Leaving Baby

By the time she was three, she was the best mother in the world.  Her babies were well fed, lovingly rocked, tenderly kissed, and doted over on par with any caring mama anywhere. 

One fateful Sunday night when she was four, we drove the thirty miles home from an evening church service.  As we pulled into the yard, my little Hannah, the best preschool mother in the world, became distraught.  Through tears she confessed that she had forgotten her doll in the church nursery.  The price of gas and extra hour on the road meant nothing to her.  I comforted as best I could but she was inconsolable.  Finally, after hugs, kisses, and reassurances that we would retrieve her baby at our earliest convenience, she calmed down and we put her to bed.

The neglected doll in question, Butterfly, was the oldest of Hannah’s children and her go-to favorite.  There were the triplets, Tiffany, Biffany, and Spiffany, but Butterfly went everywhere with her mini mom.  (On a side note, I have requested that Hannah let me help name her future living children as I fear with her naming track record my future grandchildren will be in for some playground teasing.  But I digress…).

Later, when she was tucked safely into her princess castle bed and I thought she was asleep, I heard noise as I walked down the hall.  Following the source, I found my baby girl crying softly into her pillow, her tiny face streaked with tears.  “Oh, honey, what’s the matter?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.  “My baby must be so scared in the dark!” she wailed through sobs and hiccups.  I suppressed a smile, pulled her tiny frame into my arms, and kissed her tears away.

Butterfly was retrieved the next day and delivered to her very relieved mother.

In my mind’s eye, she is still busy with the daily cares of a four-year-old.  There are dolls to feed and shaggy, overfed dogs to pet and Bob the Builder to watch.  Her eyes are enormous black pools in a tiny face.  I see her in a hundred different mental snapshots. She slides off her chair at the end of meal and climbs onto my lap.  She tucks her soft little hand into mine, content to lean against me and listen to the chatter of brothers and parents.  She does not add to the conversation – she is far too shy for that.  Instead, she absorbs and melts into my frame.  She is quiet, shy, and even-tempered.  She is unadulterated joy to her father and I.

And now she is going away.

“How will you bear it?” well-meaning people ask.  “You’ll be a wreck when you drive away.”

I myself thought I would experience the same anguish as Little Hannah on that long ago Sunday night when my time came to leave her in the arms of a university. 

I find am not distraught. 

She is ready.

She chose the large university over the more intimate institution.  She was brave enough to seek an experience unlike her K-12 years in a tiny rural school.  She’s got moxie, I’ll give her that.  She is the first of the Dahl children to choose public over private college and the first to do her undergraduate years in state.  She is already blazing her own path and charting a course as unique as she.  I respect her for that.

I wanted her last hours at home to be filled with sweet, golden memories.  And so I called her away from her packing one day this week and had a tea party spread out for us.  Just like when she was tiny.  We sipped our French Vanilla tea and munched on sweet rolls and talked of ordinary things.  But as we laughed and jabbered about minutia, my heart was memorizing that moment in our sun-drenched kitchen.   I have been through this three times before. I know that in many ways, our life will be forever altered; our relationship redefined.

I feel her soul pulling away.  She no longer needs us as she used to.  A part of me wishes she did.  Then I am reminded that we raised her for this.  We want her to become strong and independent.  I pray we have given her the foundation to weather the next years capably and emerge on the other end triumphant. 

I will pray for her everyday.  Every.single.day.  I will awake with her on my subconscious mind and will fall asleep with a quiet whisper sent heavenward.  She is not alone, although some days will feel that way to her. 

She is loved, yes.  But just as importantly, we entrust this child, our youngest child and only daughter, into the Father’s care, to watch over her, send people into her life that will make her path brighter, and morph into the adult we always believed she would become.

And so…

When her dad and I crawl into bed on her first night away, and I am tempted to leak desperate tears into my pillow, distraught that my baby is scared without my presence, I hope I will remember that she is strong.  She is capable.  It is her time.  She is ready.

Instead of tears, I will splash words of blessing over her head and into her heart, where I hope they will seep deep into her soul and add joy to her journey.    She is not alone, nor am I.  God will be faithful. 

Dear Creator of all Life, who entrusted this child into our care, gather my precious lamb into your Shepherd’s arms and hold her close to your heart (Isaiah 40:11).  Let the Light of Truth be her guide and give her a heart of discernment to make wise choices that bring Life and Light into her future. 

