25 Years!

It is my husband and my 25th anniversary today.

This seems quite incredible to me. I'm not that far out of high school, right? Our kids are just out of diapers, not about to graduate high school. These are laugh lines, not wrinkles, around my eyes.

My parents never got to see 25 years, they divorced before reaching that milestone. They both remarried within a year of each other, and as I like to say, my parents are happily married, just not to each other. I don't think I can say that anymore now that my dad is gone.

I look back at the people who attended our wedding. At the time I didn't have a single niece or nephew on my side — Wayne had eight. I remember feeling awkward the first time any of them called me "Aunt" Jenny. Our ringbearer, Travis, is in his 30's now and has 5 kids of his own. Our flower girl is living in New Mexico with the coolest dog ever, playing in a band and making music. 

Our flower girl, Emily Thomas

Our ringbearer, Travis Cambronne

I think of the guests who were there who are no longer with us. My father-in-law, Neil Horsman, my Grandpa Dolaskie, Carol and Chap Smathers, Phyllis and Pete Disher, Tom and Ann Dolaskie, and, of course, my dad who walked me down the aisle with a grin on his face. Over the years they've all left the mortal world; I like to picture them getting together in heaven reminiscing on the old days, laughter sprinkling down like dew drops.

One of the pages from our guestbook.

My dad walking me down the aisle. 

Do we have a secret to a long marriage? Not really. Except to say, it isn't perfect. No marriage is. They ALL take work and are not easy. We've learned over the years that there are traits that make a marriage work: 1. Patience 2. Listening skills 3. Humor.

We've both learned the value of time away from family and each other. Wayne finds peace in his long runs, and I've learned that when he can't go for a run, either due to family obligations or injury, his patience gets short, his temper goes up. I have a vested interest in making sure he can go for his runs. 

On the other hand, I re-charge by spending time with my girlfriends. We tell funny stories, support each other in our shared struggles and encourage each other in our endeavors. I have the most amazing friends and am thankful for their support every day. Wayne makes sure I get time with them away from the family because that's good for my mental health.

September 30, 1995

At one point in our marriage I was the breadwinner and Wayne was the main caretaker for our girls while I traveled. And then it reversed, with him accepting a promotion and my taking a new job that got me out of the airports and able to be home more. Now we've hit an incredible balance, with him just years from retirement and I working my business out of our home, able to balance parenting duties with professional duties. We are so fortunate. 

Our wedding party with our ushers

And that's where we are today. A bit older, a lot wiser, and a lot funnier. At least to us.

But one thing remains the same: Neither of us can really dance. Our kids can confirm this.

Happy anniversary, Big Honey.

Croissant Dough Named Charlotte

Picture Perfect Croissants. (I didn't make these.) 

I've become a fan of the British Baking Show, which I learned about from my sister-in-law Laurie and have been watching on and off for a few years. It's a lot of fun, putting amateur bakers to the test making new and challenging recipes.

My friend Deb and I were chatting recently and said how much we both would like to try to make some of the more challenging recipes they attempted. One of the most challenging ones was croissants. There is a lot of rolling, turning and folding, and tons of butter, followed by chilling, more folding and turning, etc. So we decided to try our hand at it.

Deb looked up a bunch of recipes and we ended up going with one that came out of a 1961 New York Times cookbook. We started on Thursday at her house, making the initial dough, rolling it out and adding in all the butter. Then it chilled overnight in her frig, and we picked it up again at my house the following night. 

Deb arrived at our home and announced that the folded, flat bit of dough had been dubbed Charlotte. Charlotte was about to get a working over now that she was at my house. Deb continued the process of rolling, turning and folding, which is supposed to incorporate the butter through all of the layers so that when it bakes it puffs up into all those delicious flaky layers.

My favorite part of the recipe is when it says "cut into triangles," which I have determined is the most passive-aggressive direction ever written in a recipe. Do you have any idea how to cut 18 triangles out of a square piece of dough?I do, but only because I've purchased Pillsbury croissant dough in the past and saw how it had been scored and rolled so carefully into that little tube. 

We managed to get 19 little tiny croissants out of the dough, which was supposed to make 18 croissants, so we considered that a success. We put it into the oven with the temp sent to "proof" and waited for them to rise. And waited. And waited. And they rose...a little bit. You could tell by the seams that they were indeed attempting to rise, but alas, they were not doubling in size.

Ready to start rising! Aren't they cute?! 

Do these look like they're rising? 

After a couple of hours we heated up the oven to 425 and popped them in at their current diminutive size. Oh well.

They came out like little bread knots. No flaky layers, no puffiness. Just a solid, dense chunk of bread. They were good if you were expecting bread knots.

Later on I read some other recipes for croissants, all of which called for perhaps a teaspoon or tablespoon of sugar. I realized that the sugar was the "food" for the yeast. Poor Charlotte, we starved her!

I have a new appreciation every time I casually pick up a croissant from a bakery. I'm going to try a different recipe and see if I can succeed at this. It was too much fun not to do it again.

Anti-Racist in Training

Sign at the George Floyd Memorial, August 2020

I’ll begin with a parable by David Foster Wallace, as told in a commencement address in 2005:

There are these two young fish swimming along, and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, “Morning, boys. How’s the water?” And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, “What the hell is water?”

