Home. . .

I am back home. That's about all I can say about the whole deal right now; intense, immense emotions coursing through me that I can't keep up, can't type fast enough, can't formulate words to capture. . . but one thing is for sure: in spite of the waterfall of memories, emotions, of things I can't even define, it feels right, to be here, right now.

The move went better than anticipated; I didn't have much left to move in the end because I'd already made endless trips back and forth over the past few weeks, and Penny & Jim came up a few more times to help me with a few loads of smaller furniture pieces. But for Saturday's big move, I wasn't able to round up many people as I'd hoped to help me. The "crew" consisted of me, my mom (who insisted on "supervising" and unpacking—no big moving, thanks to the trauma I subjected her to last time . . .she's still seeing a massage therapist, six months later . . . I owe her, huge. . .), my big bro., Mikey, Penny and Jim, and my sister, Gretchen. . . as enthusiastic and hard working as they all are, I was skeptical we'd be able to pull it off. . .

However, on Friday morning, on my way to a meeting (already late, thanks to my condition-with-no-cure: onemorethingitis), my cell phone rang. I didn't recognize the number and almost didn't answer (I've been pummeled with calls from vulture-realtors, ever since I took our house off the market. . .), but hit the "answer" key in spite of myself. It was my cousin, Erin, on the other end, asking if I needed any help with moving, because she and her husband, Kurt, wanted to pitch in. I nearly drove off the road,   as I was so taken with gratitude—I couldn't thank her enough for the completely unexpected yet immensely welcomed offer—while trying to give her details of when, where, how, etc., and figuring out how to get to my meeting location and keep the Jeep between the lines on the road all at the same time without taking out another driver . . . thank God I'm the Queen of Multitasking and Maneuvering I94 . . .

I picked up the moving van by 10 a.m., my mom supplied the juice, coffee and donuts . . . everything was unloaded and back in Wrenwood by 3 p.m.; post-moving grub courtesy of Penny . . . without our two surprise-extra-power-house workers (and their adorable helpers, Quinn and Elise), I truly don't know if we would have gotten everything moved over in one day, much less one trip. . . huge love and endless gratitude to Mikey, Penny and Jim, my mom, Gretchen and Sophi, Erin, Kurt and the kidlets . . . I have said this for years—as long as I've known them, and can still say it with absolute conviction—Penny and Jim can run circles around people a fraction of their age . . . and it goes without saying, but I will, forever, my family is always there when I need them, always, and in all ways . . . so full of gratitude, for everyone's assistance . . .

Dogs were a tad befuddled the first day, but give 'em a day or two, and suddenly, they, too, are right at home again. Rocco's been uncharacteristically subdued (maybe I should move more frequently . . .) Gaia slept outside the first night, but after the second night, I heard the familiar grinding of claws on the deck—Gaia demanding to come in. (I don't even remember if I wrote about her inner ear infection of last fall; shortly after moving to St. Paul, she developed a crazy case of vertigo and whenever she came into the house, she'd fall all over, since she couldn't get a grip on the hardwood floors. The infection went away, but her aversion to the indoors hasn't, and since "The Incident," she hasn't slept inside since possibly September of last year). She hesitated at first, when I opened the patio door wide for her, then eventually stepped across the threshold and into the kitchen. She spent a good half hour pacing around the house—sniffing and checking every corner until she eventually made her way to the basement steps, and gingerly tromped down, took a left and into the furnace room, her old sleeping area. . .  Gretch and her step-daughter, Sophi, stayed with us the first night home, they helped so much, getting things back in their rightful place. . . we ordered a Savoy's pizza for dinner, and as we were serving up slices, this song came on the radio:

The song that played in my head, on endless loop, while Bob was at Bethesda, for four months, the song that played through my head as I brought him home from that godforsaken place, to his home, our home, where he so badly wanted to be, just home. Gretchen and I froze for a second, and then, as if on cue, we both burst into tears and started dancing around the kitchen . . . I don't know if poor Sophi was entertained or traumatized . . .

How to describe "coming home . . ." I can't do it, just yet, am hugely lacking in words to describe how to at once, feel immense peace and love, yet at the same time, be standing next to our bed and suddenly, be right there again, helping Bob in and out of bed, changing his wound dressings, helping him with his meds . . . in the kitchen, in a flash, I am carried back to the summer of 2010, countertops barely visible under all the farmer's market bootie, cooking up a storm, trying desperately to make something healthy and appetizing for Bob, to save his life by cooking, the only thing I could do . . . having my coffee this morning, I am transported to the bleak, dark days of when Bob was first ill, bedridden (well, sofa-ridden), unable to do much of anything but lie on the sofa in the basement . . .I'd get up early, make coffee for us, then join him downstairs, where we'd listen to the news on TV, or just talk, or I'd let him sleep, watch the sunrises. . . being back home, I miss him more than ever, impossible as that seems, because before moving back, I missed him more than ever before. . . a life full of conundrums, contradictions, confusion. . .

But I also feel my breathing slowing down, becoming deeper, more cleansing with each breath, since arriving back at Wrenwood. . . I feel wrapped in peace, feel comfort and love on a level I have yet to begin to understand . . . I could even sleep a whole night through, I do believe, if it weren't for a little mutt that shall be unnamed . . . for two nights in a row, I have only wakened to said mutt whining for his "invitation" to hop into bed with me; when I do fall asleep, I actually sleep, instead of sleeping in fits and starts, snapping awake for seeming no reason at all . . .

Have I ever shared the background story of Wrenwood? I don't know that I ever did. . . as most know, Bob's passion in life was nature/photography (I've come to describe his photography "pasttime" as his passion—it was so much more than a frivolous little pasttime. I believe it fed his soul, and gave him glimpses in to the answers of the great questions of the universe. . . not to be confused with his profession—which was the wine biz. Oh, certainly, he was passionate about wine, too, but nature and photography were his escape, his connection to things deeper than paychecks, responsibilities to "the man," to dealing with clients . . .

