The World's Largest Wild Rice Festival

Well the reunion came and went, and dare I say it was a blustering  success!  20 years of missed conversations with great people all packed into one night.  Anna and I traveled home together sans kids and husbands- something we have not done since our ten year reunion!  Who would have thought we could have the best girls weekend away in Deer River?? (This is us being mature and fun.)


Not only was it our 20^th reunion, Deer River, Minnesota also hosted it over one of the best weekends of the year:  The World’s Largest Wild Rice Festival.  What an amazing coincidence!

Yes, in Minnesota, we have festivals around our native foods!  As kids, we always looked forward to the festivities.  Surprisingly, it took me being gone for 20 years to realize what a unique privilege this little celebration was.  Where much of the year Northerners retreat to their summer cabins on the water, or hibernate during the long winter months in their warm log homes and fireplaces, this little gem of a weekend brings EVERYONE- old and young out of the woodworks.

While the Carnival rides go on for the littles Friday evening through Sunday afternoon, Bingo games sponsored by the Lions Club go on for the older folks that are feeling a little lucky.

Friday evening is kicked off by a Turtle Feed. No this is not a place where you buy food for your pet turtle.  Mr. Turtle is the main dish for this event!  (Hide your turtles, kids!)

Next, the Leech Lake Ojibwe Tribe hosts a Pow-Wow for all to celebrate and learn about their Native American culture through song, dance, and dress.  Everyone is invited to observe and even participate.

Later, the local Vets Club sponsors the Beer Garden all night- where the darkest beer you’ll find is an amber that you can still see through- which is a sin in some countries.  On the other side of the block you can find the street shut down and the dance going on both Friday and Saturday evening.  (This is Anna with her "I don't know what to do with two beers" face.)

If you’re up and at 'em early enough the next day, Saturday is kicked off by the Wild Rice Run (race) and a bike rodeo for the kids to have a chance to win a bike and enjoy some ice cream.  This is serious business for these little guys! 

Saturday is also the big day for the flea market and this isn’t just any flea market.  Here you can find some unique gifts, such as taxidermy...

 Shotguns or rifles for hunting...

And raffles that support the local high school trip to Washington DC with a chance to win a beautiful custom-designed bon fire pit.  Though I entered, I wasn't quite sure how to haul this baby home if I was lucky enough to win.

Sunday afternoon is the big parade, where you will find true hometown pride, as we salute the veterans marching with the flag.  Additionally, we pay tribute to the other hometown heroes- the volunteer fire fighters and EMT workers of Deer River and neighboring towns.

Local businesses, student clubs, and even a princess or two can be spotted riding in the floats and on top of cars. 

All will be throwing candy out into the crowds for eager little ones to come racing into the street and fill their bags- because you can still get away with this in a small town.

And this simple festival is all the town needs for an opportunity to catch up with old friends that haven't seen each other since spring thaw.  One can sit down, enjoy an indian taco with some wild rice soup and a Bud Lite.


The weekend was a whirlwind.  I left with a full belly, sleep deprived, and mentally restored.  In addition to catching up with friends, going home to Deer River reminds me to take the time to enjoy the little pleasures in life that I tend to overlook when I am rushing around to the next big thing.  And this is why I come home.

(photo credits to Anna Lise Photography)

Dear Class of 1997

Dear Class of 1997,

Can we eat nachos yet?

As I have the day off today, I am throwing random clothes into my suitcase for my long awaited trip.  (That is a lie. They're actually color-coded and rolled neatly to prevent wrinkles.)  This weekend I’ll be heading home to Minnesota for my 20^th reunion.  Only four more days! 

20 years!  How crazy is that?  What an accomplishment.  What a lifetime ago- that seems like it was just yesterday.  And when did we get... old?

I’m so beyond excited; however, I cannot help but see a few apprehensive posts and messages on Facebook in addition to the excitement.  Could it be true- that at our 38/39-year-old place in life, that we are still nervous to see the ones that saw us back when we had overall jeans and mullets?

