Making Minnesota Memories

Minnesota’s 2012/2013 winter was one of the worst ever, spilling into spring with a bizarre blizzard in May. While Huntsville, Alabama experienced colder than average temps as well, we knew it could be worse. And it was way worse in the Twin Cities.

Hearing about the horrible winter and spring from family served as a great reminder to my husband and me about why, after moving “back home” to Minneapolis for 18 months, we hauled our family back to Dixie for good in October 2009.

Serina, right, with cousins, Leah, center, and Emma.

Serina, right, with cousins, Leah, center, and Emma.

This week, though, we flew to Minnesota for a long overdue visit. It had been nearly three years since the girls (Serina, 8, and Sophia, 6) and I had traveled to the Land of 10,000 Lakes. David went last July to help my mom move down to Huntsville, where she now lives with us.

We knew the family reunions would be special, but we also hoped for much better weather than they endured for most of 2013. Thankfully, the weather transformed into near perfection almost immediately after we arrived, gracing us with clear skies, warm sunshine and light breezes.

Uncle Mike and Sophia drive the pontoon on Lake Minnewaska

Uncle Mike and Sophia drive the pontoon.

David’s brother, Mike, picked us up from the airport and, after spending the night with him, Auntie Liza and their children, we all headed up to my sister-in-law’s lakefront home on Glenwood’s Lake Minnewaska. We relished the time spent with Auntie Diane, Uncle Mike, their other sister, Auntie Cheryl, and their families.

While time with David’s other brother, Uncle Jim, was short, we did manage to steal some quality time with him before he had to go to work and coach a Lynx game. Fortunately, the AlaPetes (how I differentiate us from all the MinnePetes in his family) hitched a ride to the game with Auntie Tika, Auntie Diane, and the girls’ cousin, Emma. What a ball! Huntsville has no NBA team, let alone WNBA.  The Lynx beat the Atlanta Dream Tuesday, making a great event even better.

The girls with Auntie Tika and Uncle Jim after the Lynx beat the Dream 94 - 72.

The girls with Auntie Tika and Uncle Jim after the Lynx beat the Dream 94 – 72.

We got to spend a short, but cherished, chunk of time with my brother, Larry. The girls were going a million miles a minute, caught up in the excitement of hanging out with yet another fun-loving, long-lost uncle.

This trip was too brief and too last-minute to schedule time with long-lost friends, but I did manage to walk around Lake Harriet with two college buddies. Fabulous!

But the best part of this entire visit has been seeing Serina and Sophia light up as they reconnect with their cousins. They all share a mutual adoration for each that appears to grow with every outing, every meal, every laugh and every hug. We have taken the girls to parades, Como Park, the Mall of America and Lake Harriet, just a few of Minnesota’s countless attractions, locales and cultural treasures.

Cousins bond at a Starbuck parade. Sitting behind: Auntie Diane, Uncle Mark and Uncle Scott.

Cousins bond at a Starbuck parade. Sitting behind: Auntie Diane, Uncle Scott and Uncle Mark.

The past few days have helped me realize that no matter where we are or where our families are, we can’t allow “out of sight, out of mind” to take hold. The bonds our children are building with their cousins, aunts and uncles need to be nurtured even after we return to Huntsville.

Families are wonderful. It’s easy to forget how wonderful, whether they live across town or across the country. But making these magnificent Minnesota memories has been an awesome reminder.

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Cluttered Closets

When my closet gets cluttered, I go to extreme measures to restore order. I take out everything, dumping it onto the bed or the floor. At first, it seems overwhelming, but if I go through the contents, piece by piece, the process seems simpler and the goal, more achievable.

Sometimes my spirit gets as cluttered as my closet, calling for a serious overhaul.

Sometimes my spirit gets as cluttered as my closet, calling for a serious overhaul.

I analyze each item: Does it still fit? Flatter? Uplift? If not, it is discarded.

What about the fibers? If they are soft and soothing, they stay. If they are harsh or itchy, they go.

The remaining items are mended, if needed. Then put back, one by one, in a space that is now clean and orderly.

A cluttered spirit also calls for a serious overhaul.  I begin the cleaning process in the same fashion I do my closet, dumping out and analyzing its contents, discarding traits and emotions that don’t fit, flatter or uplift, or are toxic, either to myself or those around me.

