It's that time of year again -- time for me to trek over to Montpelier for my MFA residency at VCFA. (That's Vermont College of Fine Arts -- or, as I discovered to my great glee last winter when I sent a box that way and ran out of room on the mailing label: Vermont College of F.Arts. I'm still laughing about that.)
I have one last semester left of my program and it's going to be a doozie. Over the course of the next six months, I'll write a lecture AND finish my creative thesis. This residency is kind of the gateway to all that, though, and a chance to spend nearly two weeks with a bunch of great people. Also, I get three squares a day without having to wash a single dish.
I don't know how much time I'll have to blog while I'm away at school -- but I'll try to stop in more than a few times. See you then!
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
Flashback Friday: On the road again...
It seems I spend most of my summer behind the wheel.
Today we leave Thief River and head to Maple Lake, where we'll hold an early family birthday party for my almost-11-year-old at my grandma's cabin. The weather looks fan-tas-tic for nine cousins to play in the water, so we've lucked out there. (It's so much a better scenario than nine cousins chasing each other around the cabin...)
Then tomorrow it's the long drive back to Rochester. I'll sit pretty for just over 24 hours, then it's off to Vermont for my MFA residency. Good times.
In honor of this flurry of travel, Flashback Friday features a roadtrip story from last summer:
* * *
‘Tis the season for hitting the road. For throwing the luggage in the back of the car and heading out — to the beach, the reunion, the woods, the wedding.
Both my and my husband’s families live “up north,” so we spend more than our fair share of summer weekends on the road. I’d like to say we’re seasoned pros, but to be honest, there’s room for improvement.
On our last trip, we took my husband’s Kia Sportage. With no a/c. And with so many bags, backpacks, and portable DVD accessories that the stack o’ stuff on the floor in front of me was level with my seat. I had two available positions: legs folded “criss-cross applesauce” or feet on the dash.
And did I mention there was no a/c?
The space issue was my fault. I’m a chronic over-packer. I fill the vehicle like I do the dishwasher — wedging pieces into every last nook and cranny. I think it’s because I throw my stuff together fifteen minutes before we leave — frantically running around the house with an open backpack.
“Will we need the bug spray?”
“We’re going to an indoor waterpark.”
“Yah, well, I’ll throw it in just in case. How about the karaoke machine?”
“No.”
“OK, just the portable CD player with a couple of the disks.”
Even as I’m making my final walk out the door, I’m grabbing random supplies. Anything in my path makes it on our trip — a box of Legos, a couple of couch pillows, the kids’ baby books.
By the time I’ve gathered the necessities, everyone’s waiting in the car — juice boxes loaded, earphones plugged in.
“Are you ready, yet?” my husband pleads.
“Almost, I just need to get my knitting.”
“You knit?”
“I did. Once. I thought I’d start again.”
“During the drive?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were going to update the baby books.”
“I am.”
“And finish your article.”
“I am.”
“And build a city made of Legos.”
“…I am.”
“You do know it’s only a five-hour drive?”
Truth be told, those are the things I’d like to do… if I didn’t spend most of the ride sleeping.
It turns out that spending any more than 20 minutes in the passenger seat of a moving vehicle is my equivalent of taking a handful of Nytol. By the time we hit Pine Island, I’m usually out cold.
Which is unfortunate, because there’s no pretty way to sleep in the car. And I know this because I’ve seen others sleep in cars as they drive alongside me. Their heads pressed against the glass, mouths gaping open, the imprint of the door lock on their foreheads.
And I think, That’s Love. If they get where they’re going, and their significant other — the person who watched them drool on themselves for 150 miles — still wants to be seen with their door lock-lined face at the family reunion, that’s love. And if my husband, who has put up with me packing three suitcases for a two-day trip up north for 10 years, still wants to travel with me, then that’s love, too. Roadtrip love. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Today we leave Thief River and head to Maple Lake, where we'll hold an early family birthday party for my almost-11-year-old at my grandma's cabin. The weather looks fan-tas-tic for nine cousins to play in the water, so we've lucked out there. (It's so much a better scenario than nine cousins chasing each other around the cabin...)
Then tomorrow it's the long drive back to Rochester. I'll sit pretty for just over 24 hours, then it's off to Vermont for my MFA residency. Good times.
In honor of this flurry of travel, Flashback Friday features a roadtrip story from last summer:
* * *
‘Tis the season for hitting the road. For throwing the luggage in the back of the car and heading out — to the beach, the reunion, the woods, the wedding.