Anyhow, I could wax poetic on Bob's spiritual nature/character till the end of time and still fail miserably  capturing all he was as a person, so I'll just shut up about that for now . . . anyhow, back to photography and Wrenwood, because there is a connection, believe it or not . . . Bob always respected and admired the work of Jim Brandenburg, the famous MN nature journalist/photographer, and I think secretly coveted his life, as well. Jim Brandenburg has a cool home deep in the backwoods at the edge of the Boundary Waters that he christened Ravenswood. . . when we moved out to the Stillwater area over seven years ago, Bob was so thrilled to have his own little "state park" in our backyard. We don't have ravens here, but we do have an abundance of other birds, most prevalent, songbirds. He took to catering to the needs of the birds—a colony of seed feeders, a heated birdbath and various suet feeders popped up around the house. . . he even made a few bird houses during his short-lived carpentry phase (kinda like my short-lived craft phase . . .) Bob was thrilled to see such an enthusiastic reception with his efforts and  decided to call our little slice of paradise, "Wrenwood."

At least once a week (likely more, there are so many things that happened so long ago, in another lifetime, that I'm still having such a hard time remembering . . .), he would announce, "I'm going out to do chores!" and traipse out to the garage, to the big tin trashcan that housed the bird feed, and he'd fill each one, and then shake extra onto the ground below—for squirrels, turkeys, I'm not quite sure . . . every now and then, he might glance out a window, smile and say, "I have a new customer at one of the feeders!" and proceed to tell me what he saw—maybe a chickadee, a downy woodpecker, perhaps a goldfinch. Spring was especially exciting, when we'd see flashes of brilliant blue in the form of a bluebird or hear the buzzing of hummingbird wings (Often, i could hear them before I saw them, they're so tiny). I am so bad at bird identification—they all tend to look like fast-moving blobs of feathers to me. . .

Anyhow, that is the silly little story of how this house came to be called Wrenwood. . . not as "cool" as Ravenwood, perhaps, but so full of Bob's spirit. . .and once again, my home.

Owls & Bob & Jen . . .

I love what Bob's sister, Nancy, said on a recent post, that Bob and the owl will be able to watch over me from the woods at Wrenwood. . . I know he is with me now and always, but there is great comfort growing (and let's be real—along with a hefty dose of fear, as well), as I take load after load of our things back to our house in the woods, of being and feeling, once again, enveloped in the setting he loved so much . . . with our owls in the backyard, softly calling in agreement.

I think about owls a lot . . . how Bob had been so drawn to their mystical presence, how they've been an integral part of the life I shared here on earth with Bob, yet I didn't really consciously think of owls when Bob and I together—they were just always "with" us, back in that former life . . . my heart warms, hearing how so many people now think of Bob when they see or hear anything owls . . . makes me laugh, seeing how "trendy" owls have become (seriously—Target, Pier One, boutique shops, Macy's—you name it, everyone's "into" owls these days—even one of my favorite bands, Trampled by Turtles, has an owl as their "logo," for the love of all things owls) . . . I've kind of become the Crazy Owl Lady, so many have shared gifts of owls with me in the past months. Owl necklaces, owl cookie jar, funky canvas owl prints, an owl purse, owl stocking cap—even a cute little owl coin purse and owl-shaped lip balm. Not kidding . . .

Bob used to call himself a trendsetter—all through high school, he wore tattered jeans and floppy flannels over band t's and hightops—he said he was grunge before grunge was grunge . . .(I have a few of his flannels, hanging between my clothes, in the closet. Makes me wistfully smile when I see them, as I pick my clothes out for the day . . .on the days I shower and actually change out of my "I've given up" sweats, that is). Anyone who knew Bob at all, knew he cared less about fashion than just about anything in the world. One of our famous debates was over pleated pants. I abhor pleated pants and any time we'd go shopping for him—which was maybe every Leap Year, mind you (he suffered from a serious, mysterious condition he self-diagnosed as Shopping-Induced Narcolepsy), I'd gravitate to the stylishly flattering flat-front Dockers. He'd counter with a pair of ghastly pleated slacks, and the argument would ensue:

Me (heavy on the dramatics): Oh, god! Pleeeease—pleated pants are soooooo 80s, Bob!

Bob: But, Jen, I'm an 80s man at heart!

Me: They make you look so bulky and puffy in the groin—

Bob: But, I want to look bulky and puffy in the groin!

Me: You're gross. I'm heading over to the shoes . . .

But, I digress (Ritalin, anyone?). I can hear him saying the same thing about owls now, that he was light years ahead of the pack, that he should have been a trend spotter. . .yes, kind of curious, how hip owls have become . . .

Bob's first encounter with an owl, to my knowledge, was when he was a very young boy. I wish I could recall the details of the story, I may be embellishing the details somewhat . . . so many things I don't remember anymore, so many times throughout any given day that I wish so badly I could just turn to him and say, "Hey, Bob—what was that story about the owl again . . ." Maybe Penny and Jim remember. . . anyhow, he said was at his grandparent's home down in southwestern Minnesota, in the little town of Ivanhoe. It was winter and I think it was snowing, maybe they were visiting for the holidays . . . he was supposed to be taking a nap in a bedroom upstairs but he was looking out the window, instead, to a field out back behind the house. As he scanned the landscape, his eyes came to rest on a lump at the edge of the field. He stared for a while until the lump that was nestled between the mounds of snow drifts took shape of a snowy owl. He ran down to get someone—his parents? His grandparents?—to show them what he was seeing. . .they came to the window and looked out. Indeed it was a snow owl, so far beyond its territory, even for winter. . . at that young age, Bob knew what a sacred honor it was to witness the creature outside his window . . .

He later learned that what he saw was a very rare sighting, as snowy owls don't nest in Minnesota. Their range is Canada and the Alaska, although they may be seen as far "south" as the northern half of Minnesota on occasion, if the Canadian winters are particularly harsh and their food sources is scarce. They are often seen perched on the ground; to see one in southwestern Minnesota was almost unheard of . . . Bob said he would never forget the image, as it was close enough to see the brilliant yellow eyes, almost illuminating the snowy surroundings. . .

When we were first dating, I learned early and quickly, of Bob's love of all things nature. I also learned if I wanted this relationship to go anywhere—which I absolutely did—I would either need to be okay with not doing at least 75% of what Bob enjoyed doing—hiking, camping, canoeing, outdoor photography—or at least give it the ol' college try and see what happened. See, I was not a nature girl by nature. My memories of previous "camping" experiences were damaged ones—cramming seven people (my family) who didn't always play well with each other in spacious quarters, much less in the suffocating (and by "suffocating," I mean "choking from by my dad's continual chain-smoking) confines of a station wagon crammed with tents, sleeping bags and groceries, heading "out west" to South Dakota or Yellowstone, where we'd find a KOA campground along the way, unload our stuff and ditch mom and dad for the tiny "campground" arcade, glued to the Centipede or Space Invaders machines for the duration of our stay . . .ahhhh, the Great Outdoors . . .

