Fresh Weather

"How are you doing in the cold?" all my mom's Minnesota friends have asked.

They were referring to the snowy single-digit conditions that have been the daily standard since we landed on Friday.

"I kind of like it!" I tell them.

And when they tsk, I continue with a shrug, "It's a novelty for us."

"Right!" my brother agrees. "Plus? We're leaving tomorrow!"

To Cushion or Not to Cushion

The two estate agency representatives were of different minds when we asked if it would be best if at least one of us was present when they came to pack and parcel my mom's belongings. The 10 o'clock women, who were warm and personal, told us that it would probably be a good idea, if possible. They asked about some of my mom's more remarkable possessions and encouraged us to write up descriptions of them for the prospective buyers they were sure would love them.

The noon woman, who was all business and photographs, said, "Absolutely not! In fact, we actually charge more if someone's here."

We looked at her quizzically.

"Not really," she clarified, "but so often people follow us around, picking things up, telling us their stories. That takes time, and we are on the clock."

Maybe she thought she was being a little too harsh. "It's also really hard for you," she continued in a softer tone. "We're very organized and professional. Right now? This place is a home, but when we are done? It will be a house-- four walls. That's what you want, but it's hard to watch it happen."

Ride Share

"I don't think I've ever had a pick-up as my Uber before," I noted as I settled myself in the back of the king cab on my way to the airport this morning.

"Yah, I get that a lot," William, my driver, told me adjusting the volume on the sound system.

I fiddled with my phone as soothing meditation music flowing from the speakers elevated the familiar landmarks we rolled past. High rises gleamed, gulls swooped, and golden rapids riffled the wide urban stream outside my window as the music swelled in the Ford F-150. Even the water treatment plant and metro bus lot were transformed by the light and music as we glided past. I set my phone aside and took a deep breath.

Arriving at the curbside check-in 10 minutes later, I felt refreshed and renewed, which was really not what I had expected at all. "Thank you for the ride, William," I said, climbing out of the truck.

He nodded, and I stepped forward into my day.

Consensus

It was an early release with a winter concert assembly today which left limited time for a few other items like locker clean outs and the "Know Your Rights" presentation that all secondary school students are required to see. Even so, my homeroom was quick enough to have time for a movie after lunch.

Students suggested a few films some reasonable (Home Alone), some not (It), and they were debating when an idea occurred to me. "Hey you guys!" I said. "What about Toy Story 4?"

There was mild enthusiasm, but it wasn't a clear winner by any stretch. "It's just that I haven't had a chance to see it, yet," I explained, more to myself than to them as they returned to their discussion.

One student heard me, though. "You haven't?" she asked.

I shook my head a little ruefully, for I haven't seen very many movies at all this year.

"I vote for Toy Story 4!" she said. "Ms. S. wants to see it!"

"I do, too," said another student, and one by one they stepped to the white board and erased their tally marks under the movie they had voted for to place them under mine.

"Aw... thanks you guys!" I told them. "I'll make some popcorn!"

Karma Thrash

I was in a snit when I scooped up the lollipop stick from the table in my room and marched out the door after the girl who had left it. The hallway was packed with a throng of students changing classes, but I spotted her right away one door down. "Hold out your hand!" I demanded and when she did I dropped her rubbish into her palm and spun on my heel. I didn't get far however, because as I turned toward my room, 120 pounds of sixth grade boy hit me and body slammed me into the wall behind me. My head whiplashed back and hit the window of the classroom as he bounced off me and back into the mosh pit of the class change. Seeing both stars and red, I staggered forward and glared at him in disbelief.

"I didn't do it! I was pushed!" he explained desperately and pointed to a culprit clad in red and orange sweat pants snaking his way down the hall and toward the stairs. His mistake was in looking over his shoulder, for it was then that I locked eyes with him and waved him back.

I was cross; he was defiant; it was an unbridgeable gap.  Fortunately I spotted the assistant principal down the hall and handed off the situation to him. 

Rule of Five

Here in the dark and the wet and the cold and the sheer busy-ness of early December we find ourselves resisting exercise and activity, despite the routines and regimens we have worked so hard to cultivate.

That's where the rule of five comes in-- we must do five minutes of something and after that? We can quit. But as Heidi pointed out with a scoff and a growl when I first proposed this guideline, No one will stop at five minutes once they start!

Indeed!

So far.

Nothing But

Right before the turn for the highway up to the Twin Cities, there is a modest strip mall in Rochester, MN. We stopped there a few times over the months that I traveled there occasionally with my mom for her treatments at the Mayo Clinic: once for gas, once for lunch at a Mediterranean place,  and once for my mom to get her nail fixed after a run-in with her ice maker. It was on the last stop that we noticed the marquee on one of the store fronts tucked into the shopping center. Nothing Bundt Cake, it proclaimed.

My mom had a sweet tooth and more than anything, we were trying to boost her calories, plus? My birthday was in a couple days.

An old-fashioned bell jangled over the door when we pushed it open, and the smell of fresh baked cake washed over us. A friendly young woman welcomed us warmly and gestured to the samples on a small round table to our left. Everything was delicious-- but the lemon raspberry special, the chocolate chocolate chip, and the red velvet were our favorites, and so my mom bought a few mini cakes to celebrate. It was a pleasure seeing how much she enjoyed them.

Later in the summer, Heidi, my mom, and I moved to Rochester for a month, and the same formerly forgettable little strip mall became one of our main shopping destinations with a great grocery, pet supply, and liquor store conveniently located there. Those little bundt cakes were a treat my mom always enjoyed, no matter how tepid her appetite otherwise. So much so, that when she died, we looked for a NBC franchise near enough to her home to buy desserts for her funeral lunch, but without success.

The other night I hosted my writing group. It was the first time we had met since before school ended last year, and it was time. I love those gals, but to be honest, I don't really feel like seeing many people yet. The four of us always split the meal-- hosting means providing dinner, and the other three bring apps, wine, and dessert. This time, Ellen brought delicious chutney and cheddar and crackers, Mary brought some wonderful Spanish red wine, and Leah arrived with treats from a brand new place that none of us even knew had opened.

"Nothing Bundt Cake," she announced as she deposited the bakery box on the sideboard. "Have you heard of it?"