Both my and my husband’s families live “up north,” so we spend more than our fair share of summer weekends on the road. I’d like to say we’re seasoned pros, but to be honest, there’s room for improvement.
On our last trip, we took my husband’s Kia Sportage. With no a/c. And with so many bags, backpacks, and portable DVD accessories that the stack o’ stuff on the floor in front of me was level with my seat. I had two available positions: legs folded “criss-cross applesauce” or feet on the dash.
And did I mention there was no a/c?
The space issue was my fault. I’m a chronic over-packer. I fill the vehicle like I do the dishwasher — wedging pieces into every last nook and cranny. I think it’s because I throw my stuff together fifteen minutes before we leave — frantically running around the house with an open backpack.
“Will we need the bug spray?”
“We’re going to an indoor waterpark.”
“Yah, well, I’ll throw it in just in case. How about the karaoke machine?”
“No.”
“OK, just the portable CD player with a couple of the disks.”
Even as I’m making my final walk out the door, I’m grabbing random supplies. Anything in my path makes it on our trip — a box of Legos, a couple of couch pillows, the kids’ baby books.
By the time I’ve gathered the necessities, everyone’s waiting in the car — juice boxes loaded, earphones plugged in.
“Are you ready, yet?” my husband pleads.
“Almost, I just need to get my knitting.”
“You knit?”
“I did. Once. I thought I’d start again.”
“During the drive?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were going to update the baby books.”
“I am.”
“And finish your article.”
“I am.”
“And build a city made of Legos.”
“…I am.”
“You do know it’s only a five-hour drive?”
Truth be told, those are the things I’d like to do… if I didn’t spend most of the ride sleeping.
It turns out that spending any more than 20 minutes in the passenger seat of a moving vehicle is my equivalent of taking a handful of Nytol. By the time we hit Pine Island, I’m usually out cold.
Which is unfortunate, because there’s no pretty way to sleep in the car. And I know this because I’ve seen others sleep in cars as they drive alongside me. Their heads pressed against the glass, mouths gaping open, the imprint of the door lock on their foreheads.
And I think, That’s Love. If they get where they’re going, and their significant other — the person who watched them drool on themselves for 150 miles — still wants to be seen with their door lock-lined face at the family reunion, that’s love. And if my husband, who has put up with me packing three suitcases for a two-day trip up north for 10 years, still wants to travel with me, then that’s love, too. Roadtrip love. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Time Travel
After traversing the state from corner to corner yesterday -- a trip that took more than seven hours and two stops at fast-restaurants -- the boys and I are in Thief River Falls. Thief River (also affectionately called TRF, TR, or my personal favorite, Tough Rubber Balls by the locals), is my hometown, and the place where my parents, sisters, nieces and nephews still live.
There's a comfort in being here. Even though it's been 20 years since I left, the landscapes of Thief River are as familiar as if I'd never gone. (Even after Wal-Mart bullied its way into town and left several downtown storefronts empty, and the 7-11 turned into a meat market.) When pumping gas at Pennington Main or stopping at Lori's Hallmark for a birthday card, I'm likely to run into an old neighbor or one of my cousins. And at the Rusty Nail, I'm almost guaranteed to see one of my old high school teachers hanging out at the bar.
That's, actually, a little strange.
But with the exception of seeing Mr. H with a beer, time has stopped for me here.
When I go to the Hugo’s parking lot to pick up milk for my mom, I’m still looking for Tom Pittman’s white ’68 Mustang in the parking lot and his toothpaste smile and dark brown eyes at the checkout lanes.
When I come in on Hwy 59 at the double lanes and cross the intersection at the Holiday gas station, I see the charred remains of the stoplight after a high-speed chase killed an older couple and landed a teenager in jail.
Oakland Park Road leads to the park, not where my family reunion was held last summer, but where my high school boyfriend and I used to make out in the tall grass at the base of the old sanitarium. Tindolph is where my high school best friend Nenna lives, regardless that she’s in New Mexico now. And the light at the end of that long driveway we pass on the way to my parents is my grandfather’s reading light over his recliner… even though the chair is gone now and my grandparents sold the house to my little sister years ago.
When I come home, I drive by these landmarks and others -- my other grandparents’ little white house with the “214” still peeling on the garage, the beach where Nenna and I drank from two-liter bottles of wine coolers, the dock off 8th street where I wished on pennies with a boy I hoped was wishing for me -- jostling time and place and confusing facts until I leave and life is as it should be again.
