My three bubbes (grandmas)

"If you look deeply into the palm of your hand, you will see your parents and all generations of your ancestors. All of them are alive in this moment. Each is present in your body. You are the continuation of each of these people."
Thich Nhat Hanh
Vietnamese Buddhist monk

"Omigosh. They look so Jewish."
That was the son's immediate reaction the other night when I dug out pictures of my grandparents for his geneology paper.
"Well, honey," I told him. "That's what we are."
Here in Little Norway — a.k.a. South Dakota — you just don't see people like my people.
Above, Exhibit A, from left: Grandma Molly, Grandma Esther, and Great-Grandma Frieda. You're not going to find ladies like these on the prairie.
Esther, my mom's mom, was in a league of her own ... a quality I would not come to appreciate until too many years too late.
She'd burst into the house after running errands, drop her bags on the floor and dash for the bathroom in full grandma sprint.
"Oy vey!" she'd yell over her shoulder. "I gotta pish."
Contemplating the wisdom of this Buddhist monk, I can't quite wrap my brain around the concept. I fully get the connection to my past, but I'm not sure where I'm supposed to go with it. I am so far removed, from both the people and the place, that some days it seems as though my grasp is slipping.
In February, it will be 26 years since my mom died. For nearly three years, I have been alive longer without her than with her. Why I can't fully process this thought and put it to rest escapes me.
At once, it was a lifetime ago and it was yesterday. The kids pull me forward. The pictures pull me back.
If Esther was around, she'd probably just shrug her shoulders and wave me off, and say it was a bunch of mishegas, which in Yiddish means craziness or insanity.
Then again, this is the woman, who with cigarette dangling from her mouth, told me that putting artificial sweetner in my iced tea was going to kill me.
But, maybe that's exactly the point. The memories, the laughter, the tears. The good times and the sadness. The presence and the loss. What makes sense and what is senseless.
Life is what it is. Mishegas.

-11, feels like -34

Or, in dog speak, what the heck are we doing out here? Please, can't we go inside?
Seriously. This is cold. So cold, it hurts to breathe.
The air draws in through the nose, freezing everything in its reach. Tears well up in the eyes.
Then, the cold punches its way into the chest, grabs the lungs and squeezes — hard — with every breath.
Certainly makes the household temp of 60 degrees seem perfectly balmy.
Speaking of heat, last month's bill dropped to $100. Just like winter running ... it's all about the layers.

Little house on the prairie

Well, Pa, looks like the weather forecasters got this one right. Temp is -8, feels like -36. Wind is blowing from the northwest at 30 mph, gusting to 37 mph.
Although, with the huge mass of precipitation stomping across the state, calling this storm was not brain surgery. Hmm, let me see ... dropping temps, moisture, wind ... could it be? A blizzard?
I stopped by HyVee yesterday afternoon, not thinking at all about the pending weather. The morning run was done. Life was good. All I needed to do was grab a couple of items.
Instead, I walked into a food frenzy. Aisle traffic was at a standstill with shopping carts and checkout lines were stacked five and six deep . It doesn't get this bad the day before Thanksgiving.
Blizzard's coming, remarked a passing friend.
Stocking up on foodstuffs. Of course! That is what South Dakotans do when bad weather is bearing down on the state.
The runners, however, were more focused on the ten-day forecast. Storm coming. Temperature supposed to bottom out well below zero. Gotta get out while the getting is good.
That is why we head out every day we can, so that when the roads become impassable, the winds fly and the mercury plunges to life-threatening degrees, we can sit inside, sip coffee and wait for the first clearing.
In the meantime, better tie a rope from house to barn.

Running against the wind and snow and cold

"Hey Amy ... saw you running the other morning when it was really cold, down around 8th and Main."
(This is code for: Are you freakin' nuts?")
Is it odd that people around town approach me this way?
I mean, first of all, in a small town, you go for a run and people see you. Second, winter running is not as bad as it sounds. And third, what seems crazy on the surface actually is the best way to counter months of being cooped up inside.
Oh sure, www.weather.com greets me first thing every morning. And, I cringe like everyone else when the forecast says 3 degrees, feels like -11.
But, if you dress right, most days are perfectly suitable for running. It's not craziness. It's just a matter of translating degrees and wind mph into layers — a fairly accurate and personal formula that improves every season.
The initial plunge out on the frozen tundra can be daunting and send the mind racing for excuses. Somehow, though, you put one foot in front of the other and within a half a mile, you're thinking to yourself or saying to your running buddy, "Not so bad, huh?"
Of course, wrapped in layers of fleece, it sounds more like, "Nn uh bld, uh?"
In this outdoor world of muffled silence, the trees spread their branches in icy glory and the snow reflects the sun's sparkle in a brilliance unmatched by any other season.
Soon, the negative thoughts and discomfort dissipate. You feel all-powerful and conquering.
Or, maybe not.
You spend the entire run cursing the cold, feeling your extremities grow increasingly numb and your shoes turn into frozen boards. Every little hair on your face frosts over and ice forms on your eyelashes.
In the end, though, it doesn't matter. The best part about winter running is being done.

