Patron Saint of . . .

So the other day, I was purging the final remants of our roadtrip from the Jeep—popcorn and doghair, soda cans and water bottles, gum wrappers and maps of what to do in North Dakota—seriously, they exist. Maps of what to do in ND, I mean—not actual things to do in North Dakota . . . anyhow, I had my back turned for a mere second, I swear, when suddenly, the unmistakable, shrill Stand Back Sucka! bark of Rocco sliced the midmorning air. It wasn't coming from our yard; rather, it was from a few houses down, so I dropped the vacuum cleaner hose and tore up the driveway and down the road, fingers in my mouth, whistling like my dad used to back in the day, when he wanted us us five kids home for dinner, now, goddammit! If he had to whistle more than once, we were in big trouble.

Where IS Rocco, and why is he barking like a banshee?! I wondered frantically, imagining all the things he could possibly be terrorizing: a chipmunk? A skunk? A poor, unsuspecting neighbor minding their own business in their own yard??? The latter had to be the case, as I heard a voice in the distance and am pretty sure Rocco's name was mixed in with the jumble of words. I whistled a few more times (he was now in big trouble) and suddenly, Rocco came loping through a stand of pines, pausing to looking up at me like, "What's your problem, woman—I was just protecting the neighborhood . . ." before trotting right past me toward home. As though there were absolutely nothing wrong with fighting crime. On someone else's property. When the only criminal is the neighbor himself.

I quickly herded him home and into the house, all the while gently trying to explain why it wasn't okay to wander off our yard into someone else's yard and scare the livin' bejeezus out of them (yes, I talk to my dog as though he's a child. Sadly, I have become that person . . .). As we were having our little human-to-dog discussion, I heard a woman's voice calling my name outside. I went outside to find my sweet neighbor, Mrs. D from down the road, who just happens to live in the very house that Rocco was trespassing on moments before, coming down my driveway. At the sight of her, I realized, with glaring clarity, that my my Get out of Jail Free card, issued on my first day of widowhood, had just expired . . . I started apologizing profusely for not keeping better tabs on my li'l mutt and immediately, she put a hand on my shoulder and hushed me with, "Jenni, now stop that!" (I love it that she calls me Jenni—no one does, except my youngest of nieces and nephews, and the errant high school classmate whom I haven't seen in 25+ years, who still thinks I go by "Jenni With an 'I!'" and am still in love with John Taylor from Duran Duran.) "Rocco was just being a good dog—he was protecting me from Dom!" Mrs. D said. Dom is her husband . . .

"Oh, my God, I am so sorry," I continued to babble, "we were just outside, cleaning the car, and I had gone into the garage, and I guess that was his cue to take off—but I really can't allow him to do that any more—"

Mrs. D cut me off again with a wave of her hand. "Jenni, I said stop it right now—he's just doing what he does best, being a dog! No harm done, he's a good boy—oh, look at him in the window there, barking like crazy, he wants to come out and see me again, isn't that sweet!" She laughed as she pointed to the kitchen patio door, where Rocco was hysterically barking, and jumping back and forth like a dog with a worm burrowing into his brain. I rolled my eyes. It wasn't sweet, it was annoying as hell. Three years into this, as much as I love Rocco with all my life, I am still not used to a barking dog. Gaia and Liddy never barked. Their only guard-dog quality was their size and menacing wolfish appearance. Guess there's always a trade-off . .

"Anyhow," Mrs. D continued, "I've been meaning to give you this." She reached over, pulled my hand into hers, and pressed a small object into my palm. "It's St. Joseph, the patron saint of homes and family—he's my patron saint," she said with a smile. I looked down at the tiny gray plastic figurine in my hand. "Now, what you do is, you take him and bury him in your front yard, and he's supposed to help sell your house. I'm not saying I want you to move, because when the day comes, I'll be so sad, but I know how hard it is for you out here. I know your Bob loved it out here, but it has to be hard, being alone, far from your family and friends. You're young—you need to be back in the city, closer to the action. I really do understand, and I just want to help. I'm not saying this'll work, because we tried it with our house, and God knows that didn't go over so well—"

God bless this awesome woman, I just adore her and her thoughtfulness and perceptive insights. Still, I couldn't help but burst out laughing. "So you're giving me a defective Joseph?!" I had to ask.

"Well, don't take our experience as an example," Mrs. D said with a wave of a hand, "take it for what it's worth. If it helps, it helps, if not, it won't hurt now, will it?" I was getting a slight headache, pondering the odd logic/faith/sense? of burying a holy statue in the dirt with the hopes to sell my house. What if I bury him wrong? What if it's the wrong saint? Maybe there's another saint who cold do a better job? What if St. Joseph isn't okay with this at all?! Does he know or care that I'm a fallen Catholic (and I can't get up)?! Do saints cast curses?

"And don't ask me how to bury him—you'll have to look that up online," Mrs. D advised me as she headed back up the driveway.

After she left, I Googled "bury St. Joseph statue to sell house" online and came up with endless references to the practice. And of course, none of them concurred. One site said to bury him in the back yard, another said no, definitely front. And head down, facing the street. No, on his back, head toward the house. Or was it to the southeast, on his side . . . I thought maybe I should make a bumper sticker to go along with this little ritual, along the lines of "Jesus is my copilot," only mine would say, "St. Joseph is my Realtor . . " One site said it really doesn't matter where or how you bury the statue; it's your faith and prayers that matter most. hmmm, being I'm still kinda short on both, this could be a huge waste of both St. Joseph's and my time . . .

At any rate, I waited till dark to take the spade and statue to the yard, and began digging . . .