There's a comfort in being here. Even though it's been 20 years since I left, the landscapes of Thief River are as familiar as if I'd never gone. (Even after Wal-Mart bullied its way into town and left several downtown storefronts empty, and the 7-11 turned into a meat market.) When pumping gas at Pennington Main or stopping at Lori's Hallmark for a birthday card, I'm likely to run into an old neighbor or one of my cousins. And at the Rusty Nail, I'm almost guaranteed to see one of my old high school teachers hanging out at the bar.
That's, actually, a little strange.
But with the exception of seeing Mr. H with a beer, time has stopped for me here.
When I go to the Hugo’s parking lot to pick up milk for my mom, I’m still looking for Tom Pittman’s white ’68 Mustang in the parking lot and his toothpaste smile and dark brown eyes at the checkout lanes.
When I come in on Hwy 59 at the double lanes and cross the intersection at the Holiday gas station, I see the charred remains of the stoplight after a high-speed chase killed an older couple and landed a teenager in jail.
Oakland Park Road leads to the park, not where my family reunion was held last summer, but where my high school boyfriend and I used to make out in the tall grass at the base of the old sanitarium. Tindolph is where my high school best friend Nenna lives, regardless that she’s in New Mexico now. And the light at the end of that long driveway we pass on the way to my parents is my grandfather’s reading light over his recliner… even though the chair is gone now and my grandparents sold the house to my little sister years ago.
When I come home, I drive by these landmarks and others -- my other grandparents’ little white house with the “214” still peeling on the garage, the beach where Nenna and I drank from two-liter bottles of wine coolers, the dock off 8th street where I wished on pennies with a boy I hoped was wishing for me -- jostling time and place and confusing facts until I leave and life is as it should be again.
This Week in Jen's World...
What are you reading this summer? Here are my picks -- straight from this week's Jen's World.
* * *
When I was in grade school, my friend Kelly and I regularly sang the entire Grease album at sleepovers. We belted out “You’re the One That I Want” with diva-tude and layered on the drama for “Hopelessly Devoted to You.” But “Summer Nights” was our piece de resistance. Somehow, Kelly always landed the Sandy part while I was stuck with Danny.
While reminiscing and humming “Summer Nights” the other day (and taking both parts, thank you very much), I realized something: Instead of singing, “Summer lovin’…” I was saying, “Summer… reading.” As in, “Summer reading, had me a blast…”
What is up with that? Am I so boring now that summer reading trumps summer lovin’?
Geez, I hope not.
At any rate, it got me thinking about the book I just finished, which, seeing as it’s June, is officially summer reading. Now, I’ve got a personal problem and it’s called whenever-I-read-a-good-book, I-want-everyone-else-to-read-it,-too. I’ve told dozens of people—from my mom to my writing students to that guy at Kwik Trip who made the mistake of saying, “How are ya?”—about the book I just read. But apparently that’s not enough, because I thought, “Hey! Why not spread the word to all my reader-friends, too?”
So excuse me while I turn all Oprah on you and list my summer must-reads. Consider it the Jen’s World Book Club.
I get a little nervous about this, because the books I love you could think are absolute drivel. In fact, I once recommended a book I thought was pure genius (it's actually titled A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius) to a friend who couldn't get through the first chapter. I later redeemed myself, though, when I recommended it to another friend who loved it so much that she claimed to want to “lick the author's feet.” So, you know, I'm going to take a chance:
1. Right now I’m reading Bill Bryson’s The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid. You may be familiar with Bryson as a travel writer. In Thunderbolt Kid, though, Bryson writes about growing up in Iowa in the 50s. A gifted and entertaining storyteller, Bryson’s anecdotes are heavy on the wit and laced with humor. On a recent road trip, I read excerpts to my husband and kids, and had them laughing out loud.
2. Considerably less funny is Abigail Thomas’ A Three Dog Life. In this memoir, Thomas’—an author and teacher living in New York—writes about her life and marriage after a traumatic brain injury irretrievably changes her husband. Thomas writes sparsely, and the book isn’t heavy with emotion or sentimentality as you might expect. It had such an impact on me that I read it twice, back to back.
3. Population: 485 is written by Wisconsin’s own Michael Perry, who also happens to front Michael Perry and the Long Beds, a band that played in Winona recently. Population: 485 recounts the people Perry meets when he returns to his hometown as volunteer firefighter/writer. And really. Who doesn’t like a book that features an entire chapter on a cross-eyed butcher called Bob the One-Eyed Beagle?