The most wonderful time of year

Yes, it's true.
I cannot remember where I put the ornaments that I bought half price for the kids after last year's holiday season for this year's Christmas.
Last weekend, we weathered the winter's first stomach bug. Days after I disinfected the bathroom, the vomit stench remains lodged in the mucus lining of my nose.
My big toes are frozen senseless after the morning's run and round of errands.
The city's snow removal efforts are minimal and can best be described as pushing the snow around and waiting for it to melt. The van's tire wells are so caked with slush that the wheels barely turn.
Yesterday afternoon's temperature surge and subsequent plunge melted and then re-froze the back deck. The perfect combination of skating rink/negligence lawsuit.
And yet, I couldn't be happier ... well, maybe if it was mid-summer and 80 degrees.
For me, the best part of the holiday season arrives in the mail every day. Cards come from all corners of the country bearing photos and news of the past year.
In the midst of the 12 months, nothing seems to change or move much. But, look back with a full year's perspective, sum it all up, and oh my gosh, how life has gone on. Births, marriages, illness, death, travel, jobs, graduations, a new house, a new community — the news is vast and varied.
In many cases, I have not seen these people in years. We have not talked on the phone. We rarely, if ever, write or email. In an instant, as I pull the card out, all the time that has passed slips away and we are reconnected ... briefly, but completely.
Our sole moment of communication is captured in that one holiday letter. And, what a wonderful moment it is.

Cooped up and crazy

Paid a visit to the girls’ underwear department lately? I did and I’m still:
A) Shocked
B) Speechless
C) Disgusted
D) All of the above
Searching for Hannah Montana panties for my 11-year-old’s birthday, I came across padded bras for the grade school set.
A 30-A? Fully padded? Really?
Sure enough, the front of the tag featured a cartoon depiction of a cute, young thing, posing with hands on hips, and the words, “the padded bra.” On the back, the garment's features included “Graduated cups for added coverage and support.”
Judging by the size of the bra, it — literally — was made for my fifth grader, who is completely flat. Zero. Zip. Nothing to support. Nada. And, yet, here is an undergarment for her.
So, the question burning in my mind is: Why would we want to promote the concept of breasts in someone this young?
Or, even if she did have breasts, which can and does happen to girls this young, is there a good reason why we would want to enhance them, push them up and give the appearance of cleavage?

A Snowy Day

Couldn't help but notice the little real estate blurb on the N.Y. Times front web page today:
What You Get for ... $600,000. A two-bedroom house on Lopez Island, Wash., an apartment in Boston or a house in Sebastopol, Calif.
Or, perhaps, my home in Brookings, S.D., multiplied by three, plus $60,000 to $80,000 in cash.
This is what I am thinking as I'm shoveling out our corner lot from the 4-6 inches of snow that fell overnight.
Barreling down the second stretch of sidewalk, I see that the same person who swings by after every snowfall with a four-wheeler to clear the entire block has done so yet again.
We don't know who this kind soul is and we don't expect him to keep returning. But, after two years of steady snow removal, this blessed event is becoming a trend.
So, the question in my mind is, these $600,000 digs in other places, do they come with a friendly neighbor who plows you out after every storm?
Are they located in communities where people you may barely know hold fund-raisers to help cover your hospital bills? Drinking my morning coffee today, I counted four ads in the weekly shopper for such events.
Surely, I have cursed all that is bleak and unforgiving in this state ... the wind, the cold and the vast amounts of nothing. There is a lack of diversity in every realm — religion, culture, color of skin — that can lead to a lack of understanding of anyone or anything different.
There is no ocean view, no eclectic shops, no fine dining. The winters are too harsh and the summers too short. Some movies never make it to the local theater. We are still waiting for an organic food co-op.
Yet, in nearly 18 years of living in South Dakota, I have found, as I did shoveling this morning, an endearing quality about this place that trumps everything else: Here, help comes without asking.