This allegory, first spoken by David Foster Wallace at a commencement address in 2005, was referring to the important realities that exist all around us that are the hardest to see and talk about, that in the seemingly mundane work of “adulting,” we are choosing to make our lives important…or not important.

I would like to use the allegory to make a different statement:

All Americans are racists.

Someone first said this to me earlier this year as I attended the first of many rallies and protests in Minneapolis after the murder of George Floyd. I was taken aback and asked this person for an explanation. His short explanation? “We’re all swimming in the water.”

Our government was built on a basis of racism. When the founding fathers wrote “All men are created equal” they didn’t take “men” to mean all human beings, they truly meant all White men — women were not included in this statement, nor were Blacks or Native Americans. Women were not considered intelligent or unemotional enough to know what was best for them. The second were considered property, not capable of managing their own lives or living without a master. The third, Native Americans, were not included as belonging to the country because it was their country we would slowly annex to create our own over the next 100 years.

All subsequent systems were built out of this belief that White men were at the top of a racial and gender hierarchy. The banking system, justice system, healthcare system, the wrestling of state rights vs federal rights, all of it. It is all around us; so much so that as a White woman walking through this world, I never saw it.

“Oh yes,” you say, “But we’ve come so far, that’s ancient history now!”

Is it really?

In 2018, Wells Fargo was fined $3 billion for opening false accounts on behalf of its customers, taking out credit in their names falsely to “boost” reported earnings. While that was the action they were fined for, multiple cities across the United States have also sued Wells Fargo repeatedly for predatory lending practices, stating that Wells Fargo pushes BIPOC borrowers to take out riskier or more expensive loans than they should, costing many of them homeownership opportunities. Just this year the Trump administration stripped the Office of Fair Lending and Equal Opportunity of their enforcement actions, making them impotent. Moving forward, if someone believes a bank is not being fair to them on the basis of gender, race, religion or other status, there is no longer an office with any power that can help them. 

Today, the United States comprises 5% of the global population but 25% of the world’s incarcerated population. Why is that? Do we really have that many criminals here in the “land of the free?” Do you know the difference between a White and a Black drug addict? A White drug addict goes to treatment — a Black drug addict goes to jail. When those White addicts end their treatment, they mostly go back about their lives, to their jobs, families and communities, while the Blacks who serve their sentence have lost some if not all of those things while they were away, and have lost the right to vote for their rest of their lives (in most states).

In 2018, when 65% of Florida voters emphatically voted “yes” to restore voting rights to convicted felons who had served their time, 33% of adult Black men seemingly had their voices restored to them. I say “seemingly” because even now, in 2020, the roll-out of this law has been stymied by a new wrinkle that now states that those felons must pay all fees and fines related to their convictions. The voice of the poor Black man is not yet being heard.  

In the United States, a Black baby is twice as likely to die by its first birthday as a White baby. Research published in 2018 determined that the reason for this gap isn’t the unhealthy behavior of Black mothers, which has been considered the underlying cause for 30 years. Instead, it points to the gap in access to healthcare for Black and White mothers, institutional racism and the increased stress that Black mothers suffer living in a racist society.

We are swimming in the water. And suddenly I see it all around me.

As Angela Davis says in Ava DuVernay’s stunning documentary, 13^th, “It is not enough to be a non-racist. We must become actively anti-racist.”

I am working on becoming anti-racist. It is not enough to quietly walk through this world, accepting my guaranteed freedom while they are being denied to others in my own country.

I am starting where I believe I can make the most difference — here in my own city. I am taking my lead from the voices of Black, Indigenous, People of Color (BIPOC) communities who have been telling us for years what they need to be safe, to feel the same security I feel as I move about this world. In their neighborhoods the police are a menace, harassing them and brutalizing them for decades, robbing many of their freedoms for low-level crimes that lawmakers wrote years ago for misleading purposes.

I no longer want to live in two Americas, one built for people who look like me and one built for those who don’t. I hope you’ll join me in this change.

Quarantine Yoga

YogaFit offered virtual yoga classes during the stay-at-home order.

Our health clubs and yoga centers have been closed since mid-March. Marissa and I were in a good groove of working out at the club two or three times every week. I often made an extra trip during the week while she was at school. And then...nothing.

Our local YogaFit studio did an amazing job of creating virtual yoga classes. Their instructors would be in the empty studio with a laptop and a microphone. Every day they emailed the next day's schedule with links to the video and the Spotify playlist if you wanted the music the instructor picked in the background. They asked everyone to pay for classes they took online, even though it was really on the honor system as to whether or not you attended. They were really amazing and gracious at making yoga accessible during this time.

I took a few classes during this quarantine time, and realized how much I had missed yoga in my life. The long stretches, the muscles that you didn't know you had being sore the day after the session, it was awesome.

One day I picked up another class in the morning while both the girls were still in bed. (This could have been a 10 a.m. class, just to get a sense of how late my teens are sleeping in this summer.) I was in the basement where the only carpet in the house is located so that I had a nice cushy surface under my yoga mat.

In the middle of my class I hear Marissa get up. She comes down to the basement with a load of laundry, waves at me and goes to the laundry room to start her wash. Shortly after, I hear Lindsey get up.

How can I tell the difference, you ask? I have two words for you: Elephant. Feet.