Things I learned on my first vacation in three years

I haven't been on a vacation in three years, though some may call this past year and some odd months of my self-imposed exile from the general public a vacation. Call it what you want, all I know is I don't want the t-shirt, and you certainly don't want the postcard . . . The last trip I took wasn't even with Bob, it was with my mom, to Cape Cod, in September of 2009. Bob was already showing signs of illness at that time—unexplained weight loss, the beginning twinges of leg pain; in hindsight, I even noted acute changes in his personality (extreme irritability, very withdrawn) but we wouldn't get his cancer diagnosis till nearly four months later. I was upset that he didn't want to go to the Cape with me, as it had been nearly a year that we'd traveled together, and we'd never been to the cape. But I also understood that he was overwhelmed, with a disease that had yet to be named, among other things: he had just returned from a work trip to France, was contemplating a job change, we were talking of putting our house for sale and trying to get some projects around the joint done, and just wanted some down time before his big job search was to ensue.

My mom and I had a wonderful time in Massachusets, but throughout the trip, I couldn't help but wish Bob would have joined us. He should have joined us. So many photo ops, so much good seafood (I had vowed to eat seafood every day of that vacation, as nothing compares to lobster, scallops and other sea critters procured fresh from the body of water right outside my window, and if I remember correctly, we made it till the vary last night, when my mom cried uncle! and wanted red meat. In a bad way.), so much to do and see, smell and feel and hear . . . shortly after my mom and I returned, Bob fell seriously ill, and that was the end of so many things in our lives. . .

I've been entertaining the idea of a vacation for a long time since Bob died, but thinking and doing, I've come to know, are very different realities. In theory, a vacation sounds wonderful. In reality, it means doing it all alone now, from the planning, to the packing, to the execution, to the return to an empty house. It's a reminder of the things we wanted to do, the things we should have done, the places we wanted to visit together, the things we wanted to share with each other. My throat catches, when I think of Bob in the grips of his disease, telling me that he'd love to take one more trip somewhere with me, but it was impossible, given his condition. I remember writing an e-mail to his primary doctor, when we were trying with all our might, to get Bob "well enough" for the horrific surgery he was to endure, telling him I wanted to whisk Bob away to a remote Pacific island, and live out the rest of his days in peace, away from the mad scientists at the U. His primary doctor wrote back, saying maybe that's what we should do, get away for a little vacation, just the two of us. I coulnd't help but laugh hysterically, and wrote back, "Are you serious?! You see what Bob looks like when we come in for our weekly appointments! It's an act of God to get him to the U; you really think a 'little vacation' is gonna happen in our world?" That was an exchange I hadn't thought of, in a very long time . . .

As I thought more and more about a vacation, I began to have gradiose ideas of taking a trip overseas, myself, as a sweeping gesture of embracing widowhood, of honoring my life with Bob, of "proving" to whom, I'm not quite sure, that I could do this alone, for Bob! that I am "getting better!" Then I realized that I'm not quite ready to embark on such an adventure. Yet. Next idea was the Memphis trip we talked about when Bob was in the throes of chemo and his world reduced to the five-by-five confines that encompassed the sofa and television. Even though his appetite was non-existent, we'd watch the Food Network and talk about when he'd get better, we'd rent a Greyhound bus and invite everyone we knew to join us for a roadtrip down to Tennesee, for some real-live blues and bbq . . . but that didn't feel right, either. In fact, the whole idea now feels kind of hollow, without Bob . . . kind of twists my guts more than a little bit, to be honest, thinking about a trip to anywhere, as no matter where I go, it will be an emotionally-laden one, embarking on them alone.

Then I thought of Bob's sister, Nancy, and her beautiful family, in Billings, Montana. And how much Bob loved all of them, how badly he wanted to get out to see them one more time, how much I love them all, and how much closer we've all become because of Bob's ordeal, and how little we get to see each other, being so far away, how they are often the ones doing the traveling to MN, instead of the other way around, especially in the past few years. And I thought of how I almost went to college in Montana, a lifetime and a half ago, when I was 18, but chickened out at the last minute, and came whimpering back to Minnesota, with my tail between my legs, but how I've been enamoured with the Big Sky state ever since . . . and with the realization of such connections, I suddenly knew that's where my first trip needed to be. To Montana. I'd pack me and my little mutt and head out to Billings, stay for a few days, then keep going westward, toward Glacier National Park, and mosey our way back to MN, via South Dakota, maybe make a stop here and there in Deadwood, the Badlands, hell, even Wall Drug, to see a real-live stuffed jackalope . . . I haven't been farther west in the state than Bozeman, so the second half of the trip would be a brand-new experience. I then remembered how damn big the Dakotas and Montana are—they don't call it Big Sky country for nothin'—and though my heart wanted to do a solo trip, I had visions of going stark-raving mad (again) in the bowels of North Dakota, a million miles from anywhere. Alone. I then decided I wanted my mom to ride shotgun.

I called Nancy to see if they'd be up for a few late-summer, last-minute guests; I wasn't sure of the girls' and Nancy's school schedules and as I'm telling her my plans, it suddenly occurs to me that perhaps I had waited too long wrestling with my thinking/doing connundrum—maybe they were neck-deep in school again, or at the very least, end-of-summer plans of their own. But, Nancy quickly took me up on my request, said that they'd love us to visit, and to stay as long as we wanted. . . I called my mom and asked if she'd be up for a long road trip out to Montana, that we'd be leaving in a few short days, and she also, too-quickly took me up on my offer. No turning back now. . .

