My Phone Wallpaper

The wallpaper on my phone hasn't changed since I first set it. It's a closeup of a light blue butterfly. I think it's called a Silvery Blue, but I'm no butterfly expert. On my main screen, the image is mostly covered by apps but I have second screen with just a couple of apps, positioned along the bottom, that lets me see it more clearly.

I like this photo. I like the color, I like the detail, the simple clarity of the fine hairs lining the wings. Visually, it pleases me. There is also something I find relaxing about a lone butterfly resting on a clover.

I also like this photo because I remember when it was taken. It was in Yellowstone a couple of years ago on the last "big" summer vacation for the four of us. We were already a few days into our time at the park when we stopped at this self-guided boardwalk in a meadow. Now, compared to bison and elk and waterfalls and geysers, a walk on a hot summer day in a very Minnesota-looking prairie didn't generate a ton of enthusiasm from the boys. As they begrudgingly exited the vehicle, I handed the my camera to B - a peace offering of sorts and an attempt to engage him in the outing.

As we walked along, the landscape was mostly brown and green with a sprinkling of pale blue flowers. B began playing with the macro setting of the camera and took some lovely close up shots of the flowers. Then we noticed the butterfly. It was the same shade of blue as the flowers and disappeared easily amongst them. B made it his mission to carefully stalk it and take the shot I now have on my phone.

When I look at the butterfly photo, I see a beautiful image but I'm also reminded of a determined boy who was a good sport and someone who recognized the simple beauty of a small creature that others might overlook. I'm also reminded that beauty isn't always obvious and grand. Sometimes it's small and tries its best to hide, but we can find it if we take the time to look in unexpected places.

Annihilated

I recently watched Patton Oswalt's Annihilation show on NetFlix. I read many positive reviews and remarks on Twitter. Almost unanimously, the show was described as powerful - certain to make you laugh and cry, sometimes simultaneously. Being a fan of his work, and knowing a little of his personal loss (as he's eloquently related in interviews), I was compelled to watch for myself.

Most of you reading this blog know my personal story (let's be honest - most of the people reading this blog are relatives or close friends of mine). You know that when I was thirteen I lost my father, unexpectedly. He lived to the ripe old age of fifty-five. I am now fifty-five myself, and I realize even more just how young it is. His death stunned and shocked me. In an instant we went from being just another "normal" farming family to something else, a single-parent family. Before long, we'd moved off the farm to town. Losing him also meant losing a way of life, part of my own identity. I think it took years to come to terms with all of this and, to be honest, I still consider myself a farm kid.

You likely also know that my wife and I lost our son when he was five months old. Five months is right in that window of when babies really start to become people. They smile and react when they recognize you. They show a preference for one toy over another. From the moment he was born, everything we did was an attempt to express "I love you" to this dear boy. Now, at an age where he could finally let us know that he thought we were pretty okay too, he was gone.

I bring these losses up as part of an explanation for why I was compelled to watch Annihilation. In an attempt to understand my own grieving and emotional survival, I'm drawn to see how others do it. The loss of my father was devastating but I think my thirteen-year old self was too deeply in shock to really cope with it. I was an adult when my son died and his death was excruciating. When you have a child, you can't help but dream about their future. If you're like me, you hope they grow up to be happy people who are kind to others. You run through all the possible careers, all the possible outcomes, except one. And then they're gone and all the dreams die with them and you're left with nothing but the "what might have been". It sucks big time.

And so, I sat down to watch Annihilation with anticipation and a fair amount of trepidation. I accept that everyone grieves in their own way but I really don't get what some people find helpful. I felt a rush of relief as Patton bashed the "everything happens for a reason" sentiment. That one, along with "he's in a better place" are two statements that I have found the least helpful and sometimes hurtful. If anyone reading this happens to be someone who has said this to me, I'm sorry. Please know that I know your intentions were pure and to be honest, offering condolences is hard. None of us possesses the magic words to make everything better. The best you can hope for is to not add to the pain. At least you said something. Not acknowledging a loss sends a pretty strong message as well. So, really, it's a no win, hope to break even sort of game where not playing is the same as losing.

Patton Oswalt opens his heart and does an excellent job of expressing the complex emotions associated with grief and loss. He takes us along with him to glimpse some of the darkest most painful moments and then masterfully uses humor to pull us back from the brink. If you haven't watched Annihilation, I recommend you do so (Except maybe my sister Melody, as some of the language may be too blue for her. 😏)

Home Repair

We've had contractors and their workers at our house off and on over the past few weeks. An undetected roof leak had been slowly soaking the walls of a small closet near our front door. Eventually, things got bad enough that the walls began crumbling away. In our defense, we rarely use this closet and don't routinely go around inspecting every nook and cranny of the house.