Lindsey can be heard from two floors away when she gallops down stairs. Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom!! I think she hits every other step and takes all of the momentum and puts it all into the heel of her foot. Boom boom boom boom down two flights of stairs.

She peeks at me in the family room, then goes into the laundry room to get her laundry out of the dryer. I can hear Marissa still putting her laundry in the washing machine, and then, suddenly...a scream.

I'm not exactly sure how Marissa did NOT hear Lindsey's elephant feet coming down the two flights of stairs, but considering how well she tunes out the outside world much of the time, it was not surprising..but still surprising.

I hear the two of them laugh at how Marissa got scared. And then they start bickering.

"How could you not hear me coming down the stairs?"

"You KNOW how easily I get scared, why didn't you say something?!"

"Well I did, but you didn't hear me say that either!"

"You KNOW I have my headphones on, you could've done something else."

"Like what, turn the lights on and off? Like that wouldn't have freaked you out..."

And back and forth and back and forth. In the meantime, my yoga instructor is telling me to inhale slowly while doing some tricky balance move. Finally I yell out:

"Can you guys NOT? I'm doing FUCKING YOGA!"

Which was answered by a couple of giggles and then the two girls went back up the stairs together, laughing about how they annoyed their mother.

I was left wondering if they did that just to annoy me. I somehow managed to re-focus on my class and finish it out. We all laughed about it afterwards.

And that's quarantine yoga for you.

A Pilgrimage

I've now been down to 38th & Chicago many times now since May 25th, the last day of George Floyd's life.

It feels important to do. I don't know how to feel every time I go, which is why I go often.

The community has blocked off the intersection by a block in every direction — no police in sight, citizens can manage this themselves, thank you very much. Depending on which direction you enter it from, your car could be stopped by pieces of art, by concrete blocks, or by cars parked sideways across the intersection, music blasting from the stereo.

At each entrance you'll find volunteers at a tent, handing out masks and spraying hand sanitizer on each visitor. We are in the midst of a pandemic, after all.

Today, I visited with my husband and both girls and we first visited the "#SayTheirNames Cemetery," an art installation a block away, in a green space that was previously empty. This art was created by two Penn State students and is made of tombstones of every Black person who lost their lives at the hands of the police. It is devastatingly large and not complete. While there I emailed one of the artists (per their sign) and gave a couple of names to add to it, the most recent killing happening just this past Friday.

"#SayTheirNames" Cemetery, 37th & Park Ave, Mpls

From there, we walked the half-block to 38th & Chicago. You don't need the signs at each entrance reminding you that you're entering a sacred place, and to be respectful of brown and black people who may be in mourning. You don't need that reminder, you can feel it.

The street is covered with the names of Blacks who lost their lives at the hands of the police and have not received justice. The names stretch across faded yellow dotted lines that used to direct cars along the streets which are now only traveled by foot. An oblivious person was walking over the names and someone else asked him to move off of them and walk alongside. It was the respectful thing to do.

We came to the corner where George lost his life. The place on the street where he died has been painted, his body filled in with blue paint, wings unfolding from his shoulders as he ascends to heaven. The area where he died is marked off by red velvet rope and entirely lined with flowers upon flowers upon flowers, signs and letters to George strewn among the decaying flora.

Around the corner is the beautiful blue mural that was painted just a couple of days after his death. Marissa and I were visiting while the artists were painting it. I have visited here when the flowers were so thick on the sidewalk that visitors had to take to the street. Now, the decaying and dead flowers from three weeks ago have been removed and a new layer of fresh flowers lain down by visitors, though everyone respectfully keeps their distance and gazes upon it from afar.

This particular piece of art hurt my heart the most. These are George's final words. All of them.

Tents are set up throughout by various groups. I purchased t-shirts from black business owners who are raising money to re-build their barber shop and the salon next door which were both damaged in the ensuing riots. There was a tent set up in the parking lot of the Speedway to register people to vote, one of few ways that people in these neighborhoods can take back their power.

The previous day I was in this same area, working the "Recall Freeman" tent to collect signatures to recall Hennepin County DA Mike Freeman, who was waiting for "more evidence" before charging the officers with George Floyd's death. The only evidence he could have been waiting for was that exonerating the police officers, as the public had already seen the overwhelming evidence of their guilt.

The center of the intersection has a large sculpture of a black fist raised up to the sky, surrounded by flowers and art. Art upon art upon art upon art. The street was filled with the original graffiti after his death, of people writing "murder," and "f12," and "say his name" directly on the pavement. And then this was supplanted by statues, murals, other art that overtook the graffiti.

Stunning art of George Floyd made up the protest signs his death inspired.

Black grief is not quiet. It is loud. It is sometimes profane. It is undeniable. It is contagious.

Each time I visit, I see something new. I talk to people and nod and pay respect to people who, outside of this sacred space, I may not have felt comfortable approaching. I've had conversations with people all of creeds and colors in this space and we are all there together, with a singular mission: to honor George Floyd's life, and to ensure that his death was not in vain, that his will be the one that will change our society forever.

As *NOT* Seen on TV

The intersection where George Floyd was murdered, now a massive memorial.

I have no idea what the national coverage is of the happenings in Minneapolis. Probably, most local news stations turned to what is happening in their own backyards, since the rioting caused by the murder of George Floyd has spread across the country and around the world.

All I know is what it's been like here for the past two weeks.