Perhaps a few pieces of my spirit have been wounded. Those I tend to, mending the best I can, often asking God to help with healing.

One by one, I put back the precious pieces that remain, nurturing and diligently maintaining them, creating a space that is clean, orderly and healthy.

The clutter is now replaced by peace, serenity, love, joy, compassion and empathy, which never fall out of fashion!

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Blown away: Courage and faith in Cleveland

Blown away. That’s how I felt when I saw the remarkable story about the three women who escaped after a decade in captivity.

Amanda Berry and Gina DeJesus are two of three women freed after years in captivity.

Amanda Berry and Gina DeJesus are two of three women freed after years in captivity.

I couldn’t imagine their relief and elation at finally being free — a state of being we so often take for granted. But I don’t dare imagine the torment they endured during those years locked inside that rundown home.

Amanda Berry, 27, Gina DeJesus, 23, and Michele Knight, 32, were all abducted in separate incidents several years ago. They escaped Monday when Berry, along with her six-year-old daughter, kicked and screamed at the front door, attracting the attention of neighbors.

Police descended upon the Cleveland neighborhood, rescuing the three women who have essentially “grown up” in conditions most of us can’t fathom. Their alleged abductor, Ariel Castro, 52, has been charged with kidnapping and rape. His brothers, Pedro, 54, and Onil, 50, have been released.

Ariel, at least, will go through the justice system, but many Americans are already dreaming up their own ways in which justice for these girls would truly be served.

But fantasy punishments for Ariel won’t do the victims any good. Their torment — psychological, sexual, and who knows what else — was far too real.

Stephen Anthony, head of the FBI office in Cleveland, said this about their escape:

Prayers have finally been answered. The nightmare is over. These three young ladies have provided us with the ultimate definition of survival and perseverance. The healing can now begin.

The healing process may be long and painful, as it often is even in less traumatic circumstances. But these women have so much going for them, starting with courage and faith.

You don’t survive years in captivity without either of them.

They had the courage to try to break free. Who knows how many failed attempts they made before Monday’s final success.  What a lesson to all of us, no matter what we face in our own lives, to never give up.

And faith. Surely they had a Higher Power in their presence comforting them through the fear, day after day, and faith that a glimmer of light was shining beyond the indelible darkness.

I remember reading Night, by Eli Wiesel, in college. His faith was shaken, but never lost, as he made the agonizing trip to Auschwitz with so many others dropping dead along the way.

You must never lose faith, even when the sword hangs over your head.

That could easily have been how Amanda, Gina and Michele felt, as if a sword hung over each of their heads.

Same could be said for others who feel trapped, whether in poverty, abusive relationships, abduction, addiction or something else.

Any darkness in my life is a mere shadow in comparison. Sometimes I get stressed at work. Stressed at home. But I have an amazing family, a great job and wonderful friends who support me. I get to tuck my two beautiful daughters into bed each night and wake them up with kisses each morning.

That scenario is a far cry from the world Amanda, Gina, and Michele experienced in Cleveland. Their journeys are far from over, but they are not alone. People around the world, like me, feel for them — devastated by their past, elated by their present, and hopeful for their future. They deserve a future 1000 times brighter than their past was dark.

And may their examples of courage and faith not be in vain.

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Absent

MinnDixie Mom has been absent, at least online. It could appear as if nothing has happened to inspire a fresh post. It’s more likely, however, that I’ve been so busy I haven’t taken the time to recognize, or appreciate, inspiration.

Work has been busy! At the institute, we hosted the first Genome Circle dinner to recognize our amazing major donors. Now we are gearing up for the second annual Double Helix Dash 5K! (Runners of all levels will love this race.)

Home has been busy! My mother, who lives with us, has had dental issues, health insurance issues, driving issues and peripheral neuropathy issues.

Serina, 7, and Sophia, 5, at the AAA Fine Arts Festival on March 2, 2013.

Kids have been super busy! Basketball is finally over, giving me a chance to breathe, but dance is picking up. Dance pictures, dance rehearsals, dance hair-dos — ugh!

There was also the Fine Arts Festival for the Academy for Academics and Arts. Awesome fundraiser for this gem of a school that nourishes my daughters’ minds and souls.