Quick answer?  Yes.  Probably.  There is some stupid pressure that goes along with having been graduated for 20 years.  We should definitely have it all together by now, right?  We should be gently snuggled into our career field of choice, with a 401K growing ever so diligently.  We should have our debts paid off and a nice college fund saved up for each of our kids, right?  We should have our ‘forever’ home bought and at least a decade into the mortgage, right?  Student debts should all be paid off by now, degrees are all completed, and we’re living all happily ever with our significant other. Oh, and we’ve also managed to lose those 15 pounds we’ve been battling since college, or post-babies, or whatever, right?

Oh crap.  But what if we don’t?

What if we’re still trying to figure out what we want to be?  Or paying off debts, or trying to lose the weight?  Hell, I’m still fighting with pimples- and wrinkles!  What kind of an evil is that about?

 And now, we are 4 days away.  I’m thinking I’m probably not going to lose the weight or the wrinkles.  But I was able to color some of the gray out of my hair.  Because I’m sure everyone will care- because I know I’m going to be analyzing everyone else’s gray hair.  Or… not at all. 

The reality is, I’m so beyond excited to see the friends and classmates that I grew up with for 13+ years.  I cannot wait to hear their stories and what their secrets are to surviving this life.  I cannot wait to laugh at old stories, and reminisce.  I cannot wait to share a beer and sincerely just see everyone for who they really are, because there is something so unique and special about the bond that you form as kids.  There is an understanding- an unspoken knowledge of the many things that we all went through to become the adults that we have become.  They know.  They were there.

And so, four days away from my reunion, as I’m packing my suitcase, I think I’m going to enjoy a plate of nachos and a beer.  Maybe I’ll even wait until after noon.  Maybe.

Keeping the Watch

My first Thanksgiving after I left home was when I was going through my technical training down at NATTC (Naval Aviation Technical Training Center) Pensacola, Florida, and learning Oceanography and how sound travels through the water.  We students would not be allowed to go on leave until Christmas break, so I was on my fifth month of being away from home and my family since I had left for boot camp back in June.  I had concocted a plan to just go to the galley with a few friends and have a turkey dinner complete with that crazy ‘sweet potato pie’ that they made there.  I had been eating it for weeks now thinking it was a weird pumpkin until someone politely corrected me.  Coming from the North, I had no idea people made sweet potatoes into a pie.  The idea was absurd.

When I awoke on Thanksgiving after the rare chance of sleeping in until 0800, I went down to the common areas to find that my LPO (Lead Petty Officer) of the performing units was setting up a table for our grand lunch.  As the day went on, he and his wife and a few other friends had brought in home-cooked dishes of Turkey, stuffing, and the whole works.  Our folded table stretched long down the hall and fit nearly 30 of us.  That afternoon we sat and gave thanks for our first home-cooked meal in nearly half a year.

The next year, I went on my first overseas deployment to Iceland.  I arrived there a week before Thanksgiving, and felt like I had landed on another planet.  I knew not a soul, but was assigned to combat aircrew #9.  A few days later, my crew and a few of their wives that had come to visit on the rock they called Iceland had made arrangements for a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner complete with a folding table and paper plates.  It was prepared in the Flight Operations room, so those of us that were on duty could enjoy a dinner and reflect on our gratitude.  I had been so lonesome for my family, but that day I had the opportunity to get to know my new family.  I was so impressed that the officers on my new crew included us enlisted guys in their celebrations.  I quickly came to learn that they always would take care of us, ensuring our meals before their own. 

As the years went on, and we were deployed or on duty on Thanksgiving or the holidays, this would continue as our new tradition.  No matter where we were, someone would always put together make-shift meal at some folding table.  Sometimes it would be me, mastering the art of a Ramen-Noodle Casserole, deli-sliced turkey, and canned cranberry jelly, or whatever I could come up with in the barracks.  Really, it didn’t matter.  And as a tradition, we would express our gratitude for all that we had in that moment and remember those less fortunate.  We would all have those fleeting moments of sadness as we thought about what our family back home was doing that moment and the traditions we were missing.  But then we would look around and remember that we weren’t alone.  We had each other.  And together we kept the watch.