Our first real camping excursion together, just the two of ous, was right around when we married (I'm thinking it was after, as my memory of photos of that trip are of me with my post-wedding, super-cute, boy-short haircut, which I sooooo loved and Bob sooooo didn't). We spent a week on Lake Superior, camping our way up the shore at various state parks. Lucky for me, it was one of the best camping weeks, ever, in the history of camping, or I may have never gone again. We couldn't have had better weather, had we special ordered it ourselves—low 70s during the day—perfect for hiking—cool enough in the evenings to enjoy dinner and wine by campfire, not even a hint of rain all week. . . I befriended a little chipmunk at one of the campsites, and Bob snapped photos of me feeding the little rodent perched on my shoulder. . . thankfully, my maiden voyage camping trip with him started out so well and not a near-disaster, as a few of our later trips were, or it could have been my last. . . that definitely solidified, for me, a new-found appreciation of nature, wildflowers, birds of all kinds, hiking, sunrises on the north shore. . .

The summer Bob and I married (again, another lifetime ago), my sisters planned a bachelorette party for me. Jill designed adorable invitations with a little owl in the corner, announcing, "Whooooo's getting married?" At the party, the front door of my friend, Pam's house was covered with a huge hand-drawn owl, again announcing, "Whoooooo's getting hitched?" Kinda became the unofficial mascot of our wedding, our marriage, the owl . . .

Bob took Latin in college, had planned to go to law school before the lure of the wine industry pulled him in—four years of the ancient language at the U, he used to sign many of his letters to me with a Latin phrase that I was either supposed to figure out on my own, or wait till I saw him again so he could translate (this was back in the olden days, kids, before the invention of the Internet. . .though I did live in Winona at the time, and could have walked down the block in any direction, to one of countless Catholic churches in town and asked a priest for a translation); his informal nickname became Bubo, from the Latin name for great horned owls, bubo virginianus . . . I don't remember who christened him with it—so many things I don't remember—might have been one of our old camping pals . . . I do know that Bob's friend, Jayne, a graphic artist, reproduced a MN "vanity" license plate for him, with the BUBO on it. . .

One of our favorite owls (as if there isn't a favorite) is the barred owl, so named for the vertical barred pattern across its chest feathers. It's an adorably social owl, one that is easy to call into the vicinity of a campsite, provided you're camping in an area where barred owls hang out. They're very vocal and will call back and forth to a human, even if your attempt at calling is only "sort of" close to its call, which is often described as sounding like, "Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you, alllllll?!"

Shortly after we were married, for our first anniversary, or maybe it was for his birthday (for sure, it was during my insane-but-thankfully-short-lived craft phase when anything that wasn't nailed down was fabric-pained, hot-glue-gunned with lace and dried-flowers, or stenciled . . .), I hand-painted a canvas apron for Bob, with the likeness of a barred owl on the front, along with the words, "Who cooks for you?" in a cartoon balloon above its head (I packed it up and brought it out to Wrenwood already, otherwise I'd post a picture of it. A craft paint masterpiece, if I do say so myself . . .)

On an outing to Afton State Park with the dogs (Gaia and Liddy) one day, many, many lifetimes ago, we were hiking along the trails, deep in a ravine on the forest bottom, along the edge of a little stream. Bob said it was prime barred owl territory and as if on cue, we heard the call of a barred owl in the distance. I thought I'd give it the ol' college try and see if I could call it in closer. Bob scoffed at me. "No way, you couldn't call in a barred owl," he challenged. I had heard our friend Jayne do it on previous camping trips; I can say, "Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all????!!! and set it to a hooty-yodeling-kind of tune—I was very confident in my thus-far-highly-underdeveloped (read: never tried before) owl hooting skills.

We stopped along the path at the base of a hill. I cupped my hands around my mouth, tossed my head back let loose, squawk-shouting out my best, "WHO COOKS FOR YOU??? WHO COOKS FOR YOU ALLLLLL!!!!!!"

"That is the call of a dying owl," Bob laughed at me."You'll scare them away, not call them in!" Undaunted, I continued to call as he continued to laugh. A few minutes later, we saw a flash in the treetops above our heads. A plump little barred owl landed in a branch of a tree right above me, turned its head to look straight down at us with its black marble eyes, as though saying, "You called?" I looked at Bob, beaming. He looked at me, in disbelief. Yes, you all can call me the Owl Whisperer. Or Squawkerer.

I called again and the owl responded. Back and forth, for several minutes, I carried on a conversation with a barred owl; I hooted, it hooted back, over and over. I'm not really sure what I was saying (nature mimicing life), but clearly, even in clumsy Owlese, I am a riveting conversationalist. . . finally, we had to wrap things up, as the dogs were getting restless, and we were beginning to repeat ourselves . . . For a girl who still wasn't overly keen about the Great Outdoors, I think I rose a few notches in Bob's eyes that day. . .

I went on many Great Grey Owl "hunts" with Bob (I vaguely remember going to a dive bar called Sanitary Harry's somewhere in the middle of nowhere), driving along the barren, snow-packed back roads of northern MN, in search of the elusive bird when one (or more) would occasionally wander further south than their normal territory, in search of prey, when winters were particularly tough. . . whenever either of us went on a trip without the other (which wasn't very often) we'd often come home with a little nature creature—the vast majority are stuffed owls—sort of a, "Thought of you a lot when I was gone," gift. It became more of an unspoken ritual, as a result, I have a basket full of stuffed owls, a large timber hand wolf puppet, a little hawk finger puppet . . .I sometimes get them out for Otto to play with, though have to be careful, or Rocco, like a stealthy coyote, sneaks in and tries to maul 'em . . .

I had another story about scaring up a Great Horned Owl from the dilapidated old barn at my grandparents' farm down near Comfrey, but I can't remember all the details of that one, either—one of my sisters was with us‚ which one, I couldn't say for sure . . . Bob had his camera, as he always did—was so sure this would provide such a great photo op: abandoned farm, sun shining through the gaping holes in the roof of the weather-ravaged barn, lots of great shadowy images, an owl perched on a rafter would complete The Perfect Image! He was sure an owl had to have taken up home in such a perfect setting . . . Bob went well ahead of us, to scope out the lay of the old barn, my sister and I clung to each other as we tiptoed into the horror-movie-setting, and for some reason—something scared us—we screamed and bolted back out to the yard, and at the same time, looked up just as a huge GHO (Bob's abbreviated name for the owl) swooped out from the hay mow, gliding just over our heads. My sister and I froze in our tracks as it turned and stared at us, as though paralyzed by its powerful gaze. A few minutes later, Bob emerged from the barn, disgusted that we had scared off what was could have been his Pulitzer-prize winning photo . . .