I can tell you that a little over a week ago I was anxiously awaiting nightfall, wondering what parts of the city would be hit next. The businesses at 50th & France boarded up that weekend in anticipation of rioting. I later found out this was because the DA, Mike Freeman, lives in the neighborhood and some group had planned a march from 50th & France to his house to protest his bringing paltry charges against the police officers responsible for George Floyd's death. The case was eventually handed over to Minnesota Attorney General Keith Ellison (a black man), who then upgraded the charges against Derek Chauvin and charged the other three officers as well in their complicity.

I got somewhere between 4 and 5 hours of sleep a night for a few nights in a row, sleeping with one ear alert for people or vehicles who shouldn't be out after curfew. I was awarded with a spectacle of watching a family of raccoons raid my neighbor's garbage cans around 2 a.m., and a lot of groggy days. And then I thought about the black people living in our city whose nights' sleeps are like that every night, 365 days a year, because of the continual unrest within their neighborhoods and I stopped feeling sorry for myself. 

The majority of property damage done during the protests/riots were not done by local groups but by outsiders who came to our city, attracted by the potential for violence. In our neighborhood and surrounding neighborhoods, community members were been finding gas cans and other incendiary materials to start fires. Our assumption was that groups were leaving those in places during the day, then coming back to them in the cover of night to use them to start fires.

The local news ran a story asking for eyewitnesses or evidence to track down people who the ATF has footage of starting fires. Notice anything about the people they were seeking footage on? 

That's right, they are all white.

I see a lot of head shaking and mutterings of, "Why would they burn down their own neighborhoods?" The answer is, They didn't do it alone. White supremacists, anarchists and other groups came into our city and took advantage of the chaos to do those things. Whether their motivation was to discredit the Black Lives Matter movement or just watch a city a burn, they left town. They may have left in part due to the presence of the National Guard, but I can tell you that they also were thwarted at every turn by neighborhood watch groups who approached people and cars on the streets and told them to leave. 

Our grocery stores have been incredibly busy because the grocery stores in nearby neighborhoods have been damaged or looted, so more people are visiting ours. The shelves for staples like canned soup, toilet paper, laundry soap and others are as empty as they were at the start of the pandemic. Many of those are being purchased by people who are then donating them to organizations in the area helping families whose local grocery stores have been burned down. 

Same for our local Walgreens, the one where Beauty is a staff favorite. The other day Lindsey and I waited in a line that stretched to the back of the store to pick up a prescription. I've never seen a line that long there. An employee there told me that the four closest Walgreens to us were closed, either in anticipation of being attacked and damaged, or because they already had been. 

Yesterday I attended an event called "The Path Forward," sponsored by Black Visions Collective and Reclaim the Block, in which 9 of the 13 Minneapolis City Council members vowed to defund the police. They had the crowd of nearly 1,000 people break into small groups to discuss what that might look like, then provided an email address to send those ideas collectively to them for discussion. 

More on what "defunding" means and how that may look later. But...the overall feeling was hopeful, positive. We are moving beyond anger to action, and I'm excited to be a part of the change. 

Living in Two Different Cities

I'm sitting in my backyard with the fire pit burning, a dog snuggled up next to me and the quiet sounds of urban wildlife settling down for the night. The sun is slowly setting, we can see it through the little window where our trees open up to the west.

5/30/2020, 9 p.m., Fulton neighborhood, Minneapolis 

A family having a birthday celebration earlier today at Bde Maka Ska.

Three blocks from us, our local shops are boarded up. The grocery store closed at 5 p.m., the liquor store closed last night at 6:30 p.m. and will not re-open until Tuesday. 

The jewelry store down the street is also boarded up and the message "all jewelry has been removed from the premises" spray-painted across the plywood.

Jewelry store at 50th & France.

On one of the businesses at 50th & France.

Our Walgreens, the one where Beauty is so beloved by all the staff members, was broken into two nights ago. One of their doors is covered with plywood. They are open for business because people need their prescriptions, but they, too, closed early.

It feels like the calm before the storm. 

Our family is feeling helpless — we wish we could do more, so we started looking around to see how we could help. Local food shelves are now serving families whose local grocery stores were damaged or are closed anticipating violence. A Minneapolis public school in the 3rd precinct, where all this began, needs help getting food to their low-income families who would normally still be getting free lunch food. So Lindsey and I wrote down the list of what they needed and decided to buy the items, put together the food bags and drop them off tomorrow.

The line at our local Lund's of people waiting to go in to shop was out the door. The grocery store was closing early and still limiting the number of people in the store due to social distancing. So we decided to drive further out, to Bloomington, to shop for these families in need.

The store in Bloomington was also closing at 5; we got there around 3:30 p.m. The lines to check out snaked all the way to the back of the store. It took us two hours to get the groceries needed that we'll donate, as well as the few we needed for ourselves. 

One woman was there to get grocery for her sister, since her sister lives in the area of the protests and can't get to a store. Another was stocking up just in case the store there was a target too and she wouldn't be able to get groceries later on. And then there were people like us, who thought that driving to Bloomington was far enough away for us to avoid a crowd. Silly us.

The line to check out at Cub Foods in Bloomington.

It is so frustrating that just as our businesses were opening back up,after months of being closed due to the pandemic, they are closing again due to civil unrest. Salons that were going to be opening on Monday aren't any more, nor are the restaurants and bars that were set to open June 1. This could send some small business owners over the edge financially. 