Blonde Moments



Yes, she is old enough to drive.  Even old enough to drink.
But not at the same time, of course.

I think I'm going to start a new segment called blonde moments.  No I'm not blonde (at the moment)- nor do I have anything against blondes.  But my best friend is blonde...  coincidence?Perhaps.



Today I received a phone call from her- as she was barely able to speak.

"Oh my gosh- you'll never guess what I just did!"

"What?" I whispered under my breath as I was at work and my office mate is an engineer.  The crazy kind.  I didn't think he'd find this conversation appropriate for work.

So I tried to speak in Pig-Latin on the phone so I wouldn't look suspicious.

"Ut-way id-day oo-yay oo-day?" I continued in my secret, nearly unbreakable code.

"Well, on my to-do list today was taking the truck to the emissions place to get it checked out as the inspection is due soon.  So I'm just going about my day and driving down the road.  Hmm Hmm.  Hum Hum.  [that's how she sings]

"So I was almost there when I realized-- [long dramatic pause]  I was driving the car!! You know, instead of the truck- which was the vehicle that needed the emissions checked!!  It was back home, peacefully sitting in my driveway."  She was nearly out of breath by now.

I couldn't make this up if I tried.  It was almost as bad as the day I sent a letter to my sister in Washington- but forgot to write her address on it.  Just spaced it.  I found this out as the letter arrived promptly back in my mailbox the next day.  Of course I had at least wrote out MY return address on the thing.  Another stamp down the drain.

Go ahead.  Tell me your blonde moments.  I know you have them!  You're safe here.  We won't judge.  Well, mostly.

Doing the Best We Can

In Honor of Mother’s Day this Sunday, I thought I’d share what I've considered to be one of the most important lessons I believe that I've learned about motherhood.

**********

My best friend and I had our babies within weeks of each other.  The next ones were born within months of each other.  By the time we had our last, we had 5 kids between us- all under the age of 4.  Some days were wonderful.  Most of them were hard.  It didn’t help that our hormones were completely out of whack at the same time.  

A typical conversation of ours over the phone:   “Maybe if we can just get to one of our houses together, we can help each other make it through the day.”  The thought of a simple task such as cooking lunch for the children seemed near impossible.  I was also still feeling weak from my last C-section.  

So we would get together and try to work in 'shifts'.  One would cook with a baby on her hip, serving up plates like an assembly line and the other would be carrying around another baby while supervising the older 3 that were somewhat 'playing' together.  Some days we’d work on thriving.  Some days we were just trying to survive.

We had both struggled with bouts of PPD.  One day it got the best of her.  She fell into an even darker place.  Her husband supported her in every way he could.  Still, it was hard to understand.  And even though I understood- there wasn’t much I could do to help.  I was still struggling to keep my head above water as well.  I listened to her and quietly cried with her.   

On a particularly bad day, I decided that I needed to call her mother- who was like a second mother to me.  She would know what to do.

Without hesitation, her mom flew across the country to be with her daughter as soon as she could get a ticket.  I (trying my best to help out) picked her up at the airport.  At the sight of her I couldn’t hold my tears in any longer.  I wanted to be strong for my friend, but inside I was secretly dying too.

I couldn’t help but wonder what I was doing wrong.  Everyone else made it look so easy.  They said they were happier now as a mother than they’d ever been before in their life.  What was wrong with me?  I felt like I had not only failed myself, I had failed my children.  This was not how I had envisioned it...

I crumbled in her mom's embrace.  Minutes passed.  Finally I pulled myself together enough to drive home.  Along the way I answered many questions and concerns she had about her daughter.  I know she understood.  I knew she’d know what to do to help her.

And then, she looked at me and said, “You know Julia, my mother made many mistakes. She had a lot of things going on in her life when I was young.  I harbored resentment towards her for a long time.   And then one day when I became a mother, I had this simple realization that changed everything. I realized that my mother had been just doing the best she could with what she knew.  I was finally able to let go of the grudges I had held towards her.  And I realized that is all I can do too.  That’s all any of us can do.”

