Then Sings My Soul

I always associate the end of the semester with music. It seems to be everywhere in these last few weeks during study days, exams, and even impromptu celebratory parties. One of my roommates blasts country while finishing up the last of her engineering homework, while the other whistles to classic musicals as she designs for her senior showcase. Our apartment complex has become eerily quiet these past few nights but was extra raucous over the weekend and will probably be blasting double the dubstep and top 40s this weekend to honor the end of the school year.

Though the experience never really changes, it does feel different in my fourth and final year of college. All this music representing focus or the need to blow off steam has me thinking about what I’m listening to symbolizes this semester. I’ve been studying and writing this capstone to instrumental music—a mix of classical and film score. I can’t focus with lyrics. But when I do need a breather from the pressures of projects, post-graduation plans, and the creeping senioritis, I play a very different set of songs.

In wrapping up this project, I realized that there wasn’t a single genre or piece of music I could associate with my family. I’ll always remember when Grandma Joyce first heard the 50s station on XM radio in our car. She happily sang every song—it was incredible—as she practically jived in the passenger seat. My mom plays Aaron Neville’s holiday album at Christmas, likes to listen to pop country with my sister, and took us to a Celine Dion concert. Don’t even get me started on the night she and my friend Amy sang, “Help me Rhonda” at the top of their lungs when The Beach Boys performed on campus this year. Then there’s the eccentric: my dad listens to ELO and Willie Nelson, bluegrass and Mozart’s The Magic Flute. I think in this case, I take mostly after my Dad in musical tastes, give and take a few things. Though he and my brother went through an awkward phase of singing “I’m Sexy and I Know It” at the height of the song’s success.

I tried to think of what music played when big groups of my family were gathered. I’ll never forget what my cousin said several years ago, during one night of Prairie Days—an annual celebration of summer and local history in Lester Prairie. We had moved outside of the beer tent to stand closer to the trailer stage. While the fiddler of the country-folk-rock band took a solo, Krystal leaned over and shouted to be heard. “You must think this is so Podunk!” It was said with a smile and a laugh but, no, in all seriousness I don’t think our family is Podunk.

Then I came across a new video by my favorite piano and cello duo, Jon Schmidt and Steven Sharp Nelson of The Piano Guys. It was a mash-up of “Gabriel’s Oboe” from the movie The Mission and a hymn, “How Great Thou Art”. It was perfect. I love film score and “How Great Thou Art” is one of my favorite hymns.

"The Mission/How Great Thou Art"

Courtesy of The Piano Guys

I had completely overlooked my family’s connection to the church. There was no other place outside of home where we had all gathered so often. The church is represented throughout all stages of our lives: baptisms, confirmations, holidays, and funerals, not to mention every other average Sunday. And a large part of worship and celebration in church involves music, whether it’s instrumental or sung. Once I started listening to typical hymns or Christian rock, the songs transported me back to very specific moments when I had heard or sung them with my family or at other times in my life.

I’ve sung and worshipped in a Gothic Revival church on the prairie, a Mission Style stone church in the burbs, a behemoth convention center, and even a frat house. But there is nothing compared to singing in the sanctuary of St. Paul’s Evangelical Lutheran Church, especially surrounded by your family. It’s cheesy but true. Singing in church has a natural and genuine sound; the low rumbles of the men, the mumbles of the shy, varying heights of the women, and the talent of the choir. Sure, some congregants make a show of their skills, but that’s not why you’re there. You’re not expected to be good, it’s a great equalizer.

Courtesy of choralcathedral1

Trinity Episcopal Church in New York

How the hymn traditionally sounds.

I can’t sing to save my life. I’m an alto but I can’t harmonize. So when songs are too high, I’m the one in church singing quietly in a low register—if I’m singing at all. There are so many hymns with high notes that I just can’t hit; rather than hear myself airily sing out of key, I mouth the lyrics. All the same, I like being in the midst of other singers and have my own preferences for the various classic or contemporary songs. I prefer “Blessed Be Your Name” with drums and an uptempo. I like “Love Lifted Me” in a dark auditorium lit up like a rock show packed with college students. “Silent Night” must be accompanied by an organ and allowed a verse sung a capella.