As long as we had the workers there, we also pointed out another issue with water that we've noticed at the back of the house. Again, we weren't quick enough to avoid some amount of water damage but at least it wasn't as bad as the front closet. The root cause of both problems is a pair of pine trees with annoyingly long needles. The trees are on our neighbors lot but they insist on leaning over our house. The needles have always made keeping our gutters clean difficult but in recent years the amount of needles has increased significantly. Looking up at the tree, one can see a number of dead needles - a sign, hopefully, of the trees' imminent demise.

I used to hate having people around working on the house. Not so much because of the intrusion although that is a little bit of a pain. No, I disliked having them around because I always felt like their presence was somehow a judgment about me. Why didn't I notice the problem earlier? What was I thinking with the repair attempt I tried? And finally, why on earth can't you just fix this yourself? I could feel their eyes watching me - "Look at him. Soft. Helpless. Inept. A real man would have taken care of this himself."

Thankfully, I don't feel that way any longer. I'm old enough now that I feel like most of the workers assume I probably made these sorts of repairs when I was younger. Now, as a middle-aged man, my time is too valuable to be spent on home repairs. I can afford to let the young whippersnappers hang the drywall instead of doing it myself (I've never hung drywall).

When I was younger and would ask a question, I swear I would get a look of condescension - like, "This guy has no clue, I can't believe I have to explain this to him". To be honest, they would have been correct in that assessment. Now that I'm older, I know a little bit more but still not very much. I've learned that if I just ask vague questions or obvious statements (e.g. "So, you took off three rows of siding."), I get a much more thorough explanation. Often, as they are explaining, I sense they are watching my reaction to see if I agree with their course of action. I always do since I really don't have a clue about most of it.

The New Refrigerator

A week ago, our refrigerator died. There were no obvious warning signs, no strange noises. One day it just stopped keeping things cool. To me, this felt too soon but I've been told ten years is about the average life span of refrigerators these days. We scrambled to salvage what we could, filling three coolers. What we couldn't fit in the coolers we cooked. A large lasagna used up the frozen hamburger, the fresh spinach, and much of the cheese. Leftovers were discouraged so we ate like gluttonous kings.

The search for a replacement began immediately. We discussed desired features and began researching consumer reviews and retail options. After realizing that the perfect fridge could only be had if we were willing to endure a five to thirteen week wait, we scrapped most of our data and instead went with a model that could be delivered and installed in three days time. We packed on some extended warranties - a tacit admission of our lack of knowledge about our latest major appliance.

Our old refrigerator was white but not really. To see the white you'd have to look behind the school pictures, artwork, and other miscellaneous papers deemed important. The magnets used to attach these items also held their own unique and varied story. Some items, such as class pictures might get replaced with more recent versions but often both the old and new would coexist together. Our old fridge was kind of a scrapbook page of stuff going on in our family. In that way, the old fridge felt like a part of the family. Like that distant relative that the kids barely know, it held each class photo or art drawing dearly, treating them like the treasures we knew them to be.

I've spent many an afternoon staring into that fridge, looking for just the right snack. There was never any judgement when I grabbed a cheese stick intended for a kid's school lunch. If I was indecisive, it didn't matter. Even though my lingering at the open door meant more work cooling things back down, the fridge waited patiently.

I don't think our new refrigerator is destined to become a member of the family. Its stainless steel doors reject all magnets, as if it is determined to keep some distance between us and it. The water dispenser on the door is a nice feature but it also sends the signal that if you just want ice or water, get it here - don't open the sacred doors.

Speaking of doors, lingering with them open is discouraged. If a door is open for more than 60 seconds, an alarm sounds. This refrigerator expects you to not bother it unless you know what you want. It's like we've hired a crabby kitchen helper. It will do its job and do it well but don't expect it to fawn over your child's latest piece of artwork. It's simply not part of its job description.

I never thought I'd say this but, in some ways, our new refrigerator is too cold.

Lefse at Christmas

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon in December. Sunny enough to brighten Anna's kitchen without the need of extra lighting. Anna stood over the counter, rolling out a lefse round. Her daughter, Berit, stood next to her and was carefully taking a round off the grill. For the last twenty years, since Berit was a young teenager, this had been the process. Anna rolled, Berit grilled.

