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There are many life tools I don’t possess. Like the left-brained aptitude to remember the quadratic formula. Or the wrist coordination to throw a dart in a straight line. But what I do have in my belt is a deep appreciation for silly humor and a big laugh.
In other words, it doesn’t take much to send me into a hearty cackle that sounds like a hen after it lays an egg.
Although our five senses are best when in sync, research shows smell has the leading edge on memory recollection.
For me, born and raised in Minnesota, some of the most powerful triggers are seasonal scents. Fishy lake water. The earthiness of dried leaves and bonfires. Crisp falling snow. Soil after a light rain.
Cedar is another sure trigger. On the rare occasion I get a whiff of it, I’m reminded of a walk-in closet in the basement of my childhood home.
There was a long white string hanging from the ceiling light fixture. When you pulled it, a plethora of boxes, shelves, and racks loaded with all kinds of old relics, including a few of my mom’s old purses, shoes, and dresses sparkled like a treasure trove.
Then there’s bus diesel! A quick pass by those toxic fumes, and I’m all over the map.
As my husband makes the final turn of our 20-minute drive home from the airport, our car’s headlights cast a sweep of yellow light across the darkened neighborhood. Until at last, the heavens open up, the choirs of angels sing, and our 1980s two-story at the end of the cul-de-sac is illuminated like a gold gilded vessel.
“Ok, everybody grab your stuff!” husband bellows back to Tween, Teen#1, and Teen#2—now tanned, peeling, and smooshed together in the middle row. Sounds of buckles unbuckling, luggage wheels racing on concrete, and siblings chattering about who gets the main bathroom first fill the late night air.
This morning we were 1600 miles away, basking in our last few hours of a week in tropical paradise including a couple of days in Disney’s magical land of make believe. Tonight, we’re back in Minnesota where people build houses on ice and eat tater-tot hot dish on a stick, and suddenly—there’s no place we’d rather be.
(Posted on Sept. 2016)
(This post was written in 2016, soon after hearing the confession of the man who abducted and killed Jacob Wetterling.)
In the thick of recent summer crazies, while schlepping kids around in my clunky, dilapidated Suburban Chevrolet with no working air-conditioner like a New York City Uber in broiling flannels, I fantasized a rap parody. It featured me busting a move in yoga pants out in the cul-de-sac, buzzed on espresso and cocoa nibs, after the kids left for school.
But, when school did finally start the day after Labor day, I didn’t feel much like busting a move.
I’ll never be a tree, of course. But if I were one, I’ve been thinking lately I’d want to be a Poplar.
There’s such beauty and poise in her pointedness that directs our eyes to the sky and God’s miracles. But her true beauty is mostly unseen in her fortitude even in the most unforgiving conditions and in her roots that unfold and extend beneath the soil like a motherly octopus.
I'm Julie Jo, former college newsroom junkie and PR girl, now a freelance writer and editor with two desks. This is the one I doodle on about past, present, and future clinking glasses and making peace.
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