It was such a simple statement, but it changed everything.  I clung to those words.  Things began to get easier as they usually will do.  Not over night, but eventually.  And one day I realized, I too really loved being a mom.

I couldn’t imagine my life any other way.  Despite the fact that I'm not Martha Stewart or June Cleaver, I too had something to offer my children.  All mothers do.

Years later, when given the opportunity, I tell all new mothers- including my little sister who had a baby 3 weeks ago-  we are all just doing the best we can.  It’s such a simple statement- but such a release.  We can let go of the judgment of others and ourselves, the fantasies of being perfect, and the guilt for falling short.  Some days all you need to worry about is surviving.  Tomorrow you can work on thriving.

A Life Lost too Soon

I'm not a poet.  However, writing is the one way I can usually make sense of my emotions- if there is sense to be made.  Last week I lost a very dear friend in a very unfortunate way.  Death is such a hard thing to make sense of as it is, and when it comes intentionally, it leaves many unanswered questions in its path.  Guilt, anger, sadness, confusion- just to name a few...  


The insanity only stops when we release the need to make sense of it and instead focus on remembering the beautiful life that once was. 


The following is my tribute to her beautiful life.  Melissa, I will always hold you close to my heart.  I only wish you knew how many lives that you touched.

A Life Lost Too Soon


You were a ray of sunshine,

A thunderous shower.

A raging ball of fire,

A beautiful spring flower.

You had charm and you had wit,

You were tough and strong.

Full fortitude, full of grit,
A shoulder to cry on.

You were a caretaker to those that were sick,

A friend to those in need.

 Never thinking of yourself,

Never showing an ounce of greed.

Life was not easy.

Your eyes saw more than they should.

Still you fought long and hard,

Your heart gave all it could.

It’d been awhile since we last met.

I didn’t get the chance to tell you goodbye.

I can only hope you knew it in your heart,

As the time and years passed by.

So please all, listen closely and come near.

Everyday tell your friends you love them,

And hold their precious memories dear.

For our breath is not promised,

Tomorrow could be lost.

Anything can happen-

In any moment, at any cost.

Melissa you were loved,

More than you'll ever know.

I will forever hold the guilt,

That you felt you had to go.

Melissa Karleen Collins 10-21-1978 - 3-26-2012
Love you and miss you.

Broken

(Photo courtesy of stock.xchng)

They say you’ll never forget your boot camp bunk-mate, and I can attest that a true statement.  Her name was Sheila.  Though we never stayed in touch, she taught me many lessons during the longest nine weeks of my life.

 

She was the first African-American I’d ever met.  Sure, I’d seen black people before on TV and when we’d drive down to The Cities.  I wasn’t racist because I had no reason to be.  I never had to fight the white/black wars.  If anything, Sheila was a novelty.  I marveled at her gorgeous cocoa-colored skin.  I wanted to touch it- to feel if it really was different.

We became good friends during those transforming nine weeks.  We depended on each other, and looked out for each other,  and I did eventually touch her skin.  I held her ankles during sit-ups, helping her up from the ground.  It really didn’t feel any different, and after a while I didn’t even notice that it was a different color.

However, there was another difference.  I never realized how different African-American hair was from mine.  I had no idea that many of those long, beautiful braids people had were often fake hair.  Not until the day our RDC broke Sheila.

She had beautiful, classy-looking braids in her hair that ended up growing just a little bit below collar.  Collar-length was our limit.  One day, the RDC came by and said she had better have them pinned up at all times.  Most times she did, but after marching in the heat all day long, a few would slip out.

Catching them like that one day, the RDC ordered her to remove them all.

Reluctantly doing as she was instructed, Sheila began struggling to unbraid these perfect strands of shiny, coal-colored hair.  She began to cry.  One by one they began to fall into a pile on the floor, leaving just about 2 inches of untamed, frizzy hair.  At first I was shocked and panicked, wondering why her hair was falling out.  Soon, two other black girls came by to help her begin the tedious task of unbraiding them all.  I quickly joined, learning as I watched.