We left on a Wednesday, deciding to take the North Dakota route, via I94, a trip Bob and I had often talked about doing, but had never done . . . we were gone for about 11 days and covered a whole lotta ground in that time, literally and figurative.y. These are a few of the things I learned on my first trip since Bob got sick:

1. My mom doesn't think it's cute if Rocco licks her ice cream. Even if I lick the dog-licked part off.
2. My in-laws rock. In fact, "in-laws" just doesn't cut it; Bob's family is my family, and vice versa, forever.
3. Don't jump on a trampoline in the dark
4. There is definitely a continuum to the meaning of "Dog Friendly" hotel
5. Bismarck, NoDak (as the locals say) isn't really the "wild west" as someone tried to convince me
6. Travel accomodations can be made on the fly
7. But sometimes planning ahead is a good idea, too
8. Always remember to shut off the camera when not in use
9. Always have a backup battery for the camera, for when I forget to shut it off
10. As in life, for the one prick encountered on a trip, I will encounter countless wonderful fellow travelers; try not to allow the prick make a bigger, more lasting impression
11. Make every effort to reconnect with old friends "on the way," no matter how long it's been since we've seen each other, or how much driving we still have to do. Priceless. . .
12. Don't use cruise control when it's torrentially pouring outside
13. You can teach an old (or at least, neurotic) dog new tricks!
14. If I encounter a labyrynth along the way, take the time to walk it. The revelations are astounding.
15. Next time I go to Glacier National Park, it'll be on a motorcycle
16. Getting off the beaten path is almost always worth it. Unless it's for Wall Drug.
17. I will encounter endless reminders of Bob everywhere . . .

Maybe in my next entry, I'll explain some of the lessons, but right now, I'm kinda tired . . . xxoo

Curried Potato Salad and Trail Running . . . not that they're related or anything . . .

It finally occurred to me, as a(n unwilling) single person, that maybe the secret to cooking/preparing solo meals lies in "prep work." As in, set aside a day to make a variety of stuff ahead of time. That way, I'll have something ready to eat all week, without being reminded over and over again, with each meal, each day, just how much cooking (and by "cooking," I mean "a bowl of cereal") for one sucks the big one . . . I know this concept ain't a Jen Original, that even non-single people do this kind of thing all the time (and is also a great idea to handle cooking in this eternal infernal world we seem to be living in this summer), but preparing and sharing meals was one of the most blessed past-times I spent with Bob, especially out here at Wrenwood, and has been one of the most difficult things for me to engage in, as that act alone is so awash with memories . . . when Bob got sick, as I mentioned in my last blog, cooking and feeding him transcended from an enjoyable activity we did together, to a sacred ritual for me. Even though, deep in my heart, I knew all the good food in the world wouldn't "cure" him, I saw in him other positive effects of good, healthy food—he often couldn't eat much of what I made for him (and believe me, every meal was made with him solely in mind), but he was so appreciative of my efforts and never failed to tell me so . . .


Maybe it's the summer weather and the bounties pouring forth from gardens and farmer's market that has me kind of excited to be cooking again, maybe it's all the therapy that's finally helping clear some of the trauma that's clogged my brain for so long, making way for some good things again, maybe it's that I'm finally, just damn hungry—I dunno . . . but I have been taking more time and effort in preparing meals for myself again, which is still lonely as hell, but kind of enjoyable, in a talking-to-myself and answering-myself kind of way. And beats eating cereal. Again.

When I made the heavenly Brussels Sprouts the other night (I swear I hear angels sing whenever I type that), I also whipped up a big batch of Curried Potato salad, a Mediterranean Quinoa salad and tuna egg salad. Now, I'm wondering what the hell I'm going to do with all this f'n salad. . . maybe I could crash a 3M picnic . . .

The Curried potato salad was something I happened upon while searching online for a good, easy potato salad recipe, because I had some potatoes that weren't just growing eyes, but long, spindly tentacles that kinda scared me every time I opened the pantry door to grab a box of cereal. For dinner. Again. (An aside: there is nothing you can't find an answer to, online, btw, which is a whole 'nuther blog entry for a whole 'nother time). I've made curried chicken salad before, but never curried 'tater salad. What's the difference, you ask? Well, the simple answer is: dump a couple tablespoons of curry powder into anything, and suddenly, you got yourself not just plain ol' 3M picnic potato salad, but exotic 3M picnic potato salad! This recipe, however, also calls for chopped apple, sweet pickle relish and sour cream, for extra exoticness. The pickle relish was an interesting touch, but I'd do raisins next time, for the sweetness to counter the curry seasoning. I also use plain Greek yogurt in place of sour cream in pretty much any recipe (in fact, I don't even buy sour cream any more for these reasons), but do what you want, I'm not the boss of you, man.

Unappetizing soups, served with rocks, apparently.
 Courtesy of BH&G Soups  & Stews cookbook, 1978

As you can see, I took a totally unappetizing picture of my totally appetizing potato salad, for your viewing displeasure. It reminds me of the food photos in the 1970's collection of cook books I inherited from my father's estate after he died ("inherited from my father's estate" = "no one else wanted 'em"); those photographers did such an amazing job of making everything—beef stew, chicken cacciatore—even chocolate cake!—look so disgusting, I'm surprised anyone was inspired to cook anything back then. Or, maybe it's just that people really did cook things that looked super-grotesque back then. Who really knows for sure . . . anyhow, my Curried Tater Salad tastes much better than the photo lets on. I tossed a handful of walnuts in just before I served it up with a simple li'l pastrami, avocado, provolone and tomato sandwich, with a smear of wasabi mayo (<---- the only time you'll ever see the word smear without the word pap). A nice variation on the ol' run o' the mill potato salad, especially for summer.