I have more recommendations—ranging from Dr. Suess to Anne Lamott. (And if you’ve never read Joan Didion, find her essay, “On Going Home,” and just try not to shake your head and mutter, “wow” when you’re done.)
But I’ll hold those for another time. Until then, this has been the first edition of the Jen’s World Book Club. There’ll be no quiz later. But if you decide to pick up one of these reads, I’ll be interested to know what you think.
* * *
When I was in grade school, my friend Kelly and I regularly sang the entire Grease album at sleepovers. We belted out “You’re the One That I Want” with diva-tude and layered on the drama for “Hopelessly Devoted to You.” But “Summer Nights” was our piece de resistance. Somehow, Kelly always landed the Sandy part while I was stuck with Danny.
While reminiscing and humming “Summer Nights” the other day (and taking both parts, thank you very much), I realized something: Instead of singing, “Summer lovin’…” I was saying, “Summer… reading.” As in, “Summer reading, had me a blast…”
What is up with that? Am I so boring now that summer reading trumps summer lovin’?
Geez, I hope not.
At any rate, it got me thinking about the book I just finished, which, seeing as it’s June, is officially summer reading. Now, I’ve got a personal problem and it’s called whenever-I-read-a-good-book, I-want-everyone-else-to-read-it,-too. I’ve told dozens of people—from my mom to my writing students to that guy at Kwik Trip who made the mistake of saying, “How are ya?”—about the book I just read. But apparently that’s not enough, because I thought, “Hey! Why not spread the word to all my reader-friends, too?”
So excuse me while I turn all Oprah on you and list my summer must-reads. Consider it the Jen’s World Book Club.
I get a little nervous about this, because the books I love you could think are absolute drivel. In fact, I once recommended a book I thought was pure genius (it's actually titled A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius) to a friend who couldn't get through the first chapter. I later redeemed myself, though, when I recommended it to another friend who loved it so much that she claimed to want to “lick the author's feet.” So, you know, I'm going to take a chance:
1. Right now I’m reading Bill Bryson’s The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid. You may be familiar with Bryson as a travel writer. In Thunderbolt Kid, though, Bryson writes about growing up in Iowa in the 50s. A gifted and entertaining storyteller, Bryson’s anecdotes are heavy on the wit and laced with humor. On a recent road trip, I read excerpts to my husband and kids, and had them laughing out loud.
2. Considerably less funny is Abigail Thomas’ A Three Dog Life. In this memoir, Thomas’—an author and teacher living in New York—writes about her life and marriage after a traumatic brain injury irretrievably changes her husband. Thomas writes sparsely, and the book isn’t heavy with emotion or sentimentality as you might expect. It had such an impact on me that I read it twice, back to back.
3. Population: 485 is written by Wisconsin’s own Michael Perry, who also happens to front Michael Perry and the Long Beds, a band that played in Winona recently. Population: 485 recounts the people Perry meets when he returns to his hometown as volunteer firefighter/writer. And really. Who doesn’t like a book that features an entire chapter on a cross-eyed butcher called Bob the One-Eyed Beagle?
I have more recommendations—ranging from Dr. Suess to Anne Lamott. (And if you’ve never read Joan Didion, find her essay, “On Going Home,” and just try not to shake your head and mutter, “wow” when you’re done.)
But I’ll hold those for another time. Until then, this has been the first edition of the Jen’s World Book Club. There’ll be no quiz later. But if you decide to pick up one of these reads, I’ll be interested to know what you think.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Yesterday
Dangit! I missed a day. It happens.
Even though I haven't been doing Writing Jenny for long, I already have this kind of internal alarm clock reminding me to post daily. (It's a recording that pops up when I'm pouring milk into my son's Honeycomb or stepping painfully on the seventh Lego of the day: "Blog! Blog!")
But the truth is, I didn't think about this blog even once yesterday. Didn't cross my mind.
I've spent a good chunk of time at Mayo lately -- a habit I'm none too keen on continuing. Yesterday, I had my fifth appointment in as many days, three of which found me with my feet in stirrups while I made small talk over my knees.
So it hasn't been my favorite week in the world... but it could've been much worse.
Last week, the doctor holding my test results told me he was going to "ruin my day." Not exactly the intro I was looking for. He told me that I have a mass on my ovary... and that we better screen for cancer.