For Dad, 

Willie Nelson's cover of "How Great Thou Art"

In this rediscovery process, I came across The Georgetown Chimes’ cover of “How Great Thou Art” and I can’t stop listening to it. Every time I feel the least bit flustered over schoolwork and future plans, I simply open my internet bookmark to listen to the performance. I find the group’s a capella cover so compelling. I can’t not think about my family. The hymn does make me see how truly great my life and the “worlds thy hand has made” are as I’m finishing this stage of my life.

 "How Great Thou Art"

Courtesy of the Georgetown Chimes

Review: Who Do You Think You Are?

Very few decent reality shows remain on TLC. It almost feels like they are being run off the air. An inspiring episode of The Little Couple can be followed by an exceptionally catty episode of Dance Moms or a regrettable glimpse of the little terrors of Toddlers & Tiaras. There wasn’t much keeping the channel grounded until Who Do You Think You Are? joined their family of shows.

The celebrity genealogy show has everything. It brings an interesting cast of beloved stars to the channel and an intimate look into their lives. Each week, WDYTYA? focuses on a celebrity’s genealogy and shadows them throughout the research process and journey to self-discovery. But the show also has a sense of adventure, intrigue, and a little romance. The season one opener boasted, “Family mysteries will be revealed. And everything they thought they knew will be rewritten. Lives will be changed. Roots will be discovered. Because to know who you are, you have to know where you came from.”

The show is a British import, originally created by Alex Graham and Wall to Wall Media. Across the pond, WDYTYA? is in its 11^th season and its success has inspired 17 other spin-offs across the globe, including the American version. The U.S. adaptation originally aired on NBC in 2010. Just two years later, it was nominated for an Emmy for an Outstanding Reality Program. After NBC’s cancellation, TLC picked it up in 2013 for its 4^th season. The show remains successful after the switch, having amassed almost 2 million viewers last year. WDYTYA? continues to be produced by Alex Graham in addition to Dan Bucatinsky, Lisa Kudrow, Don Roos, and Lucy Carter. Season 5 is set to air later this year.

WDYTYA? Takes both the celebrities and viewers on an emotional journey through personal heritage, world history, and self-discovery. It brings new meaning to “skeletons in the closet” and “heroes in the most unlikely places”. There is no such thing as a boring family and WDYTYA? proves it. At one point, Sarah Jessica Parker was trying to discover whether an ancestor had been convicted in the Salem Witch Trials and Chelsea Handler was researching a possible Nazi Party connection. There are as many dark points as there are light ones. Chris O’Donnell discovered over a hundred years of military service his family gave to the U.S., going as far back as the night of The Battle of Fort McHenry in 1812, which inspired the “Star-Spangled Banner”. While watching these amazing histories and discoveries unravel, the series stops being about one celebrity and opens up as a kind of collective history. It becomes an example of how everyone’s ancestors have influenced the world.

My favorite aspect of WDYTYA? is how it links social and personal history and makes these links easily visible in the present. One of the most moving moments in the series was during Kelly Clarkson’s episode. She had an incredible and heartfelt revelation after discovering her three times great-grandfather, a Union soldier, died during the Civil War after surviving in Andersonville, the worst POW camp in U.S. history. At the time of the episode, Clarkson had recently sung “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” at President Obama’s second inauguration.  Through her happy tears, Clarkson shared, "I just got to perform at an inauguration for a man that never would have been able to be President if it weren't for the sacrifice of my three times great-grandfather…I wish and I hope that somewhere not only my three times great-grandfather, but all those people, know that what they fought for mattered."

Like any other television show, WDYTYA? may have a misleading portrayal of the research process, especially the time and effort involved. But that’s TV. Real-time genealogical research doesn’t occur instantly just as the results of real forensic tests can’t be instantly determined. There are a number of hired history and genealogy professions involved in any single episode to aid the process. The celebrities are also free to visit a range of historical and genealogical societies, actual sites, and even other countries, something the armchair genealogist isn’t always able to do. Also, as Ancestry.com is the main sponsor, there is quite a hullabaloo over the paid service. Despite the blatant marketing scheme, I find it incredibly useful to know what kind of tools are out there and how they can be used either as a starting point or potential source for amateur family historians like myself.