And on the days when I most miss her, help me to remember that you love her even more that I do.  Amen.

Heartbeat of the Prairie

Her name was Beulah.  She was quite a gal.  Completely admirable.  She was related to me through marriage (my grandfather and her husband were brothers) and lived not all that far from the Dahl spread. 

On a Sunday I called her caregiver and asked if we might stop by to see her after church.  “Of course!” she replies.  I hang up.  The phone rings again.   It is her caregiver.  “Honestly, I think you had better come right away.”  We went – John, Hannah, and myself.  We held Beulah’s hand, hugged her daughters, read precious Scriptures of promise in her ear, and sang her favorite songs to her.  She showed no response except brown eyes that followed our every move.  She heard.  She absorbed the precious Word of God.  She sang with us in the places of her soul inaccessible to the rest of us.

I came the next day by myself, and the next day too.  I read. I held. I sang. I hugged.  On the third night, with her loving, beautiful daughters buoying her up to the heavenlies, her soul left the broken shell that had once been a strong body, full of capabilities and keen intelligence.  No more suffering.  No more waiting for her ultimate freedom.

We filed into the tiny prairie church; her children, and grandchildren, and all of the greats.  Her nieces and nephews and their children.  Her former students and their children.  The townspeople who had known her forever. 

We sang, and read, and hugged.  We celebrated the extraordinariness of Beulah Long. 

Oh my.  I so hope my final earthly celebration is as joyful and inspiring!  Beulah made me want to accomplish a thousand things before my capable body is a broken shell.  I could not help but smile when I looked at the program.  Alongside the order of service was Beulah’s favorite dinner roll recipe.  She was famously hospitable.  I loved that about her.  I loved that her family represented that with a recipe.

Later, we drove the almost comically short funeral procession to the cemetery for the final goodbye.  The day was warm and the prairie breeze gentle.  I stood in the center of that immaculate cemetery, surrounded by ancestors I never really knew – my great uncle, my great-grandparents.  Standing there under the great bowl of blue sky I felt the connection to those ancient lives.  Although strangers, they helped form me.  Laid out a path for me by the choices they made, the children they raised, and the Lord that they served.  I am who I am in part because they lived.  They were not trying to shape the life of a far future daughter named Vonda.  But they did, nonetheless.

I looked at my husband and smiled.  As a gust of wind caught my hair and swirled it like a deeply exhaled breath, he asked softly, “Do you hear it?” 

I waited for more. 

It came. 

“Do you hear the heartbeat of the prairie?  The ebb and flow of life and death?”  I did not answer but instead listened.  I heard the meadowlark warble a song to its mate.  I heard the swish of the prairie grasses beyond the fenced boundaries of the cemetery.  I heard the quiet whispers of Beulah’s grieving family and the whimpered cries of her great grandbabies.  I heard the chatter of toddlers chasing butterflies, unaware that they should feel anything but utter joy on such a gloriously beautiful day. 

I did hear it.  I did.  I heard the pulse of the land – this place of endless horizon and azure skies.  I heard the heart of the prairie soil that both grows food in abundance and receives her sons and daughters back into the earth when their journey is done.

I knew in that moment – that quiet hushed moment - that Her heart beats within me as well.  This land, both breathtakingly beautiful and cruelly harsh at times, is etched on my soul.  My grandchildren and great-grandchildren will be who they are because I made the choices I did, served my Creator, and raised the children who will be their future parents. 

And someday…

Under an endless horizon and azure sky…

The Prairie will enfold me in her rich, dark soil and I will lie with my ancestors.  The ebb and flow will continue. 

Until that day, I will add my own unique story to her chronicles. 

The Fork in My Road

My home away from home for four-and-a-half years

I remember that day so well.  Waking early, driving with a stupid grin on my forty-seven-year-old face, walking into the classroom I had spent weeks preparing, and welcoming my very first group of first graders.  I loved teaching from the first breath of that first day.

I still do. 

I invited you to follow my journey on that day, and some of you have.  I have run into you in some pretty unlikely places.  Thank you for rooting for me – this middle-aged mom who went back to school and began her career later than most.

My journey has now taken an interesting twist and I think it is time to make it official.

When I began this blog on that first day, I shared that “beginning my career at the end of my life” happened because I chose to set aside professional aspirations in order to give the Motherhood thing my undivided attention. 