Tears continued to stream down Sheila’s face and she watched her beautiful strands fall.  It was plain heart wrenching.  Her beauty, and femininity was being slowly stripped away.  I guess that was the point.  There was no pride here- not unless it was Navy pride.

I wiped away her tears, promising that when this was all over, we’d get it fixed together.    When we finished, her hair was coarse and unmanageable.  It stuck up in every direction and was completely unruly.

And she was beautiful.

The previous is a piece from "What They Don't Teach You in Deer River" and was written in response to Write On Edge's prompt:  "write about a time when something was irrecoverably broken and the ensuing scramble."

The Measure of a Leader

It had already been a painful day.  We had pre-flighted three planes and ‘downed’ all of them.  Engine oil leak here, cracked wing there…  We were always to be quick and efficient, though to be efficient- it was impossible to be quick.  Finally, on the 5th hour of our 3-hour preflight, we deemed the 4th plane good enough to trust with our lives.   We relocated our gear once more and took off.

The Mission:  Deliver three Commanders to ground forces “In Theater” so they could show how efficient our operations were.  It was not a typical day- it was a show-and-tell day.  The Skipper trusted his best crew would accomplish the mission with ease. 

After dropping off the officers, we took off for the sky.   Somewhere in that moment, a gruesome realization struck our unfortunate Technician, Dan.  Instantly his face grew as pale as a ghost.  I thought him to be ill and quickly searched for an empty bag.

“You okay?”

He hesitated, mumbled something and then spit out, “I forgot the antenna!”

Surely I hadn’t heard him right.  “What?!”

“I FORGOT the antenna.  I left it on one of the other 20 effing planes we pre-flighted.”

I racked my brain for a plan- but fell short.  There was no way of transmitting video to the ground without the antenna.  I strained to find words of comfort to my poor friend.  I had nothing.  He shook his head and accepted the inevitable- he was going to have to tell them.

Over the hum of the engines I watched Dan hang his head as he informed our TACCO of the situation.  It was like watching your best friend march off to the firing squads. 

Big Lovin’ was our beloved TACCO.  Rare was a day that this man’s face did not hold a smile, or a song upon his lips.  He was the size of a grizzly, but had the heart of a saint.  I had never seen him angry.

I watched as Big Lovin’s song stopped.  He paused and looked out the diminutive window at the engines.  Dan stood next to him.  The silence was deafening.  He turned back to Dan and instructed him to sit.  Big Lovin’ got on his radio and informed our pilot of the situation.

The arms of the man in the cockpit flailed about in a disturbed manner.  His lips were moving, but it was like watching a silent movie.  After the soundless commotion had stopped, a voice came across the internal radio, “Continue mission as planned.” 

I glanced back at Rugged, the other operator, my eyes asking how were we to continue a mission without the vital piece of equipment.  He just looked back at me, shrugged his shoulders, and began to work the camera.  It was great stuff.  We could see everything as plain as day.  However, we knew without the antenna, they wouldn’t see anything but fuzz on the ground displays.

“Yes sir, these are great shots!”  Big Lovin’ narrated throughout the day, in such refined detail they could have drawn a picture.  “You’re not receiving them, sir?” he asked nonchalantly.  “Hmmm. Interesting.  Perhaps a bad connection?”

And there it was.  Our equipment failed regularly, (recall:  three downed aircraft) a failed antenna wasn’t a hard concept to believe.  The mission wasn’t a detrimental one- simply a show-and-tell.  And, we had failed.  However, all of the information was recorded, so nothing was lost. 

But something else was gained that day.

In a world where making a name for yourself was paramount to making rank, these two officers were men of valor.  They never faulted Dan for the failed mission that day.  Instead, they took a bullet for their crew.   They had his back. They taught us what it meant to be a true leader.  Respect was never demanded- it was a by-product of being honorable.