I have always been interested in genealogy and used to imagine what my ancestors had been like. I think it is a subject many people find intriguing and would be interested to learn more about. WDYTYA? definitely feeds my own curiosity and is one of the things that inspired my quest for self-discovery. I watched some of my favorite celebrities confront the same questions I struggled with. I was in awe over aged documents or in tears due to loss and/or courageous acts right alongside the stars. Over the course of the episode, they discovered new things about their ancestry but also themselves and that transformation stuck with me. I started thinking about what common threads I would find when I started looking backwards. Now that I am farther in my search, I agree with everyone who has participated in WDYTYA?; it has been such a gratifying experience. As Spike Lee said at the end of his journey, “I have always known who I am, but now I know more.”

"To me, she's a hero."

Zooey Deschanel's Grandmother's Photo

via TLC

Moderne Frau

My German professor calls me “Eine moderne Frau” during certain class activities. In fact, he just called me that in our last class. According to our limited vocabulary, I’m the epitome of a modern woman. We had been learning how to express our favorite activities. He’d ask “Kochen Sie?” to individuals in the class and they would reply either, “Ja, ich koche gern” (yes, I like to cook) or, “Nein, ich koche nicht gern” (no, I don’t like to cook). It just so happened that most of the girls in my class love to cook elaborate healthy dishes like soy-glazed salmon and sautéed vegetables with quinoa. So, it was a very stark contrast when I replied that no, I didn’t like to cook. At all. “Ah, eine moderne Frau!” exclaimed my professor.

William looks simultaneously shocked & terrified that I was attempting pancakes.

Having moved on to more complex expressions, this past class we learned more verbs to convey our abilities, talents, and obligations. I’m asked “Frau Kletscher, können Sie stricken?” Can I knit? My Grandma Doris, my dad’s mom once taught me….but can I knit now? I reply, “Nein, ich kann nicht stricken” and then I add “ich bin schlecht”. So no, I can’t knit, I’m bad at it. Once again my professor proclaims me “eine moderne Frau.”

Am I a modern woman because my personal preferences don’t align with certain gender stereotypes? Or is it simply because I haven’t needed the skills that are traditionally attributed to women? I’m thinking the answer is a combination of both.

Alice Splettstoeszer on the family's country kitchen.

On one level, looking back into the lives of my ancestors has brought me closer to them. On another, I see just how different my life is from theirs, which can be an interesting distancing experience. I grew up in a fairly large suburb. My parents’ graduating classes were smaller than any one of my class sizes and their entire town population could have attended my high school, with a capacity of 2500, in the same year. We buy everything from the grocery store, except for maybe fresh fruit from the citrus trees in our yard. Though there are small fields of alfalfa and cotton on the Native American reservation less than 10 minutes from my house, I never grew up or worked on a farm. Most of my grandparents had grown up on farms before they moved into the center of the towns they raised their families in. But I grew up in Scottsdale nearly 50 years later. I don’t need to know how to knit or cook and have had to learn other things like computer skills.

Funny article immortalized in the Splettsctoeszer Family Cookbook.

Throughout my project, I’ve tried picturing myself living alongside my ancestors. As noted, it’s an often distancing experience. It’s hard to imagine my lifestyle on a farm: I stay out late attending or working events, then sleep in on the weekend. I cook only out of necessity and prepare simple dishes like pasta, couscous, and sandwiches—then immediately pop my dishes into the dishwasher—or else I order late night takeout with friends.  I do like to live in a clean apartment but when I’m cleaning, I’m usually also procrastinating about schoolwork. I love to do laundry…but these days, who wouldn’t when all you have to do is start the machines and later fold your fresh, warm clothes?

Visiting our family friends' farm.
Stan Ehrke showing us a baby chick.

At the Ehrke's farm.
William & Dad feeding a horse.

I’ve also never really done well with livestock. I love animals but from afar, unless there are dogs around. I’ll always remember when our family friend practically forced me to ride the small, smelly pony at our harvest festival in elementary school. I’ve become more accepting of horses since then, riding on scenic trails in the desert or on a day trip to a hidden waterfall in the Dominican Republic. But I would never own one, or any other kind of common farm animal. I know from experience that I simply couldn’t. In second grade, my school went to Dugan’s Dairy Farm, a milk provider for Shamrock Farms. I don’t have fond memories of the place, and the pictures in my class scrapbook prove it.