All Minneapolis residents are under curfew start at 8 p.m. It is estimated that 10,000 agitators from out-of-state are in our city now, causing chaos and using this unrest as a cover for looting and destroying our city. In today's press conference, Mayor Melvin Carter of St. Paul said that of the 120 arrests that took place in St. Paul last night, 100% of them were from out-of-town. Gov. Walz says that their surveillance is estimating that 80% of the protestors are not from here, many from known white supremist groups. 

I am saddened by what is happening, moreso because we seem to go through this cycle every few years. Brutal murder, followed by outrage, followed by a promise for change, followed by a slipping back to old ways, followed by a brutal murder. And the fact that white supremacists are using this opportunity to besmirch the work of the black community legitimately protesting yet another unjustified death in this country angers me to no end.

I hope for peace. I hope for change. I hope for equality for all and protection under the law.

More later. Thank you for reading.

From "Stay Well" to "Stay Safe"

A crowd gathers at 38th and Chicago where George Floyd was murdered, watching artists create a mural to honor his memory.

On Monday of this week a black man named George Floyd was pinned to the ground and a white police officer knelt on his neck with his full weight, asphyxiating him until he died. A crowd of people gathered and cried mercy on his behalf to deaf ears.

George had been accused of forging a $20 bill at a local grocery store. He was unarmed, was already in handcuffs and had been placed in the back of the squad car. He was then removed from the vehicle, placed on the ground and the officer placed his knee on his neck for nearly 9 minutes. George stopped moving at 3 minutes in. The officer didn't remove his weight from George's neck until after the ambulance showed up and the gurney rolled out.

The gross abuse of power was captured in a 10-minute video shot by a 17-year-old girl on the scene. I cannot imagine the horror she experienced as she watched a man lose his life through the lens of her phone.

We are on night three of what we expect to be protests and riots. The first night was bricks through car windshields, some minor damage. The next night an apartment complex under construction was burnt to the ground, as was the local Target and AutoZone. Other businesses were broken into and looted. Last night the 3rd Precinct building of the MPD was set on fire, along with a host of other businesses. Violence is spreading to St. Paul and the suburbs, and solidarity in other cities is resulting in protests in Los Angeles, Denver, New York and more. 

At first I was angry and frustrated why communities respond to injustice by looting and hurting business owners who live in their neighborhoods. But then I read a few things that made so much sense to me, this one makes it the easiest to understand:

"A riot is the language of the unheard." — Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. 

This was first said in a speech on April 4, 1967 called "The Other America" given at Stanford University. He paraphrased this and used it in many interviews until his death exactly one year from when he first spoke them.

His full speech can be found here. It is disheartening that it is just as relevant today as it was when it was first delivered 53 years ago.

I read about the work of MPD150, which did a comprehensive study of the history of the Minneapolis Police Department over the past 150 years. Its roots in racism are deep, and its culture has not strayed far from those roots. Their comprehensive report, released in 2017, makes a powerful case for defunding the police department and diverting those dollars to community organizations that can help reduce poverty, address mental health and drug dependency and other issues that will make communities safer, thus reducing the need for police patrolling.

I also perused this sobering dataview produced by the Star Tribune of every death after a physical confrontation with police across Minnesota. They documented the race of the victim, of the officers, whether or not weapons were involved, and the final result of justice, be it charges or a conviction. It doesn't take long to see why George Floyd's unnecessary death is the final straw. 

Finally, I began learning from the Hampton Institute, a think tank in D.C. providing analyses on a variety of subjects affecting the working class. And they had this to say about the events in Minneapolis:

This event and the fallout has been the only talk of our home for a couple of days. The girls and I have talked about our society, white privilege, the history of oppression and what it would take to fix it all.  Today Marissa and I visited the corner where George was murdered to pay our respects and be with others who feel this loss upon more loss. We don't have answers. But blacks in this country have waited too long to no longer be oppressed, to not be killed for driving while black, jogging while black, shopping while black. 

I am using my voice to call our officials, speak out on social media, and support the fight for justice and the end of inequality. I'll be supporting local organizations as well which are working to fight for change by donating to Communities Against Police Brutality, Minneapolis FreedomFund, MPD150 and others.

Please, educate yourself by following the links in this article. Here's a listing of other resources:

"The Warmth of Other Suns," Isabel Wilkerson
"The New Jim Crow," Michelle Alexander
"I'm Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness," Austin Channing Brown
"The Hate You Give," Angie Thomas
"Evicted: Poverty and Profit in the American City," Matthew Desmond
"13th," and "When They See Us," documentaries by Ave DuVernay

Not. One. More.

Turning 17 in the Midst of a Pandemic

Lindsey turned 17 this month, during social distancing, essential trips only, essential businesses only, a looming recession.

The best part of the day by far had to be the flamingo flock in our front yard. It was placed there overnight, so when we woke up in the morning and looked out the windows, surprise! A flood of pink. She was shocked.

We planned a gathering of her friends with a "Nailed It" challenge. "Nailed It" is one of her favorite reality shows, with the hilarious Nicole Byers as the host. People who have absolutely no business being in a kitchen are given extravagant, professionally-designed cakes to recreate in short amounts of time. The results are, let's just say, hilarious.