So, I know the title of this post is "Curried Potato Salad and Trail Running, and blah, blah, blah," but I think I'll save the trail running part for my next entry, in an effort to reign in the ADD aspect of my ramblings. I can hear the collective groan from y'all, wanting sooooooooo badly to keep on reading, but don't worry. I'll be back. Until then, watch your back. Whatever that means.

Brussels Sprouts: not just a means to punish your kids anymore!

They're like tiny, baby cabbages! How can you not like 'em?!

I don't know if I've always liked Brussels sprouts or not; I do know I've liked them for as long as I can remember, which, in my world these days, means since yesterday. But I don't eat them often, because though I've had some gorgeous emerald-green, crisp-tender, flavorfully roasted (or otherwise prepared) sprouts in my day, I was also weaned on the frozen variety, which were usually just boiled in water, drowned in butter, and ended up on the pale, mushy end of the vegetable scale (which means it's no longer is a vegetable, by that point). That may have somewhat tainted my perception of the cute li'l leafy baby cabbage-like globes, and gives me pause when I see them in the grocery store, or on a menu.

I don't remember hating B. sprouts, like I did peas when I was in Kindergarten—peas are truly the only food item I can immediately recall having an honest-to-God visceral reaction to; as a tender five-year-old, peas honestly made me gag till my eyes watered—I think I even threw up in my hand once, when the cafeteria lady tried to force me to finish my cupful of creamed peas before I was allowed to leave the table. I cried really hard till snot ran down my nose and into my mouth, and I threatened to tell my Dad on her—now, if anyone knew my Dad back in the day, as the youngsters nowadays say, those were some serious fightin' words. Invoking the wrath of my Dad would be the modern day equivalent of a terroristic threat that could result in a lockdown of the school—trust me, you did not want my dad, a fierce li'l pitbull in his heyday, clamped onto your ass, man . . . but wait, we're talking Brussels sprouts here, not peas, or my dad, which I like just fine these days, creamed or not, in case you were wondering. Peas, I mean, not my Dad. With a glob of butter, some salt & pepa, I've learned that just about anything can taste pretty awesome. Well, except my Dad. And that's just plain bizarre, that I'd even type that. And now, I have the song "Push it" playing in my head and will, for the next week, all because I thought I'd be cute and type salt & pepa back there, 20 minutes ago, and you, too, can have it on a continuous brain loop, if you click the link! Double-dog dare ya . . . 'scuse me while I go see if I can score a few tablets of Ritalin from a high school kid . . .

Heavenly Hash, or something like that . . . 

Anyhooooooooodles. . . few summers ago, my sister, Jill and her li'l girlie, Amelia came out to visit us a few weeks before Bob went into the U for his godforsaken nightmare of a surgery. I remember the day well; though Bob was on a strict (self-prescribed) ice cream diet at that time, we still made a kick-ass lunch from farmer's market bounty we had picked up earlier in the day, hoping to tempt him with some delicious, savory home-made goodness. One side dish from that day, that has stuck in my mind is a killer Brussels sprouts with cashews and maple sugar recipe that Jill whipped up (and in the process, created an utter disaster in our kitchen, btw—swear to God, every freakin' pot, pan and utensil we owned was filthy—there were Brussels sprouts sticking to the walls and ceiling, by the time she was done with the meal, Gaia was lopping up maple syrup and cashews from the floor—but it was tooooootally worth it). These were The. Best. Brussels. Sprouts. Ever. In. The. History. Of. EVER. Even Bob forsook (forsuked? forsaked?) a bite of ice cream for a bite of this baby green vegetable heaven and pronounced it good. But, I haven't had it, or made it since.

The other day at Trader Joes, I spied a little bag of Brussels sprouts in the produce department, and threw them in my cart, as the memory of that memorable side dish infiltrated my brain, and it's all I think about, whenever I open the fridge, since I bought 'em. I couldn't remember the exact recipe, and have been playing phone tag with Jill these past few days to try to get it, before the sprouts, which have been in the fridge for the past several days now, start to sprout fur. But, I couldn't reach her, so I did a quick search last night, and found a recipe: Maple Syrup Brussels Sprouts with Pecans which I'm pretty sure is similar to what she made on that bittersweet, beautiful summer day, back in August of 2010. This recipe calls for pecans; I substituted cashews (toasted them, too, as the recipe says). Instead of 4 tablespoons of coconut oil (not sure why it asks for so much, seems like they'd end up grotesquely greasy), I used a good heaping tablespoon, and added 2 tablespoons of balsamic vinegar, for kicks and giggles. Oh, and I had some onion in the fridge, so I chopped it up and roasted it along the sprouts, too.

I served the sprouts with plain ol' cooked quinoa, to round out my meal. As I was preparing it, I could almost transport myself back to the time when I used to love to cook and would lose my self in the kitchen, experimenting with recipes, ingredients . . . I traveled back in time, to when our lives were so insanely out of control and the only thing I felt in control of, was what I was making in the kitchen, what I was feeding Bob, to help nourish him, to help stave off the effects of the chemo and cancer, to help him gain weight . . . and in the time-travel, I also thought how much love went into ever act I did for him during that nightmare, and how much love he radiated back to me, as sick as he was, he was always so grateful, so appreciative of everything everyone did for him . . . I still, to this day, maintain the believe that there never will be a cure for cancer, but that's another blog for another time, if ever. The best, and really only thing we can do is take care of each other, along the way. And that is all we need to do.

Soooooooooooo, try this recipe, today, dammit! I mean it! You can't leave the table until you do! It won't cure cancer, but even if you think you don't like Brussels Sprouts, this recipe might change your mind. But if you still don't—absolutely NO spitting them out in your hand. I mean, throwing them up.