Things started out well.
We're shown the tubes of the milking machines.

I clearly can't take the smell of the cows behind my friend, Palmer, & I.

My face of disgust after being coerced to try milking a cow. 

I do have a friend who is interested in agriculture. She wants to own a farm one day in—you guessed it—Minnesota. She loves raising animals and even had a club devoted to raising cattle for competitions during her undergraduate years, when she also majored in agricultural studies. I think there is something modern in that, in using her formal education and global travels to live as a farmer or rancher in today’s world. I wonder what my professor would think of my friend. While I take his “moderne Frau” label lightly and I’m certain he means well, I still feel it is an interesting, almost old-fashioned, reflection of his views; especially in a college classroom in Los Angeles in 2014. I have grown up in a generation where I have the time and means to pursue skills like knitting, cooking, gardening, etc. at my leisure. My life doesn’t depend on them. That is what modern means to me; having choices and the freedom to pick the lifestyle I desire. 

Review: Disappearance: A Map

“What she left us is a gossamer:  a life reflected, and caught; on the wing of a dragonfly.”

Sheila Nickerson admired the mysterious Lady Sarashina for her ability to capture the world around her as well as her individual perspective of Japanese court life. I admire Nickerson’s writing for the same reasons. In addition to mysterious Alaskan expedition history and Alaskan life, Disappearance encompasses Nickerson’s own daily events and thought processes. Through these minor personal accounts, the reader is drawn into the unsettling mysteries of disappearance and the unknown.

Writing is first and foremost a catharsis for Nickerson. Though she repeats this fact on several occasions, it is evident from her intrapersonal approach as she discloses her fears and asks big life questions. Nickerson wrestles with the next stage in her life, retirement, ultimately reexamining her life up until this moment. Her book runs on the clichéd metaphor that life is a journey and the body is a map of all experiences. But Nickerson’s sincerity in her soul search and her seemingly intimate prose keeps the book grounded. Her mastery maintains a safe and relatable balance between warm recollections and melancholic feelings felt in her transition. These alternately match in intensity and give the reader breaks from the spookier and sublime ideas expressed in her fears of being forgotten and previous disappearances in the Alaskan wild.

Significant portions of each chapter contain historical accounts of lost, failed, rescued, etc. expeditions to and through Alaska. As interesting as they are, I found myself wondering how such ill-fated attempts could help Nickerson understand herself in a better capacity. The subject of disappearance simply seemed to be the focus of a somewhat morbid obsession, like an interest in the Bermuda Triangle. But as history continued to unfold, Nickerson brought more disappearances to light; those of close friends, other Alaskans, native languages and culture, wildlife, etc. They are examples of her worst nightmare. Just two decades ago, she was finding connections to hundred-year-old explorations and ensuing disappearances. But I continued to find parallels in my own reading, especially as the story of Malaysian Flight 370 was slowly unfolding. The book is partly a tribute to what has been lost and/or unable to stand the test of time as well as Nickerson’s own protection against the same fate.

Numbered “records” punctuate chapters. Each is dated, followed by specific coordinates, and a very brief story of what happened on that day. It wasn’t until later in the book that I realized these records were Nickerson’s expedition notes left in her own kind of cairn—a book. She often mentions “coordinates that hold us in place”. Her records, simple and factual, are her protection against being forgotten; as if we would find evidence of Nickerson’s life or feel more connected to her journey were we to stand at these exact latitudes and longitudes.

I, too, share an odd fascination with the unexplained, mysterious disappearances, and haunting loss. I kept returning to my childhood when I was drawn to any book I could find on Roanoke, the Titanic or the Bermuda Triangle. Nickerson’s extensive research into the Alaskan expeditions was thought provoking. I was constantly torn between understanding the stories as the tragic consequences of hubris or the human desire to make a mark in the world as Nickerson explores. With her lyrical and evocative prose, I was entranced not only by her writing but her use of it to tackle a profound soul search. I felt her words spoke to my own life transition—coming into my own now that I am graduating from college. Whereas Nickerson related her own life journey and map to other Alaskans, I have sought to see my own journey and resulting map in relation to my family and ancestors.