I contacted a local baker who was willing to make us a single fondant sculpture on a cupcake as an example and provide the supplies for the girls to attempt it themselves. Normally she wouldn't take a job of this size, but with the pandemic and everything, no one is really gathering anymore, so she was willing to take the job.

The original sculpture to copy.

The impressive "Nailed It" results.

We set up work stations outside so that the girls weren't in the house. They did have to go in to wash hands every now and then, but otherwise people were outside. They had a blast trying the challenge, I was actually impressed with what they came up with! They had such a great time.

It's hard to believe that a year from now we'll be planning a high school graduation. How these years have flown by!

Driving Practice

Lindsey needs to get 50 hours of practice driving in before she can take her driver's test. This includes 15 hours of nighttime driving. We're not sure when she'll be able to take the test since the DMV has been closed due to the pandemic, but whenever they re-open, she'll be ready!

This has been a perfect time to get practice driving in for Lindsey. There's no such thing as rush hour and she can practice driving Uptown and other places at night and they aren't too crowded. She's got an app that tracks her time and the kind of driving she practices.

This past week we went for a drive and before I know it 30 minutes have passed. I checked her app and said, "Wow, we've already been driving for 30 minutes! Feels like so much shorter than that."

She replies, "That's because I'm such a delight."

We both laughed so hard she almost had to pull over.

Slowing Down

Throughout this COVID-19 pandemic, I've been in almost daily contact with my sister Kristi who is a nurse at a local hospital. The emotional and mental toll of preparing for a pandemic is taxing to her and other front line health care workers, even though right now her hospital has a few COVID cases and many empty beds waiting for a wave of patients. Hopefully that wave doesn't come — Minnesota has experienced fewer cases than neighboring states and has done a great job of using social distancing and other tools to keep infection rates down.

She and I were commenting on an interesting phenomenon that's occurring through all of this. Currently she has a standing weekly video conference chat with a group of friends from her years living in Indiana, and another weekly chat with her high school classmates who are scattered across multiple time zones. These are friends who see each other once every few years, even though they still consider themselves close.

She also initiated a video call with relatives from our dad's side of the family, people we enjoy seeing very much but do so only every couple of years. My close group of local friends are gathering every week; previously we were lucky to get together once a month.

We joked that both of our social calendars are now busier than they were before, even though everything is happening online and not in-person. Which begs the question...

Why weren't we doing these things before?

Video-conferencing has been around for years, easy-to-use, cheap and effective. Yet we've never done a video conference chat with our extended family, nor she with her high school classmates.

The difference is that now, in these troubling times, everyone is realizing that the most important things in life aren't things. Each of us has been forced to slow down our lives, to stop scurrying from activity to activity, and to take time to breathe. All of our friends who are much busier than us, with multiple kids in multiple activities plus their own functions to attend to, suddenly have nowhere to go and nothing to do. What better time to check in with friends whom we think of often but speak to rarely!

Honestly, this little pause in life has been a rare gift. Our family eats every meal together, but instead of rushing off to finish homework or work on a project, we sit around after the meal and talk. We tell funny stories to each other and laugh. Oh my, how we've been laughing! Such a treat.

I hope that when this is all over, when we can go about our lives without fear of making each other sick, that we remember these moments and cherish them. And, I hope, we continue to make room in our lives for the people who matter the most.

Your Input Requested: A preview, Kind Of

Taken summer 1989, 3 months after high school graduation.

What follows is an except for the start of my memoir. It's not really *my* memoir, is that of Paul Gilles, 1971-1992. I would so greatly appreciate your input on this format. We are moving through time, from the 1990's through present day. Does that work? Would you read on? Let me know. And I am so grateful for your honest feedback.

12/18/90 Random Dream

A couple nights ago I had a strange dream. The setting was an old farm or some type of rural building. I was there with an older man, possibly the owner. He was somehow shot and killed and I was shocked by his death. However, this wasn’t the main part of the dream, as that happened quickly at the beginning.

The burial was the appalling part of the dream. His body, no casket or coffin, was lowered by two ropes into a grave which was filled with water. He was bloated and white, but once under the water he took on a greenish cast. They took the ropes out from under him, causing his body to roll in the water. A dirty glass was placed over him and planks were nailed over the glass, spaced apart so you could still see his body. His body floated up to the glass, pressed against it in a desperate way as if trying to escape. Then I woke up.

Good beginning to a diary, isn’t it?

Hindsight: A Little Background

Here’s where you’re dropping in: It’s 1990. I am 19 years old, living in St. Cloud, Minnesota, during my sophomore year of college. My parents moved around a lot when I was younger, but when I was in the 6^th grade we moved to Sheboygan Falls, Wisconsin, a place I will call my hometown the rest of my life. Since my family expected my sister and I to go to a four-year college, I made plans to go to college somewhere as far away as home as possible without being too expensive. Far enough that it was a pain-in-the-ass to drive, 9 hours one way, but not so far that you needed to buy a plane ticket because we didn’t have the money for that. It was also a state school in Minnesota that had reciprocity with Wisconsin. I couldn’t go to an in-state college for cheaper. And, since my parents divorced when I was in high school, I figured the cheaper the better, because I would end up footing this bill. Eventually.

The divorce, my childhood, my being in a different school every year from 3^rd through 6^th grades, is a different story. Back to the story at hand.