Then a friend gave me a jewel of a book, The Simple Truths by David Nerburn. Lots of food for thought, especially the chapter on the spiritual journey:

We all have special gifts of character. Some of us are blessed with compassion; others, laughter; others a power of self-discipline… You must find the gift that you have — the source of your belief — and discover a way to cultivate that gift.

Now I will try to identify my gift so I can figure out how to cultivate it. Hence begins the next phase of my spiritual journey. Perhaps I will be inspired to write about it. Perhaps I will be inspired by the training rides I take as I prepare for the 2013 Bike MS event on June 8 in Athens. Or perhaps I will remain quiet, at least online.

As I venture out onto this mysterious path, I will try to keep God, my higher power, at the forefront of my journey. How reassuring to know that He is never absent.

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Southern snowfall

For about two hours, I almost thought I was back in Minnesota. At first, sleeting rain, followed by tiny pellets of hail, and finally snow. Big, fat, beautiful flakes.

Huntsville City Schools and surrounding districts made the call to close early. Elementary schools, including the one my daughters attend, would close at 12:30. That meant I would be going home early, too.

serina and sophia in the snow

Sophia, left, and Serina enjoy a partial “snow day!” It’s a far cry from the months of snow we endured living in Minnesota, but definitely pretty… for a brief spell.

Now, if I were really in Minnesota, school wouldn’t have let out early. The Rocket City was only getting an inch or so, but (insert fake and exaggerated southern dialect here:) Y’all might be used to this nonsense, but we southerners aren’t accustomed to driving in such hazardous conditions.

On the way home, the salt trucks were out in full force, hitting the overpasses, which typically are the first to close when the threat of black ice looms. I drove with caution, as (thankfully!) did many of the motorists with whom I shared the road.

I live on a steep hill and hadn’t anticipated a problem, but it was icy and my Pacifica struggled on the incline. Alas, I made it. But there was a Mercedes parked outside our house. Apparently, the folks who lived at the top of our steep hill had to stop and walk the rest of their way.

While many adults were annoyed at the snowy, messy inconvenience, the children were in awe. That’s when I took a moment to appreciate the falling white that transformed our south Huntsville neighborhood into what appeared to be the scene of a beautiful winter snow globe.

The car had barely stopped when Serina and Sophia tore out of their seatbelts. We met neighbors playing outside that we hadn’t seen for months, and even met a few new ones. Serina and Sophia joined several other children for snow angel fun (kind of lame snow angels with an inch or less of snow!), snowball fights and even a game of “let’s see if kitty likes the snow!” (She didn’t.)

The snow is pretty for now, but I am sure it will melt before it has a chance to turn dingy and gray. It’s hard to believe we enjoyed 60s earlier this month and now we’ve got snow. Who knows how long it will last. The children hope it will last a while. Me? I’ll be ready for the sun to melt it into a memory by the weekend.

Then I’ll remember, I’m not in Minnesota anymore. I love the people—and the summers—there. But the long winters, which are appreciated by many northern winter-sports enthusiasts, are not really my thing.

Which is why we moved back to Huntsville in the first place!

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The first ride

Since my running suffered a minor setback with a shin injury last week, I took a friend’s advice and hopped on my bike, which happens to be a very old bike. I got the Trek hybrid in 1991, within weeks of my college graduation.

I loved that bike and it served me well—until that next Minnesota winter hit. Then it started gathering dust in the garage, blending in with the shovels, rakes and other lawn and garden tools decking the walls.

My freshly filled tires were part of the river scene during my ride Saturday. It was the first bike ride this runner had taken in nearly two years.

Last night my husband filled my old tires with air and this morning I was ready to go. It had been six days since I had worked out so I was actually more than ready!

It felt fabulous. Other than the squeaky breaks and the discomfort of a non-padded seat (ouch! will go seat shopping), everything was beautifully aligned—physically, spiritually and mentally. I got the same rush from riding that I get from running. Plus, I was able to cover more ground in a shorter amount of time.

I could feel different muscles working and the journey was liberating. When the wind blows in your face, it almost feels like you are flying—only there are no wings, just pedals to push and handles to hold.

My ride led me past Ditto Landing before I turned around and headed home. I enjoyed seeing the crew teams practicing in the river, which was dotted with lazy fishing boats and patient anglers.