I have never read anything quite like Disappearance, which blended history and landscape with such personal revelations. Eat, Pray, Love comes to mind, but the sincerity of Nickerson’s questions and almost “suffering in silence” persona overshadow Gilbert’s excessive whine. If you are looking for a more stimulating and transformative account, or are in the middle of a important transition yourself, I highly recommend Disappearance.

Things I Do When I Have Things To Do

Make to-do lists

Check emails

Organize my side of the room

Complain

Make tea or coffee

Scroll Pinterest

Get a snack

Actually Log on to Facebook

Journal

Clean the bathroom

Watch Jeopardy

Start the to-do list

Things That Make Me Cry

Stress

Nostalgia
Perfect moments

Tragic love stories

“You jump, I jump, remember?”

Favorite characters dying

Funerals

Series finales (Books & on the screen)

Meaningful compliments

Unexpectedly rude comments

Soldiers coming home

Inspiring interviews, films, videos

Wedding proposals

Wedding montages

Specific songs

Onions

42 Maple Street

Before Grandma K moved into her cozy apartment, she lived in this big blue house on Maple Street. It looked so welcoming with its wrap-around porch. When we’d visit, we would have to squeeze between the piles of magazines and old memorabilia to sit on her comfy chairs. She was a bit of a pack rat, but in a cool way that always meant you’d see something interesting, like a pair of wooden Dutch shoes that happened to be sitting in the doorway of the bedroom upstairs. The guys on American Pickers would have loved the sentimental hodgepodge and Grandma K, for she was one special lady with a lot of moxie.

You always knew Great-Grandma K had just arrived because you could hear the adults talking that she hadn’t called before heading over. “She shouldn’t be driving anymore, especially in the rain.” But there Grandma K would be in the driveway; stepping out of her teal sedan with a plastic kerchief tied around her head to protect her freshly colored white-blonde curls from the weather. As soon as the adults finished fretting and scolding, she would usually turn to the nearest great-grandchild and confide “what a bunch of turds” with a laugh.

After she passed away, my Aunt Kristi sent a box of things Grandma K had left for my mom. But there were other interesting trinkets in the box representative of Grandma K that my aunt had chosen as remembrances. For instance, she sent my brother a small porcelain cat the size of a silver dollar. Its belly was flat and had “Gum Parker” painted on it, just in case he ever needed a temporary place for his chewing gum.

But the items within the blue house weren’t its only attractive quirks. Right off the kitchen was a door that led down to the cellar. One of my older cousins, Breanna, used to scare her sister and I with descriptions of what it looked like down there. She made it out as the creepiest place in town. According to her, the cellar had walls and shelves carved right into the dirt beneath the house. The shelves were also covered in cobwebs and you had to watch out for spiders since it was so dark down there. It doesn’t sound as scary any more, perhaps she was telling the truth. There was something oddly exciting about having that spooky door always waiting for us to open it and peer into the darkness. Either way, the descriptions scared Mackenzie and I so much so that we didn’t dare go down into the cellar that summer. 

Grandma Joyce labeled this with:
 "Karina, the barmaid at Grandma K's, 2000"

Then there was the outhouse in the backyard. It was unused, of course, and had been for quite some time. The outhouse was a funny relic of the past, which for some reason was curiously alluring to all of us great-grandchildren. When we’d all open the wooden door and look in, we’d see the small bench with the boarded up hole. Grandma K had still kept a stack of outdated magazines inside of it as a joke; one day someone might need reading material when they are out there.

This was the lady who let my Mom and Aunt Kristi run unaccompanied at a very young age down the alley behind her house to Schubert’s, the local grocery store. After slipping them some extra coins from her top drawer for more sweets, Grandma K would hop on the party line to let her sister Edna Schubert know the little girls were on their way. Edna indulged them like her sister did; she would greet my Mom and aunt, allow them to fill up a paper bag with candy and would then slip the girls more than they had coins for. After sending them back down the alley, Edna would let Grandma K know they were back on their way via the same party line.