In keeping with that all-or-nothing philosophy, I sought my first position in the same district as my baby girl, Hannah Rose.  It has been precious to be close to her.  Seeing her kissed-by-the-morning face walk into my room, mug in hand, asking for coffee, brightened my mornings.   Having her pop in during a lull in her day to see the Darlings and have them rush to her with cries of joy and arms open wide for hugs always brought a smile.  Or the days she came rushing in with a permission slip declaring that it needed to be signed and “turned in today!” made me laugh and shake my head in feigned frustration.  I have cherished these years close to her.

Baby Girl graduated a few weeks ago and my nest will be empty come fall.  Time to rethink my career path.

To that end, I have secured a new job in a new district in a new city.  I am happy to announce that I will be teaching in Mandan, ND – a city about 40 minutes from the Dahl spread.  It is a much larger district and a fabulous opportunity to me to grow professionally.  My new duties will be split between two elementary schools and a bit different from classroom teaching.  I will be focused now on reading interventions.  My official titles are Title I Reading Specialist and Instructional Coach.

I am crazy-excited!

Will I miss the Darlings?  Oh my, yes.  Their genuine honesty and witticisms will forever be a part of my story-telling repertoire.  Like first love, one never forgets their first years of teaching, I am guessing. 

I will miss my coworkers as well, from “Red” the custodian to the office manager, Becky B. and all my fellow teachers.  These are my neighbors and Wing is my community.  I leave with a tinge of sadness.  But I know that I am about to meet equally entertaining and priceless children and will get to know a fresh group of wonderful coworkers.  I am filled with anticipation for this next chapter.

All of the above is Part A of my fork in the road. Part B is pretty cool too.  I begin my PhD in a couple of weeks.  Yes, I am about to begin another degree.  Why, Vonda?  Why?  I can hardly believe they accepted me into the cohort.  Maybe I can fudge it for a semester or two until they catch wind of how ill-equipped I am for such a stringent program.  But until the jig is up, I will tally ho and sally forth into the world of academia yet again.  My wonderful husband is fully on board too and incredibly supportive (wow, I love that man).  Life is so deliciously intriguing and full of surprises.

The Dishy Mr. Dahl and I were driving across the state recently.  The day was near perfect.  After a wet May, the prairie was alive and green.  Atop the gently rolling hills sat a serene sky of the bluest blue imaginable.  Fluffy clouds dotted the upside-down blue bowl.  As the cottony clouds floated over the prairie, they cast small shadows that came and went like ghostly apparitions. 

This is how my heart will remember Wing.  My first teaching job experience was near perfect.  I learned a tremendous amount about education, loving children, and playing a minor role in keeping the heart of the community beating.  The few brushes with unpleasantness (so little of it, really, it barely deserves mention), are represented by the swift shadows that pass briefly over the Grass Sea.  Even the shadows and momentarily concealed sun contribute to the breathtaking beauty of the total scene.  Everywhere I look in the memories of my heart, I see God’s hand at work and the pastoral beauty is pleasant and warm on my back.  I leave not discontentedly nor anxiously, but rather filled with fondness for the community, teachers, and the precious children I leave behind.  

I am also filled with anticipation for what the next bend in my road will bring. 

I believe more than ever that my years of raising the Dahl brood were not at all wasted.  Not personally and certainly not professionally.  I hope my life can be an example to those young mothers who are torn between daycare and financial sacrifice.  Hear me loud and clear, young mother…. your time with those babies is but a breath.  You will blink and they will be moving into the dorm. 

IT GOES SO SWIFTLY…

Hold them while you can and teach them what you want them to know.  There are many fine places of childcare, but NO ONE will love them like you do.  They will learn the values of someone.  Let them be your values.  Live your life with no regrets.  I have none.  I would rather begin my career at the end of my life than wish I had done things differently.  It is not for everyone, but maybe it is for you.  Follow your heart.

It is time for me to follow mine yet again.

And so…

I say goodbye to my first school, my first love. 

Thank you, Wing Public School, for letting me play a part in your continued history and for letting me share in your journey. 

I am forever grateful.

An Open Letter to Sandy

Dr. Ryan Dahl

I am at this moment on a road trip headed to Colorado.  Tomorrow my son, Ryan, will become Dr. Ryan Dahl.  I am filled with anticipation for the weekend of celebration ahead.  It has been a long, arduous journey for him.  Medical school is not for the faint of heart.  Tenacity is a prerequisite and, thankfully, Ryan possessed enough to see him through.