Thinking of owls brings up so many memories, so many snapshot images of my blessed time on earth with Bob. Makes me, at once, so infinitely full and grateful for the endless blessings he bestowed upon me during our far too short time together, and infinitely empty, such a gasping, gaping hole in my soul . . . what an incongruence, to feel so full and so empty at the same time. . .

a p.s. — I'm going to be getting a moving van for this coming Saturday (the 28th), to move the last of my things out to Wrenwood. Anyone not doing anything that day, feel free to come on over to my St. Paul house and lend a hand . . . food and beverages and gratitude will be plenty. . .

Widow(in the ')hood . . .

I was out at Wrenwood yesterday, moving a few more boxes back home (I love saying that, home . . .) doing some painting (just closet interiors right now—freshen things up a bit, they were so scuffed and grubby; still trying to decide on a color for the kitchen), and was up to my armpits in paint when my phone rang. Caller ID showed my security system at the house in St. Paul. I dropped the paint roller and quickly answered. "This is FrontPoint Security, and we're getting an alarm for a possible burglary at. . ." Suddenly, my head felt tight, my throat constricted, and I could hardly talk. They continued,"Would you like us to dispatch the police?" Yes, of course! I choked the words into the phone. At the same time, I'm imagining my dogs harmed, the house ransacked, my computers, with all of Bob's photos, walking out the door, . . . I'm about 1/2 hour away, but I'm leaving right now! I ran through the house as I spoke with the dispatcher, threw paint roller and paint tray into the mud room sink, paint splattering all over the sink and backsplash, quickly twisted the lid onto the paint can, turned off all the lights and bolted out the door.

As I tore down I94, I suddenly remembered that I had called my landlord earlier, to tell him about the bathtub faucet leaking and the hinge on the basement door needing repair. He had said he might have time later in the day, to swing by to fix it; I had told him I wouldn't be around but to let himself in, but just realized I forgot to tell him about my security system . . . please, please let it be my landord at the house, please let it be my landlord . . .no sooner did I think this though when my phone rang. "So, did you forget that I was coming by today?" were my landlord's first nonchalant words. I couldn't help but laugh in utter relief. I'm so sorry! You didn't say for sure you were coming by, and I haven't had to call you for anything since I got my alarm system, so I didn't even think of telling you about it! "Well, it's okay, I just unplugged the unit and then told the cops who I was when they arrived. I fixed the tub and the basement door and locked up after I left, but the cops might still be at your house, waiting for you . . ." I was so giddy with relief it didn't even occur to me until much later, how unsettling it was that the SPPD actually let him get by with that "story . . ."

Which is how this "little story" leads into a series of "little stories" that I've wanted to share for a while now, because they're at once so disturbing and so comical, but they just keep happening, which makes the story hard to tell, from beginning to end, because so far, there is no end . . .but I shall try. . .

So, one evening, back toward end of September, around 9 p.m., I was interrupted mid-writing by a loud knock on the front door of this old house. Rocco immediately erupted into alarm-bark mode—through the front window next to the door (I still had no curtains on any of the windows at this point), I saw a figure standing on my porch, then the beam of a flashlight lit up a badge on the chest of a police officer standing in the window. Oh my god! The cops?!? Well, better the cops than anyone else I guess. . .

Keeping Rocco's almost threatening 40 lb. snarling body in front of me, I opened the front door juuuust enough for both of us to squeeze our heads between the crack. Two officers stood on my porch, notebooks in hand; they apologized for disturbing me so late, but in the next breath, proceeded to tell me that my next door neighbor had been burglarized at some point in the day. Did you happen see anything or anyone suspicious in the area at any time of the day? Did you personally experience anything at your property? Were you home all day? Did you leave at any point . . .

No, no, no! To all of the above, I stammered, suddenly, inexplicably filled with guilt (residual of my half-assed Catholic upbringing? Perhaps . . .), What happened? Is she okay? Apparently, suspects gained entry through a window in the back, took a TV and were gone, they told me. Neighbor wasn't home when it happened, so yes, she is okay. They're just checking with others, to find out if anyone saw any suspicious activity or people in the area at any point. . . I mentally rifled through the activities of my day: I was home most of the day—no, wait! I ran a few errands mid-day, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary, before or after . . . but then again, I am kind of in the throes of all-consuming grief right now, so I don't notice much of anything these days—did I even shower today? Wonder if they're thinking I look like a crackhead who wouldn't be above breaking into my neighbor's house, to steal a TV to sell on the street to feed my nasty habit. . .

After hearing the details of the break-in, I asked if they, in their professional opinion, thought an alarm system might be a good thing, being a single woman, living alone in this neighborhood. They pointed to Rocco, said I already had the best security system available. I looked at them, then down at Rocco. This mutt?! Well, he does bark at anything and everything that moves outside, usually when I least expect it, to my shredded nerves' dismay. . . I asked what else I could do to protect myself; they said best thing was to be vigilant about the neighborhood and my surroundings, get to know my neighbors, become familiar with who is coming and going, report any suspicious person or activity, asap. With that happy news, they bid me goodnight. I really didn't think much more of the burglary after they left. Sure, I was a little rattled, and truly felt bad that my neighbor—also a single woman—had been burglarized, but rationalized that it can happen anywhere, that it had to be a random event. And it is true, the part about being in the throes of all-consuming grief—not a whole lot else really matters right now, on this leg o' the journey . . .

Maybe a week later, I took the dogs on their nightly walk and when I got home, I noticed a blue piece of paper tucked into my mailbox that definitely wasn't there earlier, since I had already gotten my mail. I pulled it out and read about a neighborhood block meeting in the works, due to the "recent rash of burglaries and other crimes" in the neighborhood . . .a rash of burglaries?! AND other crimes?! One burglary is no big deal, a rash of various criminal activity is a big deal . . .

I attended the gathering, which ended up being a wonderful opportunity (albeit, due to a very unfortunate series of events) to meet many of my immediate neighbors; we also got to meet and talk with two police officers who routinely patrol our 'hood. I learned that not only was my next-door neighbor burglarized, but so was the woman who hosted the gathering, who lives right behind me (happened while she was home, btw), as were several other homes within a few blocks radius of the house I'm renting.