Though Schubert’s was no longer around when my siblings, cousins, and I were little, Grandma K always had snacks around for us. I always remember small bowls of nuts and candy she would leave out while we were playing games with her. In between turns of Old Maid, you could find a treat at arm’s length in a leaf-patterned crystal dish without even looking. You always wanted to be watching your game too, because though Grandma K loved to play, she was always too excited to maintain a poker face. As soon as she found the Old Maid card in her hand, she’d let out a little groan. When you were picking from her hand, the smile on her face desiring you to take it off of her would signal which card was actually safe to take.

Grandma K and Mom playing Old Maid.
Grandma K's new apartment.

Playing cards on another visit in the summer.
Note the shared moment between Grandma K & Maren,
 who both know Grandma K has the Old Maid card.

Other games were easier for Grandma K to win because her enthusiasm wouldn’t risk her success. One winter, she taught my sister and I to play dice. You should have seen her excitement when my Grandpa Larry suggested we raise the stakes and gamble for candy. Each time the dice spilled from the cup, Grandma K would react appropriately with a disappointed “oh no!” or a celebratory hoot. Games always turned into a vocal affair when she, Grandpa Larry, and Maren were all playing. They were so invested in the play that the entire suspense of the game seemed to come from their own enthusiasm.

Learning dice at the blue house.

Behind its lace curtains, 42 Maple Street had an air of magic and mystery. Chewing on the chocolate cigars Grandma K kept around for all her great-grandchildren, I would sit staring and wondering at everything within the house. Why were these little stuffed animals or those wooden shoes here? How did they get there? Was there more past that spooky cellar door?  And why did this old house always feel so full? Sitting and wondering more than 10 years later, I realize that in the center of it all, between all of the visiting family and nostalgic belongings, was Grandma K radiating her spunky joyful spirit that filled any empty place in her home.

Souvenirs Collected Over the Years by a Native Minnesotan

Log Chute Pictures in Camp Snoopy Frames

Minnesota Passport

Pooping Cow Keychain

Minnesota Twins Sweatshirt

Vikings Slipper Socks

Mosquito Socks

Mosquito Trap

Oversize Paul Bunyan Land Postcard

Paul Bunyan Land Collectible Plate

Paul Bunyan Land Statuette

The Grinch Coin Purse from Macy’s 8^th Floor Holiday Display

T-Shirt: 10 Commandments Minnesota Style

1.     Der’s only one God, ya know.

2.     Don’t make that fish on your mantle an idol.

3.     Cussin’ ain’t Minnesota nice.

4.     Go to church even when you’re up nort.

5.     Honor your folks.

6.     Don’t kill. Catch and release.

7.     There is only one Lena for every Ole. No cheatin’.

8.     If it ain’t your Lutefisk, don’t take it.

9.     Don’t be braggin’ about how much snow ya shoveled.

10. Keep your mind off your neighbor’s hotdish.

Pooping Moose Keychains

Lake Como Keychain

Tiny Cardinal Made of Bark

Twin Cities Monopoly

Life on a Farm Boardgame

Books:

             You Know You’re a Minnesotan If…

            Minnesota Shapes

How To Talk Minnesotan: A Visitor’s Guide

Critters of Minnesota Pocket Guide

You Know You Are a Lutheran If…

Ghostly Tales of Minnesota

History of the Golden Gophers

Minnesota: Memories & Images

A Rewind on the Minnesota Music Scene

A History of Minnesota Sports

University of Minnesota Shirt

St. Cloud State Shirt

Lester Prairie Bulldogs Baseball Hat

Lester Prairie Public School Commemorative Mug

Lester Prairie Centennial Commemorative Mug

Jar from Itasca State Park (Headwaters of the Mississippi River)

Beer Stein from Bayrischer Hof Restaurant

Schmidt Beer Pitcher from Danke Schoen Tagen in Mayer, MN

Gone Fishing

There is something so satisfying in the smell of fish sizzling on the griddle. It always meant a delicious home cooked meal from someone’s catch that day was about to be served. Once the fresh fish had been cleaned and cut, it was then dredged in the flour mixture. As soon as it was placed on the hot griddle, the fish would set off a loud hiss. That sound would always bring everyone closer to the kitchen from where the mouthwatering smell wafted.

Grandma Joyce frying the day's catch.