After 12 miles, I was a new woman. The irritability that crept up on me over the past week melted away. My legs were mildly shaky, which I could appreciate, knowing it was weakness leaving another part of my body.

Who knows what my fitness future holds. Today I enjoyed a great ride. It wasn’t long or fast, but it was a beginning. Perhaps even the beginning, not just of a new exercise routine, but also of a passion.

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Running on empty

It’s a New Year. That’s when we are supposed to be full of energy. Full of excitement. Full of promise and resolutions.

Right now, I am full of… nothing. I am running on empty.

That is a far cry from last year when I ran, completing two half marathons, a 10K, a 15K and several smaller races. I trained, I worked, I wrote, I mothered, I cooked (not well) and kept myself going, going, going with very little downtime.

This year, I planned on doing all of the above, but added one New Year’s resolution. At 44, I would run a marathon. I was fired up. I was excited. I was committed.

Now I am beat.

Last Friday, a scheduled “rest” day, my shin hurt slightly. On Saturday, I was supposed to do a 10-mile run—one mile more than I did the previous weekend. I would give it a shot, I decided, and see how my leg felt. Before long, I hit a rhythm. I wasn’t going fast, but I was steady and felt great, energized and resolved.

When I got home and stopped running, an excruciating pain raced through my leg and I couldn’t walk. I collapsed on the couch. On Sunday, the pain was still strong so I hobbled to the corner clinic. The doctor told me not to run (apparently the elliptical was out, too) and ordered an ultrasound to make sure it wasn’t a blood clot.

So the ultrasound was normal and I can walk again, but there is still a worrisome and persistent pain.  I have an appointment with my regular physician next week. I figure an X-ray won’t hurt.

But I’ve been miserable. I realize how much running is like therapy for me, a “drug” I take every morning. It’s a habit that balances my spirit, clears my mind and gets my day off to a great start. When I run in the morning, I know I can handle anything that comes my way at work, at home or even in traffic.

There have been no morning runs or workouts of any kind for me over the last six days. I know there are many people out there who don’t exercise at all. (I don’t know how they do it!) But I do know if I have to slow down on my running, I’ll follow a friend’s advice and start biking—at least for a while. This immobility is not only making me cranky, it’s wiping me out.

The tires on my old bike are flat, but I’ll fill them up and give ‘er a whirl this weekend. I hope to get my energy back. My excitement, too. And while I’m at it, I might as well fuel up on resolve. After all, there is a whole lot of 2013 left and I can’t let a little physical setback set me back.

I might discover biking as a new means of therapy that makes my spirit soar just as high as running. (And yes, I do have a helmet.)

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Christmas in the ER

Christmas Day memories can be made in the darnedest places. Most are at home, Grandma’s or Aunt Susie’s and typically involve Christmas presents, gingerbread men and big family feasts.

But a few others involve less favorable locales and experiences. My 5-year-old found that out the hard way Tuesday morning.

Sophia was playing in the woods behind our house with her sister and a neighborhood friend when she took a tumble. I had just gotten back from a refreshing Christmas morning run when David said, “Sophia hit her chin on a rock.”

On Christmas Day? You have got to be kidding!

Sophia was a trooper as she waited to get stitches at Crestwood’s ER on Christmas Day.

I’m not always good at determining how bad an injury is, but I saw raw flesh so I made the call. I scooped up Sophia and put her into the truck. She cried all the way to Crestwood Medical Center’s Emergency Room.

“I don’t want to go,” she said. “I don’t want to go.”

“We are going,” I insisted. “Just in case.”

When we arrived, gracious medical and administrative staffers were on hand to help.  The pastoral team was even handing out holiday cards to patients. Fortunately, there weren’t many people waiting and we quickly moved from triage to a room.

Before long, Mindy Wilson, PA-C, came in and looked at Sophia and determined she would need several stitches. It wasn’t easy. It took two nurses and me to hold Sophia down while Wilson gave her the anesthesia injection!

Despite Sophia’s squirminess, Wilson stitched her chin beautifully. I thanked her for working today—on Christmas. She said I was the first person to tell her that in the past two days.

“That made my day,” she said.

That surprised me. And bummed me out a bit.

Going to the ER is never pleasant, especially on a holiday. But most of us get to leave after a couple of hours, while those who are working must complete their 12-hour shifts. They are spending time away from their loved ones so they can tend to ours… just in case.