He talked about surgical options and risk factors, too, but they came after "cancer," so they're pretty much a blur. I took a blood test, and then spent the weekend prepping for the triathlon, staring at my kids, and whispering "benign" to myself, as if repeating it would make it true.
And then yesterday, the doctor who ruined my day told me that my blood test -- which screens for ovarian cancer -- came back negative. Is it 100% accurate? Nope. But it's promising, and I'll take it.
I have some more not-so-fun appointments ahead of me, including surgery later this summer. But I can't help but feeling incredibly lucky.
I feel lucky to not only have access to healthcare -- but to have access to some of the best healthcare in the world. I feel lucky to live in a country where health information is accessible, so that I have long been educated about warning signs and when to get help. I feel lucky that medical research has developed screening tests -- and that mine came back negative. I feel lucky that I have a support system of friends and family at times like these.
So I didn't blog yesterday. I didn't blog because I spent the first half of the day making that above-the-knee small talk, and the second half hugging my kids while thinking about how lucky I am to be me, here, now.
Even though I haven't been doing Writing Jenny for long, I already have this kind of internal alarm clock reminding me to post daily. (It's a recording that pops up when I'm pouring milk into my son's Honeycomb or stepping painfully on the seventh Lego of the day: "Blog! Blog!")
But the truth is, I didn't think about this blog even once yesterday. Didn't cross my mind.
I've spent a good chunk of time at Mayo lately -- a habit I'm none too keen on continuing. Yesterday, I had my fifth appointment in as many days, three of which found me with my feet in stirrups while I made small talk over my knees.
So it hasn't been my favorite week in the world... but it could've been much worse.
Last week, the doctor holding my test results told me he was going to "ruin my day." Not exactly the intro I was looking for. He told me that I have a mass on my ovary... and that we better screen for cancer.
He talked about surgical options and risk factors, too, but they came after "cancer," so they're pretty much a blur. I took a blood test, and then spent the weekend prepping for the triathlon, staring at my kids, and whispering "benign" to myself, as if repeating it would make it true.
And then yesterday, the doctor who ruined my day told me that my blood test -- which screens for ovarian cancer -- came back negative. Is it 100% accurate? Nope. But it's promising, and I'll take it.
I have some more not-so-fun appointments ahead of me, including surgery later this summer. But I can't help but feeling incredibly lucky.
I feel lucky to not only have access to healthcare -- but to have access to some of the best healthcare in the world. I feel lucky to live in a country where health information is accessible, so that I have long been educated about warning signs and when to get help. I feel lucky that medical research has developed screening tests -- and that mine came back negative. I feel lucky that I have a support system of friends and family at times like these.
So I didn't blog yesterday. I didn't blog because I spent the first half of the day making that above-the-knee small talk, and the second half hugging my kids while thinking about how lucky I am to be me, here, now.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
Flashback Friday
In honor of my parents' road trip to Washington this week, I'm pulling this old column from the vaults. It first appeared in the Post-Bulletin in May 2006.
* * *
Back in March, the P-B ran a story about a retiree who left his wife at a Wal-Mart when he drove away in the couple’s motorhome. Hours later, he realized she wasn’t sleeping in the back, after all. Outrageous, right?
Not exactly.
It was 1996, and my parents were driving across Minnesota in their Pace Arrow RV. A couple hours into their trip, my dad pulls over to check on his Harley, which is strapped on the back. My mom decides she could use some fresh air, too — so, unbeknownst to my dad, she hops out her side of the rig. She reaches the back of the motorhome just in time to see her husband jog up the other side — and pull away.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she thinks as she watches the RV fade on the horizon. “He’s got to realize I’m gone; I was sitting right next to him when we stopped!’”
But, of course, he doesn’t. My father, the career cop, assumes my mother has headed to the bedroom for a nap.
Back on the road, my mom’s assessing the situation. It’s about 9 p.m. on a moonless September night. Best as she can tell, she’s somewhere between Perham and New York Mills on Highway 10. This is, by the way, the definition of the middle of nowhere. She has no cell phone. No purse. No one to turn to to say, “What just happened?!”
So she starts walking. Certain my father’s returning for her any minute, she keeps potential rescuers (and “crazy people”) at bay by pretending to be out for a power walk — swinging her arms wildly whenever cars pass by.
About two hours into her hike, she’s passed a potato plant (no phone), a farmhouse (big dog), and spent a good hour walking the median (skunks in the ditch). At long last, she takes a ride with a truck driver who drops her at the first open gas station, about 20 miles down the road.