His journey began years ago.  I will rewind the tape to May of 2007.  The gym in Wing, North Dakota, is filled with proud families and loyal community members.  This tiny prairie school still honors eighth grade graduates, for goodness sakes’.  Graduation is a big deal in Wing.

The cavernous Quonset is decorated with metallic ribbon and enough balloons to keep a pontoon afloat.  The high school band, minus the seniors and junior marshals, does its best to do justice to Pomp and Circumstance.  The Class of 2007 takes their place on the stage and sits down on the carefully placed folding chairs.  You may be wondering that the entire graduating class can fit on the stage.  Oh shucks, we could fit the entire high school up there.  There were only four graduates in the class of 2007.  All males, (which made for an interesting prom).

My boy, Ryan, is among them.  Ryan comes second in the Dahl Children lineup of four total.  He has known for several years that he wanted to be a dentist.  His uncle Jason had something to do with that, I believe.  Jason is a dentist and Ryan thought it would not be a bad way to take his contributing place in society. 

On that long ago night in May, he is enrolled at a private university south of Chicago, with plans to pursue a degree in biology.  John and I are hopeful he will be able to realize his goals.  We know he has many years of study ahead of him and will need to shine academically in order to gain acceptance into dental school. 

I spotted you when you walked into the gymnasium and on some mental level, wondered at your presence.  Although you had been a member of that community for quite some time, you had since moved away.  It was nice to see your sweet face, regardless.

Not far into the ceremony you stood and made your way to the stage.  Now I was actively curious.  You stood at the podium briefly, and then broke.  Without a word, you motioned your friend, who had walked in with you, to come and stand by your side. 

The gymnasium, which echoes at the slightest of sounds, is utterly silent, as if every person in that room is holding their breath. For what, we are not sure.  In quivery voice, fighting for control, you lay out your reason for being there.

With the single word, “Sarah,” we know we are about to be transported to a moment in time eight years earlier, a moment that changed everything; for you, for us, for our community.  In one horrific moment your beloved husband and daughter were ushered into eternity, and your precious son, the sole survivor of that devastating car accident, was placed on a long path of physical recovery.

You shared through your tears that night that shortly after that awful day, you chose to invest funds into an account that would be designated for Sarah’s classmates, to be handed to them upon their high school graduation.  You told no one of your plans.  Your motives were simple.  You wanted to honor your daughter in a meaningful way.  Your gift and careful investment had resulted in a significant amount to be used for furthering the education of her classmates as a way of remembering her life and legacy.

As the enormity of your extraordinary generosity sank in, I gasped.  I felt salty tears running down my face.  Not just for the help it would give my son, or for the unexpected generosity, but also because the years had been peeled back and a sunshiny little angel was running through my memories once again.  Sarah lived everyday of her life joyfully and exuberantly.  I will never forget her cartwheel on the basketball court after draining a two-pointer.  That was Sarah.  Happiness spilled out of her like a bubbling fountain.  Dear, sweet, angel-faced Sarah.

I write this today, Sandy, because I want you to know that my family remembers.  We remember your gift and its intended purpose.  We remember your mother’s love.  And we remember Sarah.

And so, as my boy accepts his diploma and conferred degree, I thank you, mother to mother.  I cannot know the depths of your painful journey.  But I do know that out of your sorrow you did an amazing thing.  You told Sarah’s classmates two things; you told them that you loved your daughter deeply.  You also told those young men on that night in May that you believed in them.  Believed they might create lives of happiness and fulfillment and accomplish the things Sarah never would.  Eight years later they are fine young men.  You helped them accomplish that.

We will never forget your kindness, your generosity and your selflessness.  Thank you, Sandy, for playing a part in helping Ryan realize his goal.  I am utterly and eternally grateful.  May God richly bless your life and path always and pour sunshine into that empty spot in your heart. 

You will always occupy a warm spot in mine.

When This Box is Full...

One of my absolutely favorite first grade activities every year is reading the book, “When This Box is Full,” by Patricia Lillie.  It is a simple book, and not terribly remarkable, as children’s literature goes.  But there is something touching about the young girl that marks the months and seasons with simple gifts added to her empty box. 