The officers said that several St. Paul neighborhoods have been targeted over the summer, their theory was that the unseasonably long and warm summer/fall extended the "work season" of criminals, but also that many of the crimes are "crimes of opportunity," garage doors left open, windows unlocked, valuables left in plain sight in vehicles; my theory is that during the summer, well into the fall and even into the mild winter, many houses in the neighborhood were having work done—roofs repaired, houses being repainted, siding replaced—in response to a big storm that had blown through (before I moved in). The neighborhood has been teeming with construction crews, countless people who aren't from the area, who very likely were scoping out the 'hood, keeping track of comings and goings . . .

As I talked with the neighbors, I started to think that maybe it wasn't a bad thing that Gaia didn't come indoors any more and that Rocco barks at anything and everything, and that maybe I should just stay within the confines of my old house, curtains drawn and rock the crazy widow stereotype for all it's worth . . . Of course, I didn't share this out loud, but I did express concern, being new in the neighborhood and living alone. Most of the neighbors present at the meeting have lived in the area for many years, and assured me that this is a crazy aberration, that yes, of course a random break-in occurs now and then, but to this degree is just unheard of, and they're all now a little on edge . . .

We created a phone number and e-mail list, agreed that this block club is a good thing, to reconnect the residents, make a stronger neighborhood presence, to encourage everyone to do a better job of keeping an eye out for each other—someone even suggested a block club Facebook page, as another means to keep neighbors informed on activity (about the only redeeming quality of Facbook, in my not-so-humble opinion . . . but that's a blog for another time . . .). I also learned more fascinating history of my neighborhood, that most of the houses on my block had been abandoned and in various states of abandonment and ill-repair when they were auctioned off for a dollar back in the 70s and 80s—back when the neighborhood was really rough around the edges. My landlord was one of the first who bought his house for a dollar, I was told, fixed it up and raised his family here—and his wife was a very active member of the first neighborhood block club, "back in the day." His son and his wife now live in that very house . . .but that too, is another blog for another time . . .

After the meeting, I walked home, just around the corner and a few doors down. It was about 9 p.m., and I noticed my other next-door neighbor's garage door was open (who also happens to be my landlord's son, and who also happens to be storing my snowblower, since I have no garage). Crime of opportunity, JUST WAITING TO HAPPEN! One of many topics we had just discussed at our newly formed block club meeting! Maybe they just got home and have yet to close the door, I thought. I'll take the dogs on our nightly walk, and if the door is still open, then I'll take action!

When I returned from walking the dogs, the garage door was still open. Being the good neighbor that I, that very evening, committed to being, I took Gaia with me and went to their front door and knocked. The main floor was dark but I saw lights on on upstairs and heard their dogs barking inside. After several minutes of knocking and waiting, no one came to the door. I started to feel a little foolish—they're newlyweds, for the love of god, and here I am, nosey, widowed Mrs. Kravitz, pounding on the door at damn near 10 p.m. Talk about coitus-interruptus . . .I turned around and started for home, but just couldn't shake the persistent feeling that I had to get a hold of them somehow, if for no other reason, because I would feel so bad if something did happen . . . I decided to call my landlord, in one last attempt to get a hold of his son. I walked the two doors down to my house but stopped in his son's driveway as I made the call, standing maybe five feet from the open, yet darkened, garage.

As I waited for an answer, I contemplated sticking my head inside the garage to see if there was an interior switch, so I could close it for him. But my landlord's wife answered before I had a chance to do that. I told her that I had just come back from a newly formed neighborhood group that addressed all the break-ins and burglaries going on in the neighborhood, and was trying contact her son, to let him know his garage door was open . . . I was feeling more foolish with each word, sounding more and more like a meddling nutcase, the more I babbled. But, she thanked me profusely, said she was so glad to hear the block group has been revived, though under such unfortunate circumstances and would definitely try to get a hold of her son right away. . .

Feeling I'd done all I could, I hung up and walked Gaia home, hooked her to her tie-out in the backyard and went inside. Not a minute later, I heard my neighbor's car alarm go off; I looked out my un-curtained kitchen window, didn't see anything. Several minutes later, I saw a light on in the garage and my landlord's son walking around in his garage, figured he must have inadvertently set his car alarm off. Finally! My work as SuperNeighbor is done for the night! I can hang up my cape and go to bed . . .

Next day, my neighbor and his wife showed up on my doorstep, with a little bag of handmade chocolates. I looked at them with confusion—kinda late with the housewarming gift, I thought. "This is just a small token, to thank you for stopping a burglary in progress," they told me. What?!? "Yes, we were burglarized last night; thieves pried open the side door of our garage, opened the main door and made off with my bike, some odds 'n' end tools—your snowblower is safe, though . . ." He had read my mind. I asked about the car alarm—no, he didn't set off his alarm, the thieves likely did, maybe trying to break into the car, or bumping it in a rapid, clumsy exodus . . . he continued to talk but all I could think of was that the thieves had been in the garage five feet from me, as I stood in their driveway, talking to his mother . . .

That day, curtains went up on every window, and as soon as I could, I installed an alarm system in the house. I thought about the two handguns Bob used to have, that I gave away (I had no idea what to do with them—he "used" them for target shooting, though I could count on one hand the number of times he ever did that with those guns), thinking maybe now was time to take a firearm safety class . . . thought about a few more locks for the doors . . .

. . .a day later, I kid you not, before I could decide what else I could do to barricade myself in this old house—I had just returned home from a lovely stroller walk with my nephew Otto, in the late morning. I sat him in the high chair in the kitchen and started making lunch. I walked past the living room windows and noticed a squad car parked outside my neighbor's house. Oh, no, not Mary, again! I pulled the curtain back, looking for any sign of "action." It looked like an officer was sitting in the front seat, but nothing else seemed to be going on. Maybe the police are just trying to make more of a presence in our area, after all the recent incidents . . .

I returned to the kitchen to finish making lunch. I fed Otto, cleaned up and then, curiosity getting the better of me, I went back to the front windows. In that short time, the squad car count went from one to no fewer than eight, the entire block outside my house, up and down both sides of the street, were lined with of police cars; suddenly, several officers took off on foot down the sidewalk past my house, toward a house a few doors down . . .I ran back to the kitchen where Otto was, grabbed my phone and called 911. . .the dispatcher couldn't tell me anything because it's an active, open case; all she could say is that there were suspects "at large" in my neighborhood, to stay in the house and away from windows and doors . . .

