and clean living environment to our guests is our forever goal. Therefore, we have few rules will love to share with you first before you decide to book. 

#8. NO SHOES: To ensure we keep the floorboards squeaky clean for our guests’ enjoyment, we have a no shoes policy inside our home.Also it feels better, for us at home, to know that we are not bringing the hospital, into our Zen oasis of calm. But we don't recommend you wear socks inside the house as well, because the wood floor could be very slippery with socks. (Tips: bring an indoor slipper with you could be an good idea if you used to wear shoes inside the house) 

#13. ACCIDENTS HAPPENED: We understand that accidents happen. But we do ask that you please let us know when they do. Chances are we can fix them as effortlessly as possible which also means better chances of having your full security deposit returned too. 

#16. SAVE OUR PLANET: We are a group of folk that really care about the mother nature, we appreciative with whatever the planet provide to us and we are sure you do love her as much as we do. We kindly ask that you switch off lights when its not in use or leaving the house, and use the towels as needed. Every day millions of gallons of water are used to wash towels that have only been used once. Every drop matters. :)

But aside from that? It's fine.

Cold and Hard

I thought I was thinking ahead when I ground some of my favorite coffee beans and packed them up with some cone filters for my trip to Minnesota. The plan was supposed to include grabbing one of the small plastic cones I have stashed in my cabinet at school, but in the discombobulation of printing and copying a week's worth of sub plans at 6:45 AM on Monday, I forgot to get it.

No worries, though. After my sister picked me up at the airport, we had to make a stop at my Mom's empty apartment in the Twin Cities before heading down to Rochester. There, I borrowed her coffee cone, and so it was with confidence that I went into the very compact kitchen of our tiny Airbnb yesterday morning to make my customary iced coffee.

And, indeed, all went well until I opened the freezer and found no ice. Oh, I improvised with cold filtered water, but the lukewarm beverage was pretty unsatisfying. On my way back to get a refill, I happened to pick up my Hydroflask, which rattled like a maraca. It still has ice! I realized, and my second cup of the morning was saved.

The water bottle reminded me of how the night before hiking in Maine we used to fill our plastic bottles a third of the way with water and stick them in the freezer. That solid block of ice was enough to keep the water we added the next morning cold all day.

With my next morning in mind, I opened all the cupboards and found three square leftover containers that I filled with an inch of water each and then placed them in the freezer. And this morning? I popped the ice blocks out, put one in a zip lock, wrapped it in a dish towel, and rapped it smartly with a heavy church key can opener. The resulting chards of shattered ice were perfect for icing my coffee.

So there!

Make Way for Walkers

I took a little walk over to Silver Lake this morning. The weather was October in all its glory-- blue skies, cool air, and colorful foliage. I confess that I hesitated when I approached a flock of at least 50 geese lining both sides of the trail and even turned the video camera on my phone on them as I walked cautiously on. I guess I just wanted photo evidence of any attack, but luckily it was just a precaution. Not a single bird even lifted its head as I strolled on by. 

Looking for a Happy Ending

I turned on the tiny tv screen in front of me the minute I sat down in my seat on the plane. Scrolling through the list of movies, I was initially captivated by one called Virginia Minnesota, because, hello?That was my itinerary! But it wasn’t as good as it sounded and soon I was paging through my choices again. Somewhere near the middle of the very long list was Morning Glory, a 2010 film starring Rachel McAdams, Harrison Ford, and Diane Keaton. It promised to be the tale of a spunky young morning show producer who tries to turn around failing show. I could tell there would be a few little bumps in the road, but in the end it would all turn out for those three very likable folks. I settled back into my seat, put my headphones on, and tapped play. 

Let's Talk about You

It was time to get my haircut, and so I walked up to the local place I usually go and took the first available appointment since I don't have a regular stylist. It usually works out for me; I want a pretty simple cut and my hair is generally forgiving. Even if I'm disappointed to begin with, the next day when I do it myself, it looks fine.

Plus, patronizing an economy establishment gives me the freedom to tip well, which I like to do particularly in an industry with primarily minority women workers. What I don't always like is the small talk. Depending on the personality of your stylist, you might sit in 20 minutes of companionable silence, or you may have to spend that time trying to make polite conversation because it seems expected.

Today started out as one of the latter experiences.

"Do you have any children?" the woman asked as she toweled my hair.

"No," I answered, "but I'm a teacher, so I'm around kids all day." I've learned that this response is a good one for politely continuing the conversation.

And then, after she asked me about where, what, and who I teach, I delivered the coup de grace.

"What about you? Do you have any children?"

And it was on! I didn't have to say another word.