“You won’t believe my story,” she says to the clerk as she walks in.
Meanwhile, just north of St. Cloud, my dad and his brother, who he’s been following, pull their RVs off to the side of road. My dad decides it’s time to wake his wife.
Except, as you and I know, she’s not there.
This is where all hell breaks loose. When he doesn’t find her in the bedroom, my dad checks the bathroom. He looks under the table. He tries the bedroom again. As he tells it, “Honest to God, I was looking in cupboards.”
He calls 911. Admits he’s lost his wife. They’ve no one available to look for her, but they do have reports of a woman wandering the median on Hwy 10.
Commandeering his brother’s Ford Escort, my dad drives 90 miles per hour back up Highway 10 in search of his wife. (The poor car would rattle until the day they sold it.)
At about this time, my phone rang. “Have you heard from your dad?” my mom says. “I’m in Wadena and I can’t get his cell.”
"Aren't you with him?" I ask.
The story unfolds. I call an uncle, another cop, who promises to reach my father.
As it closes in on midnight and he speeds up Highway 10, my dad gets a call. “Is that motorhome so big you could lose your wife in it?” my uncle asks.
The rescue was swift. But the teasing and ribbing went on for years. In fact, it’s reached epic proportions. My parents were on vacation a few years back when a new acquaintance started telling a story. “Did you hear about that guy who left his wife on the side of the road in northern Minnesota…?”
* * *
Back in March, the P-B ran a story about a retiree who left his wife at a Wal-Mart when he drove away in the couple’s motorhome. Hours later, he realized she wasn’t sleeping in the back, after all. Outrageous, right?
Not exactly.
It was 1996, and my parents were driving across Minnesota in their Pace Arrow RV. A couple hours into their trip, my dad pulls over to check on his Harley, which is strapped on the back. My mom decides she could use some fresh air, too — so, unbeknownst to my dad, she hops out her side of the rig. She reaches the back of the motorhome just in time to see her husband jog up the other side — and pull away.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she thinks as she watches the RV fade on the horizon. “He’s got to realize I’m gone; I was sitting right next to him when we stopped!’”
But, of course, he doesn’t. My father, the career cop, assumes my mother has headed to the bedroom for a nap.
Back on the road, my mom’s assessing the situation. It’s about 9 p.m. on a moonless September night. Best as she can tell, she’s somewhere between Perham and New York Mills on Highway 10. This is, by the way, the definition of the middle of nowhere. She has no cell phone. No purse. No one to turn to to say, “What just happened?!”
So she starts walking. Certain my father’s returning for her any minute, she keeps potential rescuers (and “crazy people”) at bay by pretending to be out for a power walk — swinging her arms wildly whenever cars pass by.
About two hours into her hike, she’s passed a potato plant (no phone), a farmhouse (big dog), and spent a good hour walking the median (skunks in the ditch). At long last, she takes a ride with a truck driver who drops her at the first open gas station, about 20 miles down the road.
“You won’t believe my story,” she says to the clerk as she walks in.
Meanwhile, just north of St. Cloud, my dad and his brother, who he’s been following, pull their RVs off to the side of road. My dad decides it’s time to wake his wife.
Except, as you and I know, she’s not there.
This is where all hell breaks loose. When he doesn’t find her in the bedroom, my dad checks the bathroom. He looks under the table. He tries the bedroom again. As he tells it, “Honest to God, I was looking in cupboards.”
He calls 911. Admits he’s lost his wife. They’ve no one available to look for her, but they do have reports of a woman wandering the median on Hwy 10.
Commandeering his brother’s Ford Escort, my dad drives 90 miles per hour back up Highway 10 in search of his wife. (The poor car would rattle until the day they sold it.)
At about this time, my phone rang. “Have you heard from your dad?” my mom says. “I’m in Wadena and I can’t get his cell.”
"Aren't you with him?" I ask.
The story unfolds. I call an uncle, another cop, who promises to reach my father.
As it closes in on midnight and he speeds up Highway 10, my dad gets a call. “Is that motorhome so big you could lose your wife in it?” my uncle asks.
The rescue was swift. But the teasing and ribbing went on for years. In fact, it’s reached epic proportions. My parents were on vacation a few years back when a new acquaintance started telling a story. “Did you hear about that guy who left his wife on the side of the road in northern Minnesota…?”
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