Take Aaron, our R.N., for instance. He surely would have preferred spending Christmas Day with his young child.

Instead, he was at work, caring for mine.

Thanks to all of you—doctors, nurses, police, 9-1-1 operators, firefighters, EMTs, support staff—who spend your holidays protecting, healing, serving and saving. Though many of us don’t say it often enough, we appreciate you.

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Triumph of a craft-challenged mom

As the mother of two children in an arts-focused school, I am often lost. A craft to me is throwing a heap of crayons on the table with printer paper and letting Serina, 7, and Sophia, 5, go to town.

But I am making progress. Take Serina’s recent second grade project: Memorize a winter or Christmas-themed poem and create a diorama to illustrate it. Serina couldn’t find a poem online that resonated with her so we struggled—until Sunday, December 9, when her cousin, Leah, texted her a picture of the one-foot snowfall that graced Maple Grove, Minn.

“Awww,” whined Serina. “It’s not fair. They have snow!”

I was inspired. While many may disagree with my message, I was trying to improve a kid’s perspective on her reality. A poem was born:

“Two Winters”

Serina proudly holds her “Two Winters” diorama.

My cousin sent me a picture
of their winter so far.
One foot of snow
Piled high in their yard.

In Minnesota, they’re busy
with fierce snowball fights,
Sledding, skiing and skating
On clear winter nights.

At first I was jealous,
Our trees naked and bare.
Not a single snowflake
to be found anywhere.

But come March
Pristine snow will turn dirty and gray.
Brutal cold will grow old
and they’ll wish it away.

So I’ll take southern winters
over the north’s any day.
Wearing shorts and a t-shirt,
“Merry Christmas,” I say!

And for the diorama:

We went to Michael’s craft store and bought foam materials, 3D stickers, white pompoms for snow, and paint.

Serina divided the box in two, illustrating an Alabama winter on one side, a Minnesota one on the other. There was plenty of snow for the north, lots of green for the south, and Littlest Pet Shop animals super-glued across both winters.

Sure, it was her project. But parents’ assistance is encouraged. This time I actually came through with decent art supplies, not to mention an original—though totally cheesy—poem.

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Crushed: Newtown’s new norm

Everything changed in Newtown, Connecticut Friday. It was a day that started out as normally as any other, I suppose.

Parents dropped kids off at school, where they would learn, have fun, develop social skills and, most importantly, be safe. Then those parents went on to work or back home to take care of business, just like so many others did across the country.

Their normalcy plunged into purgatory not long after, though. Around 9:30 a.m, a man identified as 20-year-old Adam Lanza, motives still unknown or at least unpublicized, raged through Sandy Hook Elementary School with two pistols and a semi-automatic rifle, killing 20 children and six adults.  The massacre crushed the small community, located about 60 miles northeast of New York City, and broke hearts around the world.

Lanza wasn’t around to face any consequences or witness any grief resulting from his rampage. He was found dead at the school; he had shot himself.

Saturday morning, I was at the YMCA watching my daughter, Sophia, play basketball with other 5 and 6-year-olds. At one point, I counted 19 children between the court and the benches—just one shy of the number of precious innocents lost in Newtown. A friend told me to count each of those 19 children as blessings, and I did.

I wondered how many children in Newtown should have been playing basketball at their local Y Saturday morning. On a normal Saturday morning. Or how many were supposed to be taking swim lessons or karate or just watching cartoons.

Newtown is in many ways, I imagine, much like Huntsville and other communities. We have good people and bad people, but many more good than bad. And bad people can turn up anywhere, exploding in the most unexpected and unbelievable places, including an elementary school full of young, promising students who had their whole lives ahead of them.

The promise ended for 20 of those children Friday, and for the friends and family who loved them dearly. Millions of us are affected by the tragedy, at least emotionally, even though we are miles away from the gruesome crime scene. So what can we do? I figure there is power in numbers and there is power in prayer.

We can pray for crushed spirits and broken hearts scattered throughout Newtown. We can pray that they find themselves wrapped in God’s strength, light and love and we can pray that they won’t drive themselves into greater despair by trying to make sense of something so devastatingly senseless.

And we can hold our own children with all our might for as long as we possibly can.

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