House For Sale. . .

Went to see my mom and brothers over the weekend, and what a nice weekend it ended up being, despite the furnace-like temps we're being subjected to, for what feels like going on an eternity. . . maybe hell really is on earth . . . I've got our house for sale. Yes, again. This time, hopefully for good. I have been "researching" all options for where I will go, if and when it sells, and the St. Peter/Mankato area is definitely an option. I'd love to be back in St. Paul, but the reality is, it is so f'n expensive to rent a decent house, in a decent neighborhood. Damn near what my mortgage is (and in some cases, even more). I'd like to find a small house, with at least a one stall garage and a small, fenced yard. My hope is to downsize and simplify this time, not make things more complicated. Been there, done that, don't need that t-shirt . . .

I'm going the short-sale route, we'll see what transpires. My hope is that my mortgage co. will see my situation for what it is, a true hardship, and allow me to bow out of my home gracefully and painlessly as possible, given the circumstances. Trouble is, I'm not behind in my payments—kinda trying to be proactive here, peeps, though I should know better, as I've discovered time and time again on this f'n journey, that doesn't seem to be the way the rest of the world operates, unfortunately . . . sorry, a little worstcasescenarioitis flare-up, there . . .

This has been a long, dragged out process, which is one of several reasons I've not written lately. Such an emotionally-charged decision, yet one that I finally have to reckon with, and I can't even begin to describe how difficult these decisions are to make, on my own. Our house is far too much for me, financially, emotionally, physically, and is slowly bleeding my dry, financially, emotionally, physically . . . losing Bob means an infinite number of things to me, but one glaring "real world" loss is a significant portion of our income. "Back in the day," when we were together—healthy, able-bodied and working full-time—maintaining this house and all the expenses connected to it were never an issue. Bob loved to head outside and "do chores," as he called it—mowing lawn, cleaning gutters, clearing buckthorn, hell, he'd even scramble to the top of the metal roof and clean the sky lights. I even liked helping him, as together, we could make short order of a big project . . . Now, I alone am responsible for the upkeep and expenses of a life/home that two once shared. Bob, with his capable body, is gone, his income is gone, but all expenses and responsibilities of this house are still very much here, for me to deal with . . . we've been in a dragged-out heat wave for weeks now, yet I lie awake at night, dreading our "pending" winter, which in my mind, is "just around the corner . . ." We lucked out last year; we can't bank on two winters like that, in a row. I am ecstatic that this heat wave without rain has kept the lawn care at bay. Usually, it seemed that no sooner would I have the lawn mowed, I'd turn around and start all over again. . . So, with those thoughts and a whole host of others in mind, I started thinking about my options: stay in the house, try to sell, try to refinance, rent it out, get a roommate, and on and on and on . . . You'd be surprised at the various other "options" I came up with: the man-cave behind the garage would make an awesome meth lab, for example. I mean, the dude on Breaking Bad seemed to make a rather interesting go of it (disregard the fact that he nearly dies at the hands of drug lords in every episode) . . .

As lonely and easy to isolate as it is out here, I thought, perhaps if I could refinance, it would make sense for a few years to stay put. I could then justify the costs of paying someone to do yard work, snow removal and other expenses/repairs as needed. I may even feel better about spending a little extra money to travel a bit . . . So, I contacted my lender to see if I might be able to refinance, short answer is no, because I'm not working. Long answer is still no, because even if I were working, my debt-to-income ration wouldn't qualify me for a refi. So option B is the "Obama Hardship Plan," (aka, Making Homes Affordable) where there are several ways to modify a loan for homeowners, to assist in keeping one's home. Again, the short answer to "Do I qualify for that plan?" is a resounding no, because I'm not behind in my payments, because my Freddie Mac loan doesn't qualify under the programs, because of a whole host of other reasons. So much for a real hardship. . . this process took about three days to get through, several long phone conversations to various entities, and required copious amounts of financial paperwork on my end, only to be told there are no options available for me, to try to stay in our house . . . I can see how someone would become so frustrated and daunted by this whole process that they'd just throw up their hands in despair. But I plodded along, damned and determined to find some solution to my circumstances . . .

I was eventually referred to my local county housing and development authority, for further assistance. Another three days, copious amounts of paperwork and dragged-on, tearful conversations later, and coming up empty-handed with a solution to help me stay in our house, the very kind woman who helped me through this process finally asked me, "How badly do you want to keep your home?" I don't, really, I told her. It's too much property, too much house, too much work, far too expensive for just me to be here much longer. "Well, the only other option I can see for you, is to try to do a short sale, but if you go that route, definitely find a realtor who specializes in them, because it's a long and tedious process and might still not work out for you, in the long run," she replied. A short sale basically means that the bank accepts an offer for a home that is less than what is owed, but I soon learned it's a helluva lot more complicated than that . . . she gave me the names and numbers of a few realtors in my area who specialize in short sales, telling me that the county doesn't endorse any of the realtors, but simply offer their contact info as references to start the process.