My high school years were spent in a small town in a small school. Which means that I never dated anyone from my high school. My romances were always summer romances, discovered on the shores of Lake Michigan with boys from Sheboygan North or South, two high schools from the larger city nearby. We often met at the beginning of summer and broke up once school started. I was far too busy for romance during the school year. Plus, I didn’t want the drama of ever having dated anyone from my own school and the awkwardness that happens after you date and break up, so I never dated anyone in my school. Okay, once. But…he was the exception. Regardless, I spent my high school years in happy geekhood, spending time in the band room practicing my saxophone, or in the theatre, or as a part of the speech team, the ultimate geekiness in high school. I couldn't care less, I loved high school. 

Paul and I probably met in middle school band, I honestly don’t remember when. He played trumpet, I played saxophone. I remember him during our band trip to Florida my junior year. He was quirky, quiet, and made me laugh a lot. After that we probably talked a little during band practice, and he was in my advanced math class and helped me a lot because math wasn’t my thing, but otherwise we didn’t talk outside of school. I knew absolutely nothing about his family, his background, his growing up, except for who he was at the time.

Until. Until.

A week before our high school graduation our yearbooks were delivered, and the senior class had a party at the local park to sign each other’s yearbooks and share memories. I wanted to have him sign my yearbook so I approached him while he sat among his friends, all lean, muscular boys who were on the cross-country team with him. He wrote something like, “We should go to ‘Dead Poet’s Society’ together this summer,” or something like that. I took that as an invitation, and about a week after graduation I called him and asked when we should go see the movie. We set a date and that was the beginning.

That summer, we did everything together. We went to movies, we hung out in the ways that only teens can hang out, doing nothing but everything at the same time. We laughed together. Hard. We watched “Monty Python” episodes and movies, something he was trying to introduce me to but I really wasn’t getting the humor. We went to a Brewers baseball game in Milwaukee with a group of friends, who having not seen us since graduation, saw us together and said, “Wait, are you two together?!”

By fall we were madly in love. And I was bound for St. Cloud, Minnesota, 9 hours away, and he was bound for Sheboygan Technical College 10 minutes away from our hometown, which was cheap and saved him money on room and board.

Fuck.

The 90th Birthday Celebration from Afar

Yessss queen!

"Visiting" with Sherrie during Coronavirus lockdown.

 My mother-in-law, Millie Horsman, turned 90 years old today. She is such a gem, I always enjoy my time visiting with her!

Unfortunately our family get-together to celebrate her birthday was canceled, due to the Covid-19 pandemic currently keeping all of us apart. But the lead up to today was made special by the dozens and dozens of cards sent to her by family and friends and friends of friends! She said that nearly every surface of her apartment is covered in cards and getting the mail has been an absolute treat every day for the past several weeks.

At her congregational home they aren't being allowed to gather for cards and games, but she spent the day chatting with the many people who called.

Millie has led a remarkable and fascinating life. She grew up on a farm with her seven siblings and her parents. When she was in high school she informed her parents that she was going to go to college. No one in her family had been to college, and none of her siblings had plans to go. Her brothers complained to their parents, "Don't let her go, all she's going to do is get married and have babies." But she insisted and in 1948 went off to Mankato College. She didn't own a car, and when she needed to get back to the farm during the school year she and a friend would hitchhike rides back to home. I thought that was very courageous of her, she thought it was just practical because her parents weren't going to drive all the way to Mankato to pick her up, and as long as she and a girlfriend were together, they felt that it would all work out.

Millie loved spending time with all her grandkids.
Here she is with toddler Lindsey.

While in school she worked at the front desk of one of the dorms, checking in and out the girls as they came and went in the evenings. She was paid 45 cents an hour — boys who held the same job at other dorms were paid 65 cents an hour. Millie inquired as to why girls were paid so much less than boys and was informed that since boys foot the bill to take girls out on dates, that they got paid more. That seemed to make sense to her, so she didn't ask any more questions about it.

She married her sweetheart, Neil, in 1954 and began her career teaching. As her brothers predicted, she did indeed have a family, and a rather large one at that. She had four children in 5 years, all in a home that did not yet have indoor plumbing. (She did go on to have one more, another 10 years down the road). When her youngest of the first 4 children turned 5, she decided it was time to go back to work, and so she did. She taught elementary school in Tracy, Minnesota the remainder of her career, retiring at the age of 67. Unlike her brothers' predictions, she did indeed have a job, one that influenced thousands of children over the years, leading to many good memories of Mrs. Horsman by her former students.

Millie and Neil walking in Central Park, NYC, 2005

She tells the most incredible stories of her life, of learning how to bake bread at age 9 because she was upset her sister Clara got to do it and she didn't know how yet, of picking raspberries one summer with her sister and saving up the money so they could buy a piano together. There's a photo of her kitchen sink with a big cardboard sign on it that says "1961" — that was the year they got running water in the house and she didn't have to use the hand pump anymore. She is incredibly unconventional in having an education when women of her generation — especially women in rural farm towns — never went to college.

Millie's 81st birthday in 2011 with many of their grandkids and great-grandkids (but not all).

Laurie, Mark, Millie and Kathy, 2017

Hopefully we will be able to re-schedule this gathering after we can be together without the fear of making each other sick. In the meantime, happy happy 90th birthday, Millie!