I headed upstairs with little O-man, sat him on the bed with a handful of toys (safely away from windows), while I peered through my bedroom windows to the scene unfolding below. After nearly a half an hour, an officer escorted a scruffy-looking young man with wild hair and unshaven face into the squad car parked in front of my house; even from my hiding spot, I swear the dude looked up and made eye contact with me . . . down the street, another 20-something looking man was cuffed and led into another unmarked car. It took nearly an hour for all the squad cars to eventually depart.

I called the non-emergency police number and was given the direct number of the investigating officer, but was told I may as well wait, because no one would be able to tell me anything for 24-48 hours, till the final report was filed. With trembling hands, I called my landlord, got his wife on the other line again, told her what had happened, told her that I was getting another dog. She hesitated, I countered—both next door neighbors, including her own son, have been burglarized, neighbor behind me was burglarized, now this, a damn SWAT team in my own front yard, all within a few short weeks. I am getting another dog. Period. She actually conceded to my frantic demand. . .

I didn't sleep at all for several weeks straight. I could hardly eat, I suddenly felt like a prisoner in my own home. What if someone was watching my neighborhood? If I leave, they'll know. If I stay, would that still matter, given some of the break-ins have occurred when residents were home? Should I get a roommate? A big, burly bouncer (and of course, gay) type? I didn't actually get another dog—I started thinking about what a mess that would be, figuratively and literally—three dogs in a rental house, no fenced yard, Gaia hates other dogs—a traumatic scenario just waiting to happen. I didn't get a gay power-lifting-bouncer of a roommate, either. Scared as I was, I still like and need my own space. . .

I eventually called the number for the investigating officer of The Incident. He told me that what occurred on my block was the result of a diligent homeowner who had seen a break-in in progress at a neighbor's house three doors down from me, and called 911. The two suspects were apprehended without further incident . . . he said that he grew up in my neighborhood, back when it was really rough 'n' tumble—when you wouldn't be caught dead outside in the light of day—and that it is truly has come a long way, so far, in fact, that he would still be living here, but he can't afford to buy a house (no kidding—a house on my street is for sale, listed at nearly half a million bucks). He assured me that what's going on is definitely not "the norm" of my neighborhood, to not let these incidents scare me off, because Cathedral Hill is truly one of St. Paul's most beautiful, historic and wonderful areas in which to live. . .

In spite of the officer's words, in spite of my neighbors' assurances, in spite of the "reputation" of Cathedral Hill, on top of everything else, I was suddenly scared. Shitless. I have been many things in the past eight months since Bob's death, but scared has not been part of the repertoire of issues on my grief journey. Until the culmination of these events. And I wasn't just scared about what was happening literally in my front and back yard, but suddenly, with glaring clarity, scared of all the things I now have to face, alone. Funny, how that never truly occurred to me, till these events started happening . . . if I I've said it before, I'll say it again, grief is an astoundingly irrational, erratic journey, so full of starts, stops, startling realizations that slam into me and knock me to my knees, at the most ridiculous times . . .

But quite honestly, surprisingly, I was not (and still am not) scared for my life. I'm scared that someone will break in and hurt my dogs in the progress. I'm scared that someone will take all that I have left that is connected to Bob. My computer with all his pictures, my phone that still holds all our text messages and a few saved voice mail messages from when he was at Bethesda (that I listen to at least once a week), his cameras, his neckties, our snowshoes . . . suddenly, I was overcome with overwhelming fear that Wrenwood was vulnerable, too, because I wasn't there. There isn't much left in the house, but still. . .

Grief knows nothing about being rational. It doesn't care that my life is more valuable than "things" that can (and should be) backed up, insured and/or replaced. It does not take a truly Zen-approach and believe that they truly are just things, nothing more. My grief just cares that these things, right now, are all I physically have, to connect myself to Bob. When look at his pictures, when I touch his neckties, when I wrap myself in one of his fleece jackets, when I listen to an old voice mail message, these things break through the endless horrible images of his last year and a half on earth, and bring my Bob, healthy Bob, back to me, if for only a moment . . . my emotions, my entire mind, body and soul have been on tightly wound, high-alert since Bob died . . . the endless break-ins have heightened this irrational response and added a whole new layer on top of, tightened the vice grip of the trauma. . . weeks went by, in this "state. . ." I didn't want to leave my house, I didn't want to stay in the house, I still had our other house on the market and every time I drove out for a showing, I cried. I cried all the way home again. . . once again reminded, with blinding clarity, that right now, I am truly living alone in an in-between world . . .

Late November, the action continued . . . after I turned off my bedside lamp late one evening, I glanced out the bedroom window down to the street below. Illuminated by the street light, a squad car was parked outside my house. I saw an officer get out, walk over to a car across the street, from which a well-dressed man emerged; officer turned him to face his car, frisked him up and down, escorted him to the squad car, and then proceed to go back to the man's car and remove briefcases and other items from the vehicle, searching each one as he did. . . yup, once again, right outside my front door. But a strange thing happened. This time, my reaction hardly registered on any scale. I watched for another minute or so, then crawled into bed and waited for another fitful night's sleep to eventually settle in. Numb? Indifferent? Desensitized? Finally "used to" the city?

With the colder weather, the activity started to dwindle (the neighborhood police reports we receive via e-mail now, started showing fewer and fewer "incidents" every week, till we're down, once again, to the garden-variety outdoor criminal activity—car break-ins, vandalism, narcotic "sales" . . .). Or, it could very well have to do with neighbors starting to reconnect with each other, whether face-to-face or via e-mail/facebook messages—and really working building a sense of community (we even had a caroling party early December). . .I do think that having the two dogs (and a security system) has been a deterrent, though not fool-proof, I'm not that foolish to believe. . .

Maybe the therapy and group sessions I've been religiously attending, all the books on grief and death/dying I've been reading, the online "research" I've been doing, talking to other widows—all the information-gathering I'm doing is helping to soften my sharp, jagged edges, bringing a tinge of rational mind back . . . maybe it's just the passage of time . . . maybe I just slipped into "I really give even less of a shit what happens to anything" mode . . . a few months later, I could even joke about all the "action" in my 'hood: Mom: Are those sirens in the background? Me: Sirens? What sirens? That's just the musical sounds of the city, Mom . . . though, I still waken at the slightest sound, still sleep with my phone right next to my head, as often as not, sleep on the couch in the living room (I feel less "trapped" for some reason). . .