Growing up, fishing had been the boys’ thing. My two cousins, Adam and Jacob, Uncle Bruce, and Grandpa Larry would all head out in the morning in the truck towing the fishing boat behind them. In the afternoon, they would return from a day out on the lake with a cooler full of fish. Part of me always wanted to tag along, but I didn’t think I’d be any good at fishing. Even at that age, I knew that feeding your pioneer family in the Oregon Trail computer game was completely different from the real thing.

One day, my curiosity urged me to follow my uncle and the big cooler of fish around to the back of my grandparents’ house. My cousin, Mackenzie, and I watched as he cleaned and cut up each of the fish they had caught. I had come too close, though, and blood spurted down the front of my clothing; my new white shirt with Esmeralda on it from Disney’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame was eventually ruined as the blood and fish oil stained it. I was really bummed but had at least been able to satisfy my curiosity.

Years later, I finally learned how to fish and experienced the fulfillment of a meal produced from what I had caught.

It was a warm breezy morning the day we headed out to the lake for a simple fishing lesson. I helped hitch up the boat and drove in the truck with my Grandpa as my Grandma, Mom, and little brother, William, followed behind in their van. I remember that drive as one of the most picturesque drives I had ever been on in Minnesota. It sounds so cliché, but the sun was truly shining in the clear, light blue sky, illuminating the green fields and woods. I experimented with my first digital camera that I had received for Christmas, desperately trying to capture the perfect moments we passed on the country roads. Subtly rolling hills of green crops. The sun glinting off the tall, vibrant stalks. Dust swirling in the middle of the dirt road from the previous truck. Barns in all shades of well-worn red.

Grandpa Larry and I backed the boat into the water from the boat landing dock and met the others around the other side of the lake. We picked them up and sped off to a quiet spot where we might fish undisturbed.

Caught in the stinging mist from speeding across the water.

I had never seen fishing poles so short until my Grandpa pulled out several from the boat’s storage. But they got the job done. We used mealworms to bait the small sunfish and then waited for them to bite. I want to say we were really good, but I think the sunfish were just plentiful that day.

William and Grandma Joyce with their flopping catch.

My Grandpa Larry and I very excited over my first catch.

We headed home in the late afternoon with our bountiful catch back down the scenic country roads. Each of us took turns cleaning up from the day spent on the lake. By the time we were all done, my grandparents had the sunfish cleaned and cut, ready to be cooked. William, ever the eager assistant in the kitchen, helped Grandma Joyce dip the cuts into the egg mixture then dredge them in the flour.

My dad, Bruce, watching William prepare the fish.

Soon, the griddle was sizzling with the breaded fish and that wonderful smell wafted back through the screen door into the townhouse. Even those of us who weren’t cooking had gathered in the kitchen, our mouths watering, awaiting the delicious meal and recounts of the day we were about to share. 

When Someone is in Your Heart

Four generations at my Baptism
Grandma K, Kim, Karina, Grandma Joyce
1991, St. Paul Evangelical Lutheran Church

Something is terribly wrong. You hear your mom crying on the phone in the study. Your dad is in there as well, but neither you nor your brother and sister can make out through the closed glass door whether he is crying as well. You start to feel sick. Someone has died.

These aren’t the kind of tears your mom sheds sometimes when saying goodbye to relatives at the airport. You’re brought back to a late night years ago just before the flight back to Phoenix. As you all had waved to your grandparents before disappearing through the security checkpoint, Mom had begun to cry. She made no sound as they rolled down her cheeks; she simply picked up her purse where the x-ray had spit it back out. It had felt like a beautiful scene in a movie: the loving goodbye, marked by a daughter’s tears who would wait another six months before seeing her parents again. You remember how you saw her tears return upon takeoff in the dark cabin. While she stared out over snow-covered Minneapolis, you started to silently cry, too.

But these weren’t those kinds of tears. It wasn’t a moving scene in that sense. In fact, your mom looked like a mess. Someone has died; you know it. You didn’t think it could happen again so soon. Grandpa Murl, your dad’s dad, had just passed away the year before. How could you bear losing someone else?

You sit on the leather couch, tense, and wait for the news. Your parents have finally left the study and gather you and your siblings in the living room. You look at your dad. He might have cried, but you’re not sure. Either way, he’s able to keep himself composed while it takes your mom a while to speak through her tears.