I read the text during our first week of school in the fall, hand out unadorned paper mache boxes with lids, let the students paint up a storm, then tuck them away.  Each month we add something to our boxes that remind us of that particular month.  In August, bright yellow wooden school bus cutouts.  In January, sparkling snowflakes.  In April, our book reading chart with the scene of children under an enormous umbrella.  These we carefully fold (or shove, as the case may be) into our remembrance box until the last week of school when we add our last item, a brilliant picture of a Painted Lady butterfly, as a reminder of our own adopted caterpillars. 

My Rosie, youngest of four and the only girl in the bunch, graduates from high school in forty-seven hours.  She will take her place on the stage with all six of her classmates (no, that is not a typo).  She will sit there on that stage adorned with metallic ribbon and helium balloons, deliver her Valedictory speech, and end her high school career.    

Though those in the audience will not be able to see it, she will have her own remembrance box sitting on her lap, stuffed with her own memories.  The contents of her box will strain at the seams, spilling bits of history from under the lid and down the sides, the memories of thirteen years of schooling in the same prairie school building.   

Most of her memories are pleasant.  She has enjoyed sweet friendships and has excelled in her studies and extracurricular activities. 

Some of her memories are not really memories at all, but rather the white noise of life.  The steady ticking of The Clock that ceaselessly marks time jumbles days, weeks, and months into a hazy film of sameness that has few distinctive marks.  She does not yet know that those will be some of the sweetest days of her life.  Unremarkable living means that life is pleasant, even when a little boring. 

Some of the scraps peeking from under the lid are painful to look at.  Heartaches and costly mistakes must take their rightful place in the box, as they do for all of us.  They are a part of her journey, a part of the formation of Hannah.  The pieces of her that have emerged as beautiful are partly due to those painful experiences.  Trying times either embitter a soul or release its beauty.  I am rapturously happy that Hannah’s is sweet and pure.  Only those closest to her can see the nearly imperceptible scars of difficult times hidden beneath a spirit of beauty.  Scars that tell me she is ready for a great big world.

At the end of my children’s book, the little girl takes her box filled with bits of lace, a robin’s feather, a foil heart, and a snowman’s scarf, and hands them to her friend.  Her treasures, so carefully guarded for an entire year, are made complete and dazzling by sharing them with someone she loves.

I think maybe Hannah has done the same.  Her treasures; her memories, her joys, sorrows, and successes are hers alone to savor.  But this child of my heart who came to us at the end of our parenting and who has filled our gradually quieted home with joy, has allowed me to partake in the gathering of the contents of her box.  It makes me catch my breath a little to hand back her box and say, “I love it all.  Thank you for sharing it with me.” 

In just hours, our youngest child will be done with childish things.  The concerts and track meets and class projects will take their place in her box, only to be exposed to light occasionally in the future as she reminisces, then puts the lid back on and places the box back on the dark shelf.

I love her so much. 

I am proud, yes.  But deeper and more satisfying yet is the knowledge that she has chosen wisely the things to place in her box.  They are things of purity and beauty. 

As I watch her accept her diploma and smile with satisfaction, I will smile too.  I am less sad that she is leaving than I am filled with joy that her box is filled with good things. 

Blessed is she.

Blessed am I.

Daughter of Hope

Taken from the condemned.  I will never forget the smell.

Her name was Yennj.  She was middle-aged with grown children.  She and her husband were business owners.  She liked to garden.  Her universe revolved around her family.  I related to her immediately. 

She and Heinrich, her husband thought often of leaving their small town in France to begin new lives in America.  But for this reason and that they never made it happen.

They died in a gas chamber in Auschwitz.

I gripped the biography card in my hand, handed to each of us at the beginning, as I wound my way through the maze of the Holocaust museum.  At one point I tossed the card into my purse, then fished it back out.  I wanted the tactile reminder that the images and objects before me came from and about real people.  People like Yennj.

Her name was Maya.  She was young, beautiful, and spoke impeccable English with a soft accent.  She stood just behind me as I waited to get into the Holocaust museum for my second visit this week.  My students kept asking if we could find the time to go.  After my initial visit I knew they needed to go.  They needed to experience what I had experienced on my first visit.  I promised them we would find the time. 

“Today is National Holocaust Remembrance Day in Israel, you know.”  I turned to the sound of her voice and stared into the beautiful eyes of the speaker.  “Today, yes,” she replied to my unspoken questions.  Her eyes bored into mine.  I asked if she was from Israel.  She nodded.   “Today we remember that dark time for our people.”  She smiled and I liked her immediately.  She was in America for a visit and had timed her trip to the museum to coincide with her nation’s observance.