There Are No Emergencies During a Pandemic

My sister is a floor nurse at a local hospital and is on the front lines of the COVID-19 epidemic. Mom and I keep checking in on her, knowing that, right now, work isn't just physically draining but also emotionally exhausting for her and everyone she works with.

The hospitals protocols are changing almost daily, with new information and as they prepare for the onslaught of COVID patients. One of the things that's in the news right now is the need for ventilators and for N95 masks. N95 masks are a certain kind of mask that keeps out the smallest particles and are the recommended personal protective equipment (PPE) to keep health care workers from getting sick while treating COVID patients. They are in short supply right now. And then there are the ventilators — hospitals want to have on hand significantly more ventilators than they usually own for this epidemic. This has been a point of much discussion in the news, with people speculating why hospitals would need so many more ventilators. I mean, other flu varieties don't require this many people to be ventilated, why now?

Kristi explained in a phone call with our mother and I, and here's the reason:

There are no emergencies during a pandemic. 

Nothing, not your loved one being unable to breathe or having a heart attack, is worth risking the lives of healthcare workers who are there to save them.

During normal times, if someone presented to the hospital in severe respiratory distress, they would be put on a bipap machine. It's like a c-pap machine that people use for sleep apnea, only with pressure on both the exhale and the inhale. Patients can be in a regular hospital room if they are on a bipap machine.

Except...

While someone is on a bipap machine their breath is aerosolized, airborne in the room for others to breathe in. Without enough N95 masks to protect health care workers, chances are high that those treating these patients will contract the virus.

If the person's breathing continues to worsen and their oxygen levels don't rise, then they are put on a ventilator, which is a much more serious intervention. The patient is heavily medicated because a tube is shoved down their throat. Without sedation, patients will try to grab at it to remove it,  possibly damaging the airway. During the intubation procedure of someone who has COVID, everyone in the room is highly at risk for being exposed to whatever virus or bacteria the patient may exhale, so personal protection equipment is essential. After the intubation, a machine breathes for the patient and they are typically in the ICU so their medication and oxygen levels can be closely monitored. It is not pleasant.

During the coming epidemic, hospitals are skipping the bipap stage and going straight to the ventilation stage. Why? One, because they don't want to expose their caregivers to the disease by aerosolizing the virus with bipap machines. Two, if the patient worsens, the care team will be frantically donning their protective equipment outside of the room while the patient is in distress, unable to breathe. By the time the care team is able to enter the room, the person may be unconscious, suffer irreparable brain damage from the lack of oxygen, or have died.

From a nurse who was on the front lines of fighting the Ebola epidemic: There are no emergencies during a pandemic.

There is no rushing into a room during a code blue, nurses and therapists surrounding a patient and providing life-saving care. There is no treatment without first taking precautions that the patient may — MAY — have COVID if any symptoms are present. Right now hospitals beds are being taken up by people who are waiting for test results to rule out COVID, since it currently takes 48 hours to get results back. Until a patient is known to NOT have the virus it is assumed they do, meaning that each time a nurse enters the room they must gown up appropriately. It takes much longer to care for patients now than when a pandemic isn't going on.

So yes, there is a shortage of ventilators. There is a shortage of N95 masks. And scientific data is behind all of the changes that hospitals are making to reduce mortality during this pandemic. Science and facts.

*NOTE: This was published with the input of my sister. It is not a reflection of her opinion or that of her employer, only mine.

Cooking During a Pandemic

Our house is out of chicken. I was low before the whole coronavirus/hoarding thing happened, and now all of the stores are out.

It is a main staple for me in my cooking, it is so versatile in all the ways you can prepare it. I've shopped multiple Cub Foods locations, my local Lund's, Wayne hit Costco, and no one has any. We are not dark meat eaters, all those chicken thighs can just sit in the case.

I'm so bummed. And yet...my kids couldn't be happier.

"Chicken this, chicken that," they would say. They are thrilled. No chicken during the entire quarantine! Hooray for them!

Both Wayne and I picked up cuts we normally wouldn't pick up. Pork tip roast. New-to-us cuts of beef. Turkey tenderloins.

And tonight, I roasted a pork tip roast with a dry rub recipe I selected from Allrecipes.com.

As it roasted the house filled with its aroma. It drifted from the kitchen through the entire lower level, up the stairs and finally to the closed bedroom doors of the two teenagers. They finally came downstairs wondering, "What smells so good?"

This stuff, oh yeah.

Even my non-pork eater ate two slices of this roast at dinner, it was that good.

Later this evening, at a virtual happy hour via Google hangouts, my friends and I kept looking for silver linings in what's going on right now.

• More acceptance from corporations to accommodate work-from-home arrangements.
• Insurance companies finally accepting and paying for telehealth appointments. (Yay progress!)
• Unity across our entire country regardless of party.
• Universal focus on what's important in life: Family. Relationships. Love.

These are crazy times. The last pandemic of this size was in 1918. The Spanish flu took 50 million lives worldwide — its mortality rate was 10%. The coronavirus has a mortality rate of 1%, nowhere near as deadly. And yet, if 70% of Americans get it, 2.5 million people will die.

Let's not go there.

So please, stay safe, stay home, love your family, and eat all the random sh*t you can buy. Except this stuff. I would be hard pressed to buy this, even with the enticement of bacon.

Good Minnesotans never take the last one. Anyone? Anyone?