But I think I'm getting "better," maybe getting used to the action of the city. Even with the crazy number of incidents and my acute fear, it still hasn't stopped me from walking the dogs twice a day, morning and night. Still hasn't stopped me from walking down to a local watering hole or restaurant on a rare occasion, to meet a friend for dinner or a drink. Not long ago, I was wakened by the sound of two cars driving very slowly down my street (my bedroom windows face the road, and as I said, I've become a feather-weight sleeper; the cars just "sounded" odd, in my half-sleep state, which woke me). Suddenly, my bedroom was illuminated by blinding white light, then black, then blinding white again. I peered over my pillow, out my bedroom window and watched two squad cars rolling down the road, spotlights arcing across the yards as they slowly trolled the neighborhood. Seriously, I thought, what the hell . . . and rolled over, back to sleep . . .

I have been many things out at Wrenwood. Happy. Sad. In love. In horror. Joyous. Angry. Despondent. Delighted. Depressed. Relaxed. Traumatized. Peaceful. Furious. Calm. Helpless. Grateful. Grieving . . . But never, ever scared. At least not this way, under these circumstances. In spite of the crazy events in the 'hood this fall, I do love St. Paul, I adore this neighborhood, have really enjoyed getting to know my neighbors, the local shops, meandering the streets, admiring the architectural wonders. . . I do think that some day, under different circumstances, I would like to be back. But right now, Wrenwood is calling me back home, and that is where I most want to be. Home.

Old house, old soul. . . . so very grateful . . .

I've been in this old house for nearly five months now, and it'll likely be another good month or so, till I find a renter to take my place and completely move back to Wrenwood. . . it has been a necessary move, one that truly, was of self-preservation, in so many layers, and I don't regret it, for a minute. . .

I am grateful, so grateful that five months ago, my landlord—in spite of literally dumping my story on him and his wife—still agreed to rent to me. Who in their right mind would—after hearing the tear-soaked story of a recently widowed nutcase whose husband fought and died after a nightmare battle with cancer, now unemployed and on the verge (already deep in the throes?) of a breakdown, with two mutts in tow—still rent to said nutcase? Despite my heavy load, he and his wife took mercy on me and my two crazy mutts, when I'm sure most landlords would have slammed the door in our faces . . . for my landlords, on this leg of my journey, I am eternally grateful. . .

Almost as soon as I moved into this house, I knew I wouldn't stay. I didn't have a strong, conscious feeling of this back in July—wasn't conscious of much of anything at that time. In fact, I signed a two year lease, I was that serious about fleeing the shredded remains of my old life. . . in the midst of blinding grief, all I knew was I needed to be anywhere but in our house in the country, away from the immense, drowning sadness. Looking back, though, I can guess that perhaps a vague, "this is only temporary" feeling existed, a barely perceptible pinprick of a thought in the back of my mind, that has grown as the weeks and months passed. This old house didn't feel like home from day one, still doesn't feel like home. Even I was shocked at my visceral recoiling upon moving in—I had fallen in love with the photos online and even more so when I toured it, imagining Bob's photography on the walls, my belongings filling each room . . . imagining and doing are two very different experiences. As in, reading about hospice and imagining the stages of death, and actually watching my beautiful husband die. . .

But this old house has felt like a respite, a resting place on this journey, where for at least a short while, I've had time to catch my breath, breathe a little deeper . . . and perhaps, for a while, pretend that the recent events of my life didn't happen, that I didn't just spend the past year and a half witness to a living nightmare, that I didn't just give everything I never knew I was capable of, as my husband's full-time caregiver, that he didn't die an unspeakable death . . . or maybe, it's knowing that those things did happen (how does one ever forget?), but feeling like they were the events of someone else's life, not mine . . . yet, during this time away, within four walls that aren't my own, I have started my healing journey. Have been allowed time and distance to process all that happened to Bob, to us, to me, to everyone connected to him, at a safe distance, without being physically immersed in the immediate reminders . . .for this old house, for this time, I am so very grateful.

This house was built in 1858, the year Minnesota became a state. With thick walls of limestone, tall, deep-set windows paned in wavy, bubbled glass, fun-house-crooked floors, stately chimneys rising from the four corners of the roof and an inviting front porch, it is one of the oldest standing homes in St. Paul—may be the oldest— and is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. This past summer, historic bus tours would occasionally stop in front of this house, to allow riders to lean out and snap pictures of the historic structure. My mom and I are planning a trip to the History Center on Thursday, to dig up some info on this house and the neighborhood. . .

But, make no mistake. It is old. Having been a rental for at least the past 20 years (likely longer), it shows definite signs of wear, from the passage of time, from endless inhabitants who have come and gone, from landlords who have done the basics to keep the house "up to code," but little more. The windows are ill-fitting and drafty (which I've shrink-wrapped in plastic for winter; they now crinkle and crackle, as though alive with the breath of the wind), the floors uneven and creaky, I've patched and painted over several areas on the walls where the plaster was chipped or gouged, filled cracks and gaps in the old double-doors with wood putty and weather stripping—another futile attempt to keep winter outside (have yet I mentioned how ecstatic I am with this unseasonably warm/dry winter??!!!). . . dishwasher is unreliable, the ancient staircase precariously steep, its fragile railing more embellishment than function (the basement stairway even more precarious—read: rickety—and steep, if possible). But the kitchen does have a fabulously functioning gas stove! Bonus!

The giant claw-foot tub drips, the water pressure is just beyond a trickle . . . the basement is dank and dungeon-like, spider webs threaded along the joists like delicate streamers (there's no avoiding the basement, it's where the washer and dryer are), more than once, I've caught a glimpse of a mouse scurry across the floor. And there is no garage, but plenty of off-street parking. Maybe not the best place to retreat to, in hindsight. . . or, perhaps the best. In spite of the physical flaws, this house has heart. And soul. I truly, in the eye of crazy, felt its old soul open up and gently fold me in as I tumbled through the door in August, wild-eyed and wild-minded, dragging along a third of my belongings (another third I had given away, the other third is still out at Wrenwood, left for staging when I was showing it). . .