“Grandma K passed away.”

The sickening feeling in your stomach gets worse. You were right. You didn’t want to be, but you were. You’ve just lost someone else in your family and you’re halfway across the country from her. Your cheeks flush, your neck and chest burn, and you’re sure your ears are the same flushed shade of red. You were too busy with your racing thoughts to notice the tears running down your cheeks until you feel their coolness down your neck.

Your sister is sitting next to you. She’s already mildly sobbing. On the other side of her, your little brother is also crying. It seems so much worse to watch them cry as they try to wipe away their tears with their glasses on. After what seems like forever, everyone reaches a melancholic level of calm. Your parents return to the study to start booking a flight back to Minnesota for the funeral.

You withdraw to the sanctuary of your room and close the door, shutting out the rest of your grieving family. After you splash cool water on your face, neck, and ears, you grab a wad of Kleenexes from the box above the toilet. Then you slide the door closed to the bathroom you share with your sister, cutting her off as well. You don’t mean to be rude, but you’re already emotionally exhausted. Seeing others grieve only deepens your own and you can’t bear it. You’d rather be alone in your room.

The funeral date is set. Your flight is scheduled. Before you begin to pack, you reluctantly unpack your duffel bag that was all ready for your trip to San Luis Obispo, California. You and two of your best friends were going to celebrate your summer birthdays over the weekend. While there’s no question that you want to be there for your grandma, you’re so disappointed over the trip and how unfair life can be, that you start to cry all over again. You pick up your phone to let your friends know. It’s times like these when you thank God for texting, because you’d never be able to get through a phone call right now.

Even while on the usual drive into town, everything feels surreal. It’s like a bad dream you still haven’t woken up from. You can’t decide if it’s better that you know what will happen at the funeral. The service, the wake, the tears, and the endless sympathetic looks from everyone in town who knows your family, which is everyone. Back in the car, your chest starts to constrict as you hold back the tears that are threatening to fall. Not here, not now. You haven’t even seen any of your extended family, let alone arrived within the town limits.

Grandma K’s funeral isn’t held at St. Paul’s. At first you find that off-putting. Does an unfamiliar funeral home help alleviate the grief? Your family doesn’t enter the church through its nostalgic scented coatroom to the sound of the church bells. Instead you walk up a few steps into a house you’ve never seen in your life. But as you walk around, led by the kind staff, you wonder how a funeral home could feel so instantly cozy and warm. Though it is used for a much different purpose now, the house retains its original plan. The service and wake are held in a large room to the left, perhaps once a large formal living room. Back out and down the wallpapered hallway is the kitchen where refreshments and food await. People quietly chat and reminisce in yet another room off the hallway. Later in the afternoon, when you almost forgot where you were, you take a moment to silently approve the house’s success in feeling almost like your family’s home.

For you, the worst part of the day is when you go up to the casket to pay your respects. Seeing Grandma K in the casket will make everything finally feel real. As you wait behind your parents in line, you become anxious. You’re scared the mortician couldn’t capture Grandma K’s spunk in her still frame; you want to keep that last memory of her lively. As you finally step up to the casket and peer over the side, you begin to silently cry. Part of you wishes Grandma K would turn the corner and wobble in through the crowd, leaving you and the rest of the mourners staring at an uncanny wax figurine. But she is lovely lying there as though she was sleeping. Her white blond curls look like she just stepped out of her beauty parlor. A smile escapes as you think she’ll no longer need that plastic kerchief to protect them from the rain.

The next few days after the funeral aren’t so bad, though a melancholic haze seems to surround your family. When you laugh with your cousins, you all pause awkwardly because it doesn’t feel right to be having fun. Your family is constantly gathered together. Sometimes tears well up in someone’s eyes but they’re overcome through sharing stories about Grandma K over hearty dishes and desserts. No sooner than the table prayer ends, three adults simultaneously announce Grandma K’s version of “Bon Appetit”: “Dig in!” Later, someone drops a utensil and immediately others shout, “Company is coming!” just as she always did. Though Grandma K isn’t physically present, her words echo throughout your gatherings, bringing both tears and deep laughter.