The questions began as a trickle and bubbled to a gush.  How was it she happened to be here on such a day?  Did she know anyone who had suffered during the Holocaust?  How do her fellow countrymen feel about the United States?  What are her thoughts on the Iranian nuclear deal?  Each question lead to another question and comprehensive answer.

Maya stayed by my side as we were handed our tickets and began to wind our way through the exhibits.  She commented on each one with perspective few Americans could possibly understand.  Her story began as we waited for tickets and continued to be filled in as we walked together.  I know I stared too much and too often.  I could not help it.  I was stunned. 

Here it is.

Her Polish grandmother was sixteen years old when she and her parents were loaded onto a rail car headed for the Treblinka extermination camp.  Upon arrival she and her parents were chosen for the gas chamber.  Her grandmother was not immediately pushed into line for the “final solution.”  Instead she sat outside for twenty-four agonizing hours waiting for orders.  Waiting for the end. 

A Nazi prison guard approached her at the end of her first full day in Treblinka.  “Yesterday’s arrivals will work!,”  he shouted.  And with that she began six years of forced labor in one of the most brutal concentration camps of WW II.  But she was alive.

Her grandfather, also a teenager at the time, was also loaded onto a cattle car bound for death, or near death.  While the train roared through a forested area, an elder behind him urged him to jump and try to escape whatever lay ahead for them all.  Her grandfather and the friend beside him decided it was worth the risk and leaped from the train in the middle of the forest.  They both survived the jump and escaped detection.  They remained in the remote forest, living off leaves and whatever edible substances they could forage for until the end of the war. His friend did not survive, but Maya’s grandfather did. 

Eventually, her grandparents met, married and immigrated to Israel, where they raised a family.

I stood transfixed as Maya’s tale unraveled before me like a ball of yarn that has escaped clumsy hands and rolled across the floor.  I couldn’t speak.   There is really nothing to say in the face of such raw agony.

“Could it happen again, Maya?  These awful things against your people, could they happen again?  She nodded without hesitation.  “It could happen in an instant,” she replied sadly. 

I sat just to her right and behind as we sat through a short video describing the campaign against the Jewish people of Europe.  I watched her brush tears from her beautiful eyes and felt my own fill with liquid sorrow.  It was agony for me.  How much more so for her?

Near the beginning of my excursion I felt the ever present need to take pictures.  For reasons I cannot explain, it suddenly seemed gauche to do so.  I chose instead to let the shocking images filter into my mind through trickles and atomic blasts.  On my first tour, I separated myself from the group so that I wouldn’t defile my experience with inane small talk.  I wanted to absorb on my own terms and at my own pace.  To have Maya at my side for my second tour was a gift.

Yennj, my assigned victim of the Holocaust, her husband, and daughter were eventually deported to Aushwitz, where they all perished. 

Maya is a reminder that even when humanity is at its most depraved, there are small beacons of sunshine that break through the roiling clouds.  She is a daughter of Hope.

Maya relayed that her grandmother had decided that God is not real.  How could a loving God allow such atrocities?  “God was not in that place with us,” her grandmother deduced.  Elie Weisz said much the same thing. 

“Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, which has turned my life into one long night, seven times cursed and seven times sealed....Never shall I forget those moments which murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to dust. Never shall I forget these things, even if I am condemned to live as long as God Himself. Never.”
― Elie Wiesel, Night  

I will not commit sacrilege here by dissecting such screams from broken hearts.  Only those who stepped of those train cars and into the night of evil are allowed that privilege.  But I contend that God WAS there.  Maya’s very life was proof of that.  Out of horror came this beautiful woman who tore open my heart then softly applied pressure to the wound.

I do not think the intersection of our paths was coincidence.  She and I were meant to meet and share Communion bread for a brief moment. 

We hugged at the end.  I had a tight schedule to keep and she had other sights to visit.  We exchanged information and promised to stay in touch.  I hope we do.  I think we will.

I walked away from that building filled with horror and hope and felt a renewed sense of the divine. 

And so I share Maya’s story here with you.

I am changed.
I hope you will be too.

“Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.“-  

George Santayana

P.S.  Please visit the Holocaust museum if you are ever able to do so. 

http://www.ushmm.org/

Maya found her grandmother's village on this wall listing those that were destroyed by the Nazis

Maya and me

Full-Time Teacher/Part-Time Road Supervisor

You may not be aware that I have served several terms as a professional politician.  That’s right.  I have worked for the people for something like fifteen years, and I am drunk with power.

There are a few things you may know (or think you know) about North Dakota.  We are rural.  We are a part of the Great Plains.  We can get a wee bit chilly in January.  As with other states, our counties are divided into townships, generally a surface area of thirty six square miles, or so.  The last census states that our township population is a crowded thirty-seven.  Not hundred or thousand.  Just thirty-seven.  Let’s just call it my own little kingdom.

Not long after my little brood moved to North Dakota seventeen years ago, the local Township officials asked the Hubster and myself to consider allowing our names to run for the Township board.  Bing, bang, boom, we’re both sitting on the board.  My first elected position came with the daunting title of “Road Supervisor.”  Say WHAT?!  “Don’t worry,” the board assured me.  “It’s not difficult.  Just let us have our meetings at your house and make pie.”  This might be doable, I decided.

And so, the years have rolled along with election after election finding me in one board position or another.   And the pies (or cookies, or muffins, or on a really busy day – Girl Scout cookies) kept coming.  All this glory came with a paycheck too.  You think we politicians get wealthy off the public dime?  You are correct.  We live the high life, thanks to your tax dollars.  Our little circle of fat cats meets twice a year and for each meeting, we receive a golden check for…..

…. twenty-five dollars.

That buys a lot of cruises and vacation homes, sister.  I am sorry if you are outraged.  Let your voice be heard at the next election.

You may be wondering what I did in exchange for all that denaro, besides bake and vote.  Honestly, not that much.  The old timers drove the roads in order to fill out the annual maps that indicated which needed county maintenance.  They seemed to enjoy it.  I didn’t have the time.  I had pies to bake.

That all changed yesterday.  When I got home from school, the dishy Mr. Dahl informed me I had a phone message I needed to listen to.  I listened.  Apparently I had an angry constituent.  Well, I’ll be dogged.  That’s a first.  I had a sinking feeling I was about to earn that $25.

I won’t bore you with the details – information really too technical for you laypeople.  The Readers Digest version is that heavy trucks had torn up a section of gravel road.  Mr. Dishy had informed me before I placed the call that the company responsible was already on it and would make it right.  I shared all of that with my unhappy caller.  He seemed assuaged and at my urging, promised to call in a couple of days if things were not better.

I hung up and felt better about all of those cashed $25 checks. 

On my way home from work today, I decided to go all the way.  As I drove by that Road to Ruin I thought I should stop by and see if any work had indeed been done.  Sure enough, there were gigantic machines lumbering down an impressively long stretch of road.  I could see why my neighbor had been unhappy. 

I brought the Chrysler to a stop and stepped into the frigid wind (when had the day turned so bitterly cold?).  I idly wished I had a badge or Road Supervisor uniform, or even better, a pink hardhat with rhinestones.  I watched the massive machines smooth the road for a few minutes and before long the largest of the lot backed toward me and stopped next to me.  The operator opened his door and shouted over the noise of the engine that I could pass on by.  I shook my head and grinned.  “I’m the road supervisor,” I shouted back.  The look of shock on his face made me laugh.  He grinned back, stopped his giant toy, and hopped out of the cab.  He held out his hand and introduced himself.  He then spent ten minutes regaling me with how-to-fix-a-road details and the plans to make it better than ever.  I nodded and smiled and pretended that I was something of good road/bad road expert.  I know what a pothole is, if that counts.  I probably had that glazed over look men get when a gaggle of women swap childbirth stories.

I told him about my phone call and the safety concerns that had been expressed and now it was his turn to nod and smile.  After six minutes I was shivering in the Arctic gale winds.  After ten minutes I was sure hypothermia was setting in.  Time to wrap up the convo. 

I climbed into my rolling sauna and pulled back onto the highway.  I couldn’t help but giggle.  If you had told me twenty years ago that this St. Louis native would live on the northern prairie and drive around checking on road maintenance, I would have laughed my fool head off.  I mean, isn’t life just the absolute biggest kick?  I love it.

So if you need an expert to look your road over or need helpful tips on how to deal with burly road crews, just give me a call.  I do consulting work. 