Thus, ensued another three or so days, contacting the realtors, talking with them and setting up appointments to go over my "situation." I tell you, some days, I'm astounded at how I downplay my circumstances, as though it's something everyone goes through on a regular everyday basis, and how guilty I feel, thinking there are others who have it so much worse, and that I should suck it up and figure all this out on my own. Until a stranger who, hearing our story for the first time, sits across the table at me, mouth agape as words tumble out of my mouth . . . maybe it's because I've just become numb to the circumstances, having told the story so many times . . . maybe it's because any time I've tried talking to our mortgage company, their response has always been, "How far behind are you in your payments." I'm not, see, I'm trying to prevent that, is always my answer, which seems to be the wrong answer, because to them, at this point, I'm not a hardship. Or, maybe it go back to the time, after Bob had gone through 12 weeks of grueling chemo, was down to 112 pounds, had had his second heart attack and countless other crises, and I was blogging like crazy about the horrific situation we were in, when someone had the nerve to tell my mom that I needed to drop the martyr act already, or no one would follow my blog any more, because everyone has problems, y'know. To her, we were not a hardship . . . or the time a client of mine told me, in the heart of Bob's ordeal, "Well, just remember, there are always other people who have it far worse than you do . . ." What we had endured, in her opinion, was not a hardship . . . anyhow I digress, as usual . . .

As I sat with the realtor whom I finally decided to work with, he stopped taking notes and said to me, "Jen, your situation is about the most difficult scenario I've ever encountered, and I've been working with short sales for several years now." He then said he commended me for being proactive, as most people wait too long to try a short sale, when the foreclosure process has already started, and by then, it's too late. I asked why any other realtor that I had spoken with after Bob died, about selling our house, had never mentioned a short sale to me. In their opinion, I was told, I would not get what was owed on our home, but if I listed with them and had to sell below what I owed, I, personally, would be the one making up the difference, which could easily have been in the 30-60 grand range. That was the deciding factor in pulling it off the market in January, and move back . . .

He said that many realtors hate short sales because they involve so much extra stuff—paperwork, time, information gathering, etc.—that most realtors don't want to be bothered by them. Or they simply don't know enough about a short sale to offer it as an option for someone in a real hardship situation. Suddenly, I felt like I was back at the U of M again, when everyone is shouting the battle cry, "You have to be your own advocate!" But how can one be an advocate when you aren't even told what allf your options are . . .

There is no cut 'n' dried process of a short sale, unfortunately; each circumstance varies wildly, and my realtor has seen all outcomes. "In theory," the process is simple: seller writes a detailed hardship letter to their mortgage company and fills out all the paperwork involved with the property as well as insanely detailed financial information, all as "proof" to the lender that the seller is, indeed, facing a hardship. The house is listed, an offer is made and the bank approves. Done deal. An appraisal is done, inspection is done, everything that happens in a "normal" sale is done, but then, if an offer is made, the hope is that the bank will accept the offer, and wash the difference. But that doesn't always happen in that way. Sometimes, the bank simply refuses the short sale. Sometimes the bank says they want the seller to pay the difference. Sometimes, the short sale drastically affects the credit history of a seller, especially if the seller is behind in payments, which in the past might have freaked me out, as I have stellar credit, and have been somewhat of a pitbull in protecting that . . . But, I've also gotten to a point where I don't place such importance on something like a number assigned by a credit reporting company any longer. I'm not behind on payments or any other bills, nor am I about to turn around and buy another house any time soon. I am simply trying to be proactive and hoping to avoid the financial disasters that so many people have ended up in, in recent history. . . I keep telling myself, "It's just a house, it's just a house, it's just a house . . ." In other words, the flip side to the hit to my credit number with a short sale is far more devastating an option . . . it's not worth going into financial ruin over, just because I'm having a little difficulty letting go of the emotional ties to the house . . .

So, as luck would have it, the week I put the house up for sale, my lawn mower broke down and the central air unit began leaking water all over the utility room . . . and I got an offer, less than two weeks "on the market." A ridiculously low-ball offer, but an offer, nonetheless. Ultimately, with a short sale, the offer doesn't impact me at all; it is up to my lender to accept it or not. And I can always say "no" if the bank says I have to pay the difference in a short sale. At which point, I'll start perusing the internet for a good meth recipe and set up shop in the man cave . . anyhow, more stories on the widow front, to come . . . I promise. Lucky you.

You Can't Go Back Home . . .

Me! In the Jeep! By myself! Taking my own picture!
I am officially a loser!

There's an old saying, based not on the Bon Jovi song (which has been on a continuous loop in my head, since I started this entry, btw); rather, on some book way older that someone wrote some time ago (back in the 40's?), with the title, You Can't Go Home Again—and I don't remember who or what or when right now, and please don't ask me to look it up right now, 'cause this blog entry ain't gonna finish itself if I keep get sidetracked again, okay?! The super-simplified point of it is, you can't recreate your past. There's definitely some truth to that, but, it's not always a bad thing . . .

So, I went down to my hometown of Mt. Lake, in southern MN, on Monday and Tuesday for Pow Wow, the town's summer celebration (yeah, and don't even ask me why it's always held on Monday and Tuesday, when most people with real jobs have to work, or why it's called Pow Wow, when there isn't one freakin' mention of indigenous cultures at any point in the celebration. Because No. One. Living. On. Earth. Knows. Or. Ever. Knew. The. Answer. To Either. Question. Now, if I were mayor of Mt. Lake—which I'm not and never will be, so this is kind of a moot point, but this whole blog is kind of a moot point, so I'm just keeping with a theme here—you can bet Pow Wow wouldn't be on Monday and Tuesday, nor would it be called Pow Wow. ANYHOOOOODLES (honestly, can someone score me a month's worth of Ritalin, just to see if it'd help???), it's a long, complicated and super-boring story as to why I ended up in Mt. Lake this week, as it's been several years since I've been back, and I wasn't planning on going, and didn't even decide to go until the morning I took off, but let's just say this: I discovered that I can go back "home," even though home isn't much of what I remember, it felt for the first time in probably ever, at once deeply sad and immensely comforting. I went without any expectations, demands, or judgment—no other baggage except the eight pairs of shoes, three sundresses, four pairs of jeans, twelve pairs of underwear and sixteen shirts I packed for the two-day excursion . . . oh, and my dog. And still forgot my toothbrush.