I cried as I hung Bob's canvases on the exposed brick walls, cried as I placed pictures of him on my desk in the tiny "bedroom" I have been using as an office, cried while hanging a quilt Penny had made on my bedroom wall that used to hang in the stairway of Wrenwood, cried more as I tucked wooden end tables and plant stands that Jim has crafted, into various corners of the house. The tiny closets are overflowing not just with clothes and shoes, but with things that belonged to Bob and me in our past life—guitar amps, books, stuff—basement is stacked with Rubbermaid tubs of Christmas decorations, outdoor gear, tools, past years' business and personal papers . . . even with a fraction of my belongings, I packed the space tightly, wrapping myself in reminders of a former life inside foreign surroundings that seemed so far away, far beyond the horizon of illness and death . . . but, for all that work, all the effort, it still doesn't feel like home, and I still cry, nonstop. . . and slowly, started to realize that I could run as far and as hard as I might, but I will never escape.

Almost from the start, I cursed this old house and all its flaws, regretted the move, almost immediately. But this old house knows it's not personal. It knows I am striking out at the circumstances that led me here, not at the house itself . . . it's an old house, but it is strong, in structure and in spirit. It hasn't stood for over 150 years by being a weakling. It's funny to speak of a house as having strength, or spirit or a soul, but anyone who enters this house feels it, the moment they steps inside . . . my mom says this house has a good soul. Friends and family who have visited say, "Jen, this house is so you. . . it fits you . . ." Even when I shrug my shoulders and answer flippantly, "It's just a roof and four walls . . ." I feel like a rebellious teenager, blindly lashing out with hurtful words that I don't really mean, horribly misdirected . . .

I often wonder how many heartaches this old house has born witness to . . . how many loves, births, lives, deaths have played out within these walls. How many tears have dropped on these wooden floors, whose peals of laughter filled the rooms, who loved in the bedrooms, hated in the foyer, cooked in the kitchen, longed for someone or something at a window, did whatever in the basement . . .when my landlord came to do the walk-through of the house the day I moved in, he must have sensed my unsettled heart, my on-the-verge mind, the fear in my eyes. "This house has good karma," this burly, man's man told me. A funny, uncharacteristic thing for him to say, but I know he meant it, and the words have stuck with me. He should know. This old house is well-seasoned to these kind of things, love, life, birth, death, happiness, tragedy. Endless cycles. I can feel it all. For this house, I am eternally grateful.

The first month or so here is a smear of memories, not much is clear, like looking through a foggy window, an ancient mirror, flecked with flashes of partial images. . . my niece, Amelia, spent many nights here with me, before she had to head back to school after Labor Day. We took walks with the dogs, discovered numerous parks of the neighborhood, watched many movies, snuggled in my bed together, I know this much, don't remember details . . . my mom has probably logged as many days with me here as she has at her own apartment in St. Peter, sharing many bottles of wine, rivers of tears . . . I started watching my adorable nephew, Otto, two days a week in September, when Jill started teaching again . . . for Amelia and Otto, and for my mom, for my whole family, I am endlessly blessed. . .

A maybe a month or so into my self-imposed exile, my dear ol' doggie, Gaia (she turned 14 in December!), developed an inner ear infection. She slept outside one night this fall, a particularly cool evening, the next morning, could not stand up; she tried so hard, but as soon as she got upright, she'd take a few staggering steps and almost immediately fall down . . . a call to my awesome vet (House Paws Mobile vet—the best invention since, umm . . . well, since I don't know what, just a great invention, this mobile vet concept) and a thorough checkup later, she surmised the inner ear issue. Nothing we could do about it, she said, but to watch it. They usually dissipate in a few days, but if things got worse or changed, I was to call her right away.

I felt responsible, that maybe letting Gaia sleep outside had somehow caused the infection (though she's slept outside countless times in her long doggy life). I tried to get her to sleep inside. But, I was still in the process of bringing the last of my belongings to this old house and didn't have all my area rugs in place. In Gaia's world, with her old, arthritic legs and now this vertigo thing going on, I may as well have been living in a skating rink. Poor old girl couldn't stay upright to save her life—she has little strength in her hind legs to keep them underneath her on slippery surfaces, and when she went down, I had to physically lift her upright again, as she couldn't get a grip on the old, worn hardwoods. After a few times of that, she stumbled for the back door, and has been outside since. The inner ear thing cleared up in a few days, but it emotionally scarred her, and I believe she still associates the house with falling, a lot, and hard, and will not come in on her own.

Gaia seems very content outside, keeping post in the backyard, and surprisingly, her energy level also seems to have perked up. She almost demands two walks a day, going at her own leisurely pace. I'd guess we walk almost a mile each time, sometimes even a bit farther, taking our time to check her "pee mail" along the way (one of Bob's old jokes). . . Bob's dad made a three-sided "lean-to" house for her, to protect her from the harsher elements. She took to it, immediately.

Every day, several times, I walk the dogs, one at a time. I tried walking them together one day, when I first moved in, and was nearly met with disaster. This neighborhood is teeming with dogs and their people, and trying to walk two dogs who walk at very different paces, with one who adores other dogs, the other who abhors other dogs, is an exercise in torture for everyone involved . . . Rocco gets the long walks, we take off and make our way up to Summit Avenue, sometimes taking straight paths, sometimes zig-zagging between the blocks, jutting up a few, then over a few, then down a few. . . as many times as I've meandered the streets of my new-old neighborhood, I almost always find a house that I haven't yet seen; or a house that I have seen, but maybe didn't notice the stunning stained glass or the ornate detail of Victorian trim, or a lush garden, or an impressive carriage house tucked behind a mansion . . .I meander with Gaia. We might walk a good mile or so one morning and then just a few short blocks at night one day, and then no walk at all another—I go by her cues . . . both my dogs have become "famous" in the 'hood; people recognize them, stop me on the street, ask about them, or in Gaia's case, might be downright frightened . . . great conversation starters, my pups are, among endless other blessings . . .

It has been a wonderful neighborhood to reacquaint with friends. Many restaurants and watering holes and lovely boutiques are within walking distance to this old house. It's a quick drive to Minneapolis, to downtown St. Paul, out to the western suburbs, even back out to Wrenwood. . .I have had the opportunity to meet many of my neighbors, most of whom have lived in this are since the "Dollar House" auctions of the '70s and '80s, when most of the beautiful old homes of this area had been abandoned and in various states of disrepair and were sold off in an auction for a buck a piece. My landlord was one of those bidders. . . the center of the universe, at least of St. Paul, this old house is.

But it is not my home. This is my home. Wrenwood. It maybe not forever, but for now, it is. And, I can't wait to be back home.