Oh, and I’ll bring a pie too…

When Harry Met Rand McNally

Harry holds a photo of the McMurdo Research Station, Antarctica

In case you haven’t read my blog lately or seen my endless Facebook updates or don’t really know me well, or at all… I’ve been on something of an Antarctic kick lately.   I mean like, I am obsessed. 

I won’t rehash the last six months, but my students have had some pretty thrilling and unique opportunities to get up close and personal with the continent in general and penguins in particular.  I think it’s a place I need to visit someday.

As I prattled on and rattled through our prairie school building blathering and gushing about penguins and researchers and the wonders of Skype, the in-house maintenance man, Harry stopped me in the hall one day.  He had heard about our Southern Hemisphere adventures.  “You know I’ve been to Antarctica,” he calmly stated.  I arched an eyebrow.  “Really?” I said with a bit of shock.  “Aww, I’ve been there thirteen times,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.  He couldn’t stop the slow smile that spread across his weathered face at the look of shock on my quasi hippie face.  I stared, speechless.  “Wait, are you telling me that… wait... WHAT?!?”  He leaned heavily on the snow shovel in his hand and grinned.  “I guess I’ve been all over the world.” 

Turns out our Harry used to work for the National Science Foundation as a government contractor.  He has zigzagged literally all over this big blue marble, once even working for NASA to set up a transmission tower at McMurdo.  I just had no idea.  No idea at all.  I couldn’t ask questions fast enough and begged him to soon be a guest of honor in the Magic Tree House and regale us with stories.

When our second Skype chat was arranged, I asked Harry if he wanted to sit in on it.  Did he ever!  As the Darlings asked their carefully rehearsed questions of the researcher, Jean Pennycook (dang, I love that name), Harry had a few questions of his own.  He piped up every few minutes with a new question for Jean, obviously enjoying his walk down memory lane.  Finally I handed the digital mic to him and urged him to talk to her directly.  She was honored to speak to a man that had helped build her research facilities at McMurdo.  She and Harry sort of forgot there were five cute-as-pie first graders sitting (shockingly) quiet, waiting for the focus to return back to them.  When Harry took his chair again, he was grinning from ear to ear. 

Today he showed up with boxes of artifacts.  He unloaded them on our round work table and began to pass around faded photographs of ice pack hovercrafts, icy runways, unattractive industrial buildings, himself posing with penguins and seals, breathtaking volcanic mountains, and certificates awarded for his spectacular work in the name of science.  He had rocks and driftwood.  He had mess hall napkins imprinted with the McMurdo name.  He had a ball.  And so did we.  

It was the perfect cap to our unit of study.  I mean, books and video feed are great.  But… this guy has been there!  It doesn’t get any more personal than that.  Our own Harry who throws salt on icy sidewalks and keeps that old beast of a furnace pumping hot air into our vacuous building has lived the very the things we have read about.

Perhaps my favorite photo was the one he took at the South Pole, the absolute bottom of the world.  And by the way, try explaining to first graders why you aren’t upside down and fall off the earth when you’re in Antarctica.  Gravity shmavity.  It makes no sense to them, WHATSOEVER.

ANYHOO, I am nearly finished with the book, “South with the Sun” by Lynne Cox, which recounts the first person to achieve the South Pole.  In 1911, Roald Amundsen claimed the title in the name of Norway where others had tried and failed, many of them giving their very lives for the bragging rights. 

As I stared at the grainy image of the white bleakness of the geographic pole, marked by a literal pole (believe it or not) and the flags of explorers who also conquered the feat in the name of their home countries, I was reminded of the spirit of adventure and courage that picture represents.  Man is so tenacious in his desire to see all of this great world.  I share that longing, in some small measure.  I am afraid I own the soul of an adventurer. 

And so when I read of Amundsen and Byrd and others who faced great odds and did the previously impossible, I am impressed, and a little envious.  Harry has taken his own rightful place in my mind of great world adventurers.  He has been to places and seen things that I never will and has stories to entertain and educate.  Harry rocks. 

To commemorate the day, he generously donated a chunk of Antarctic rock covered with spiny moss to our Discovery table – a true and irreplaceable treasure. It might as well be from the Moon itself.

Thanks, Harry.  It just goes to show that people are so deliciously surprising.  Everyone has their own story to tell. 

Harry will be happy to tell you his…

Roald Amundsen on his historic expedition