Let's back up a bit . . . my sister, Jill, hadn't been back to PowWow in something like 14 years and suddenly, as though by a decree form God him/her/itself, decided she just had to take her kids to Pow Wow, just for the day, "for the experience," even though it's a two and a half hour drive to and two and a half hours from "the experience," even though she's teaching a summer class and is up to her armpits in work, even though I have taken Amelia at least once in her six years here on earth but she doesn't remember anything other than that Auntie Jenny had to stop every five steps to talk to someone which seriously cut into her merry-go-round ride time, even though Otto is still too young to give a rip about parades and merry-go-rounds and cotton candy, even though Amelia is involved in 18 summer activities back home, all of which started on Tuesday, at 8 a.m.—man, if I think I need Ritalin, my sister could use a constant IV drip . . . In spite of all that, Jill hounded me relentlessly, until I think I just had a lapse of sanity (okay, not true—my sanity has been lapsed for a good two years now. . .). I simply succumbed to her interminable prodding. Sometimes, with Jill, it's easier on everyone that way . . . that, and I hadn't seen Amelia and Otto for a good long while, and was a little bit desperate for kiddie face-time . . .

But, let's be real. I no longer have strong connections to Mt. Lake. I graduated over 25 years ago and high-tailed it outta town before the ink on my diploma was dry. All of my grandparents are gone. My dad is gone. My mom moved from the area over 25 years ago. I still have a few aunts and uncles and many cousins scattered throughout the area, but we have all grown older, have families and lives of our own and every time we see each other at a funeral or wedding, we say we have to get together more often, rather than just at funerals and weddings, but we never do . . . just life, happening . . .

My real interest in going back wasn't to attend the Pow Wow celebration, I must confess. I've been back a few times in the past decade to know that it isn't the Pow Wow of my childhood memories, and I get kind of sad when I see how things have changed. The midway seems smaller and grungier (my spell-check is telling me that grungier isn't a word and that I should substitute it for granger, which is even more mysterious a word than grungier, which just means "more grungy." Duh, spell-check.). The people are mostly unfamiliar. The big-kid rides that my nieces and nephews drag me on, that I, too couldn't get enough of as a kid, now make me feel like I could vomit my own heart out and my eyeballs might explode from my head. I have no true home to go back to—the house we grew up in is now abandoned, with boarded-up windows and overgrown lawn (not that it looked much better when we lived there—only thing missing are hay bales my dad so resourcefully stacked around the foundation). If I stay, I must make out-of-town arrangements for accommodations (which gets kind of complicated with a crazy mutt in tow, but thank God for my in-laws who take such good care of Rocco and me). Or, we simply go down for the day and drive back home, which makes for a very long day, and also heightens the wistfulness of the experience. I also dreaded that this time, going back would very likely be peppered with conversations of, "Where are you and what are you doing these days and where is your husband?" and I would have to answer, many times over, that my husband is dead. . .

The "mountain," from a distance, in a sea of green . . . 

Why would I purposely subject myself to such nostalgic torture? Why not let memories serve their purpose—to preserve a past life in soft focus? It's because of the name of my home town, and the story behind it that has haunted me since I was a young girl. Mountain Lake. I wrote a story about Mountain Lake for my travel writing class this summer, about how Mountain Lake got its name. Anyone even remotely familiar with southern Minnesota knows the landscape—calling anything within a 1000 mile radius of the area a mountain is a sign of serious delusion. And the lake that most are familiar with? It's a man-made body of water on the north edge of town, the deepest point being about six feet. Of all the things to call a town scratched into the soil of former tall grass prairies, why, o why Mountain Lake? For the answer, one needs to travel a few miles south of town, along a gravel road that carves its way through fields of green crops. There, you will find, rising above a patchwork of corn and soybean fields, a mound of earth rather startling in its prominence. The earth surrounding this mound is oddly more flat and level than most of the gently rolling farmland that continues beyond its parameters. What gives . . . ?

Close-up of the "mountain . . . "

This mound of earth, draped in a heavy blanket of hardwoods, was once an island in the middle of a glacial remnant lake, which flared its waters out across 900 acres. Aerial views of the area still show the phantom boundaries of the lake, dotted with tree clusters that were islands rising from its waters. The island had been a summer stop for indigenous people for thousands of years, an archeological dig on the "mountain" back in the '70s unearthed shards of pottery, bone chips of bison, stone arrow tips and other tools; the scientists believed it was a bison processing location . . . The first white settler to the area, perhaps nostalgic for his home country of Russia, decided that this island and the lake reminded him of a place back home, a mountain rising from a lake . . . in 1905, the shallow lake was drained to create more farmland, and one can walk the dusty rows of corn and soybeans and still find flecks of iridescent shells imbedded in the fields, rocks with aquatic fossils pressed into their surfaces, ghostly proof of a former life . . .

It is this story that brought me back to Mt. Lake. I wanted more details to make my story more accurate—one can make an appointment with the MN Historical Society in St. Paul, and travel into the bowels of the museum to view shelves upon shelves of artifacts found at the dig site, which I did, many years ago—but I wanted "first-hand" information about my home land. On Tuesday, I visited the Cottonwood County Historical Society where Linda, the director, had pulled a whole file of newspaper articles, a book on Mt. Lake history that was compiled for the town's centennial celebration back in 1986 (the year I graduated) waiting for me. There is even a display of artifacts on loan from the History Center in St. Paul, of the 1976 archeological dig—pottery pieces, arrowheads . . . I ran into "Uncle Eddie," who lived across the street from us, who was with his nieces (and our old neighbors), Ronda and Kendra. Uncle Eddie said that even today, if it rains hard enough, the low-lying area surrounding the mountain can flood so bad that one needs a canoe to get out (the recent devastating rains of the Cannon Falls and Duluth areas might have produced such flooding). With this visit, I believe I was able to unearth enough information to finish my story, and then some . . .