The two were engrossed in their task and paid little attention to the two people sitting at the kitchen table behind them. One of the two, Anna's sister-in-law Hilde, was busy with the New York Times crossword and was mostly ignoring them anyway. The other one was Lisbeth, Berit's six year old daughter. She fidgeted in her chair as she waited for a chance to sample the goods. It wouldn't be long now. She could almost take the buttery goodness. She mostly avoided looking at Hilde. The large woman generally seemed to have little time for children and Lisbeth was slightly frightened of her.

Finally, Berit turned and placed a plate with four fresh rounds on the table. "Here's a little sample," she said with a smile, "to make sure we're makin' it right."

Lisbeth eagerly grabbed a round and began buttering it. Hilde cleared her throat but kept staring at the paper. She held her pen as if she was about to fill in an answer but she hadn't written anything in the last five minutes.

Lisbeth let out a sigh as her first bite melted in her mouth. "Mom?" she asked, "Why do we only make lefse during the holidays? We should make it all the time."

Berit smiled back at her. "Well, honey, it's a lot of work. Plus, if we made it all the time it wouldn't be as special. It's nice to have something special for Christmas. It's a good tradition."

Lisbeth nodded. Anna added, "Someday, Sweetie, you and your mom will be making lefse just like your mom and I are now. Maybe you'll have a daughter asking the same question. That's how traditions go."

Lisbeth smiled at the thought and wondered what her grandma would be doing while this future lefse making was happening. She was about to ask when Hilde grunted, "So, you two aren't going to tell her the real reason we make lefse at Christmas, huh?"

"Oh dear," Anna whispered to her daughter.

"Not this again," Berit replied.

The room fell silent. Lisbeth looked at Hilde and then back towards her mother. "Mom, is there another reason?"

Berit turned, managing a tight smile. Her gaze alternated between Lisbeth and Hilde, who had put down the paper and was now staring back at her. "No, dear," Berit began, "there's no other r--"

"Poppycock!" Hilde blurted, "I don't why you people continue to deny the noble place lefse has in Christmas! You know darn well, the Vikings--"

"Hilde!" Anna exclaimed, "The only poppycock is that story of yours! It doesn't make any sense! The history isn't right. I don't know why you insist on believing it."

Hilde looked up with a hard, steely gaze. "I learned this from my grandfather when I was a young child. He was a wise man and I think I'd rather take his word than any of your so-called experts!"

"I wanna hear!" Lisbeth said, daring to look at Hilde.

"No dear," Berit said, "it's just a story."

"It's like this," Hilde said, ignoring Berit, "You know how in the Bible when baby Jesus was born there was a bright star?"

Lisbeth nodded, eyes wide and fixed on Hilde.

"Well, in the sea near Bethlehem, there were some Viking explorers who saw that light."

"Oh, God," Berit muttered to Anna, "can someone please show that woman a map and maybe give her a history lesson?"

Hilde glanced up and then continued a little louder, "As I was saying, there were some Viking explorers who saw the light and were drawn to it."

Lisbeth remembered a picture she'd seen of a fierce Viking with a sword, standing on the deck of a wooden ship. "Are they going to attack Jesus?" she asked worriedly.

Anna stifled a chuckle. Hilde looked at Lisbeth as if the girl had just asked her if Santa killed kittens. "What? Why would you think such a thing, child? Of course, they weren't going to attack Jesus. They were explorers. People don't understand the Vikings, no they don't. Everyone thinks they were cruel. They weren't. They were a knowledgeable people, noble explorers. Anyone who says otherwise is just jealous that their ancestors weren't so grand." Hilde stared up at Anna and Berit, daring them to contradict her but they had their backs to her and appeared to be focused on making lefse.

"What happened next?" Lisbeth quietly prodded.

Hilde took a deep breath to compose herself. "Well, Lisbeth," she continued, "I'll tell you what happened next. The Vikings, they came ashore and marched right to Bethlehem, following that star."

"Just like the wise men!" Lisbeth exclaimed.

"Exactly, only even wiser," Hilde replied, "Being expert explorers, they found the stable straight-away. And there they found Mary and Joseph and baby Jesus."

"Wow!" Lisbeth gushed, "That's so cool!"

"Funny you should say that. Because it wasn't just cool, it was downright cold, unseasonably so for that part of the world. Of course, the Vikings were fine, being accustomed to far colder conditions but Mary and Joseph were chilled and poor baby Jesus was shivering."

"Oh no!" Lisbeth gasped, "Didn't he have his swaddling cloths?"

"Oh sure, but that wasn't enough. He was fairly turning blue from the cold."

"I don't want Jesus to freeze!" Lisbeth cried.

"No, Honey," Berit interjected, "this is just a story. Hilde, maybe we should take a break from this."

Hilde crossed her arms, "Well, I can stop but it seems like a poor place. What with Jesus freezing and all."

"Fine," Berit sighed, "just be mindful that you're talking to a little girl."

"Humph!" Hilde grunted, "She's from strong stock. She can take it. Right sweetie?"

Lisbeth wiped her eyes and nodded. "I wanna hear the rest."

"You betcha you do," Hilde continued, "Because this is the best part. As I said, poor baby Jesus was shivering in the cold--"

"Hilde...," Anna interjected.

"Poor baby Jesus was shivering," Hilde repeated, "The Vikings looked at one another and knew they had to help this poor family out. Right then and there they set up their own camp. They prepared a magnificent round of lefse and as they lifted it warm from the grill, they wrapped it around the baby like a blanket. And you know what? Baby Jesus stopped shivering and smiled and the he fell softly asleep."

"He was happy!" Lisbeth exclaimed.

"He was. And then they made more lefse for Mary and Joseph and any stray shepherds that happened to be there, I suppose."

"Did Mary and Joseph wrap up in lefse blankets, too?" asked Lisbeth.

"Mary tried to use a round as a shawl at first but the Vikings showed her that it was for eating. And then she learned what we all know..."

"What's that?"

"Lefse makes a good blanket but it's even better at warming you from the inside."

Lisbeth took a bite and nodded in agreement.

"And that," Hilde said as she picked up her crossword puzzle, "is the real reason we make lefse at Christmas."

Perfect Crime

Tom sighed as he watched the young man finish filling the 5-gallon gas can. The man had his back to Tom and Tom took the opportunity to size up his potential opponent. Too young and too strong, Tom thought. "I don't suppose you're going pay for that." Tom said in a steady tone.

"Nope." the man replied, not bothering to turn around. The man finished twisting the cap onto the can, picked it up, and walked off.

Tom watched until the man disappeared into the horizon, returning to where he'd come from earlier that day. The station was remote and isolated. Even so, how had the man known Tom wouldn't call the police? He thought about the cash in the till. He'd been counting it when the man arrived. Tom was pretty certain the man had seen the wad of bills but maybe not. Neither of them had spoken, the man just stepped inside, grabbed a new gas can and stepped out. Like he owned the place. He hadn't seen much but he likely saw the money. Tom wondered how long it would take for the man to walk to his car and then return to rob the place. Did he see the money? That's the question, Tom thought. If he saw the money, he'll be back. That type can't resist taking. Tom knew that type all too well.

Tom heard the faint hum of a car in the distance. This is probably him, he thought, I hope it's a nice car. Tom's car had broken down a mile from the station. Of course it really wasn't his car, he'd stolen it earlier that morning. He shook his head, he was never good at stealing decent cars. They always seemed to break down. But he knew he drove them too hard. That happens when you're trying to get away quickly.

Tom stepped behind the counter and took the shotgun from the shelf under the cash register. He'd noticed it there when he was counting the money. He knelt down, resting one knee on the chest of the gas station's owner, praying for the man to return. He marveled at his turn of good fortune, the plan had almost created itself. The man was clearly a thug and likely had a record. It seemed completely plausible that a fellow like that would try to rob this isolated place. In this case, it would appear as if they'd shot each other. Tom would leave his gun with the man and take his car. The key would be to leave some cash in the till. The police wouldn't likely look too hard. Two bodies, two weapons, a stolen broken down car a mile away. If this worked out right, Tom surmised, the man would also get blamed for this morning's action. Tom giggled at how perfectly everything was coming together.

He heard a car door close.

The hardest part would be not taking all the money.

Early Spring

Spring arrived with warmth and hope.
For several days we bathed in sunlight,
Desperate to thaw our frozen bones.
Then with a frigid wind, winter reasserted its icy grip.
A pair of robins huddled on a nearby branch.
They were the early birds, first in the migration from warmer climes.
Fooled by a fickle Mother Nature, they silently cursed the cold.
Above them, a lone cardinal sang in the breeze.
He'd endured winter's harshest days.
Today was mild by compare.
His joyful singing only compounded their misery.