And Pow Wow itself, in spite of its name, in spite of its place on the calendar, proved to be a satisfying, comforting event. I may no longe know as many people wandering throughout the park where the celebration is held, but those we did run into embraced us as warmly like we still belong. Because we do. For eighteen years, this was my home, and there still exist fossil imprints of that former life of mine, embedded in the landscape . . . I saw cousins who gave me big bear hugs and bough me a beer at the beer garden and invited me to a tattoo party . . . a friend from high school whose dad was the same age as mine, who told a story about my dad as a freshman in high school, pulling a switchblade on a group of upperclassmen who were about to haze him into the letterman's club (I am sooooo proud of that story, I can hardly stand it—just like a scene from The Outsiders . . .). . . I learned that Mountain Lake is now home to a small community of Jamaicans who were lured by another family member who no longer lives in Mt. Lake, but for some ungodly reason, the rest stayed on and have come to love the prairie town with harsh winters . . . I visited an art gallery at the Historical Society, where a friend's mother is the featured artist with a breathtaking display of oil pastels, watercolors and collages . . . I even had the honor to be a judge at the talent contest which was the closing event of the summer celebration, a regular ol' home-grown Paula Abdul, I was (and the talent was just that—pure talent emanating from the contestants, which made the judging incredibly difficult . . . )

This might not be the town of my childhood, of my out-of-focus memories, but going back without expectations, without preconceived notions, made it an experience rich in new stories and new memories impressed into my life's landscape. And I think another part of it is, feeling still so disconnected from a world I once knew, I continue to grasp for things familiar, comforting, anything that might anchor me to a world I no longer feel a part of. It's been kind of surprising, on this f'n journey, from where those anchors appear . . . and now, the gratuitous nod to Bon Jovi. Who says you can't go home . . .

Dresser is Done!

I am finally done refinishing the dresser, which has been lovingly dubbed, "Dewey's Drawers," (Rocco didn't get the joke, but I thought it was a riot). To be accurate, it was finished a few days ago, but I misplaced my last surviving pair of reading glasses (I buy them in bulk, and lose them in bulk), and couldn't write until today, when I finally found my glasses on a shelf in my closet. No, I don't do a lot of reading in the closet, don't know why they were in the closet, will never know why I find my glasses in such odd places—never by a book, or my  laptop, or anywhere that'd obvious to leave them . . . I finished it on what would have been my dad's (Dewey!) 70th birthday—June 15—without even trying! (I am so bad at dates; can hardly remember what day it is, much less if a significant event had occurred on the day). 

I know I showed the "before" pictures of Dad's Drawers in a previous blog, but I wanted to include them again, to show the mesmerizing (well, to me, anyhow) difference—after the dust cleared, the stain dried, the echo of curse words faded and the piece was back in my house, ready to be put to use. My current "unmentionables" drawer is overflowing and in dire need of new accommodations, other than my closet floor . . . 

I wish I knew more of the history of this dresser. I love knowing at least a little bit about a piece I have, if at all possible. Makes me feel closer to the one(s) who owned it, loved it, had it as part of their life on earth. I have an antique china hutch with the gorgeous curved bubbled glass panes; it belonged to my maternal grandparents, who got it from my grandfather's parents, along with other "heirloom" pieces (my grandma never did like it, my mom tells me—she said it was all just "old stuff"). I've had it in my possession since I was in college, and I can honestly say it has moved at the very least 14 times (and each time, my mom dies a little inside, afraid that each move is going to be curtains for the fragile piece). I also had a bedroom set that belonged to them, as well, a wedding gift from my grandmother's parents. Her father died just a few days before the wedding, so all the wedding preparations—food, etc. were used for a funeral instead of a wedding. I had the set for years, then gave it back to my mom, after I got married. I never got around to finishing the head and footboards for some reason now lost on me, so guess what my next refinishing project will be . . .

Anyhow, back to my "new" dresser." My dad got it after my grandma died, and then my brother, Kurt, ended up with it and his daughter used it until recently, but that's all I know about it. I don't know how old it is, what kind of wood it's made of, who made it (I can see markings along the edges of the mirror that appear to be from a carpenter's tool—I'd bet all I have that it's hand-made). Maybe one of my aunts will come forward with a little more info on it . . .  Anyhoo, it's getting late, my eyes are closing on me, my fingers are lead, and I just wanted to share these pics quickly, before heading to bed. I think it turned out pretty dang good, if I do say so myself . . . and I think my grandparents and my dad would be proud. . .

The dresser, with mirror detached . . .

Serious wear 'n' tear evident on the dresser top . . .

Front of the dresser . . .

At this point, I've had it—my fingers are cramping, my nails are getting all ragged and torn, my back aches from stooping over and am ready to take a can of kerosene and torch the whole damn thing . . .

Just kidding . . .

The mirror, sanded and ready for staining. . .

Finally, back in the house, ready to be functional again! I am so happy with the results! I debated keeping the old hardware or not. It's not real brass, is kind of dented and scratched, but the patina-ed, weathered old pulls are charming, in rustic way, and makes me think of all the hands that have grasped them . . . 

Detail of top edge of mirror—I'm guessing grooves across wood are from carpenter's tool . . .