**Each of us on CAC-9 had our fair share of bad days and stupid mistakes.  That day just happened to be Dan’s.  Still, it didn’t change the fact that we were the best crew in VP-8.  At least that’s my humble opinion.

**True to their character, our pilot went on to have a stellar career as a civilian pilot and Big Lovin’ is now the Commanding Officer of one of the best P-3 squadrons in the World’s Finest Navy.

Furniture Shopping Gone Bad

The other day my friend Anna and I were looking for a table.  A kitchen table, actually.  Quickly this simple excursion turned into a tedious one.  We were continuously met with dead ends.  Some stores were closed.   Some didn’t have what we were looking for.  And some, located in the 'shadier sides of town', greeted us with bars on the windows.  Insightfully, we opted against these ones.  Furniture shopping was becoming about as painful as getting a colonoscopy.  Though of equal importance.

Suddenly, the heavens parted and sunbeams gleamed down over a magical furniture shop.  No really, the rain suddenly stopped as we pulled up to this particular shop.  It must have been a sign.  We found exactly what we were looking for.   We took lots of pictures to send to her husband for joint approval of the purchase.

Mission was accomplished.  Now onto something fun since we were already stuck in the ‘big city’ that we don’t get to often.   We decided to get our Bed Bath and Beyond shopping fix.  It had been years since either of us had made it to the enchanted store of wonder and every kitchen gadget known to man.   We were in a mad state of withdrawal.

After we spent much glorious time in this place of dreams, we realized that we had in fact, lost track of time.  It was- dare I say it- after dark in the scary big city.  (Far, far away from somewhere like Deer River where the scariest thing that comes out after dark are the black bears and foxes.)

As we were walking out, we noticed a cop in the parking lot, just sitting there.  Looking for some riff-raff, no doubt.  We continued on into the car.  For a short moment I was glad Anna was driving, knowing there was no chance we’d have to worry about being pulled over for speeding.

I must take a quick moment here to explain Anna’s driving.  It’s not that she is a bad driver.  It’s more like she’s an 80 year-old near-sighted woman driver.  Let’s just say she’s very cautious.

As we pulled out of the parking lot and drove around this town in which we were less than familiar, we spotted a Chipotle and were smacked in the face with an animal-like starvation that can only be compared to a National Geographic special on lions meeting wildebeests.  Food not only sounded amazing- it was necessary.  As soon as we located the restaurant, the turn for it whizzed past us.

Attempting to turn around at this point would have consisted of crossing 6 lanes of traffic, going through 3 lights and at least one illegal U-turn.  It would have been like switching to water-saving toilet flushers - it sounded like a good idea and we would have felt good about the outcome- but wasn’t worth the headache.

I suggested that maybe if we just kept making rights- we would eventually end up back where we started.  It seemed logical.  So we took a right.

And somewhere in our moment of food-focused frenzy, apparently we pulled out in front of decked-out gang car with flashy rims that had somewhere he needed to be- now.  The next few seconds became a blur.

My phone rang and I began the conversation of explaining that we were just grabbing something to eat quickly, and then we’d be on our way home.  Mr. Flashy Rims behind us then proceeded to lay on his horn, no doubt expressing his displeasure with my grandma-like driving friend.

“Are they honking at us?”  Anna asked me, innocently disgusted.

“What’s that noise?” Asked the concerned voice in my phone.

“Um, I think the guys behind us are honking.”  I told everyone who could hear me.  “Turn here.”  I pointed.  It was the next first right- and ended up being some dimly-lit back-alley road.

“Are they following us?”  Anna asked.  I glanced in the mirror- but all I could see was a blur of headlights.

“Hun, I gotta go- these guys are following us.”  I said casually.

“What!?”

“I’ll call you right back,” and hung up, not waiting for a reply.

“Quick, turn here!”  I quickly pointed to the next right, bringing us back into the store parking lot from the back entrance.   Anna turned, and Big Rims followed in suit.

“They’re still following us!”  Her voice began to shake which only made me angry.  This was ridiculous.  The fact that they were upsetting my friend was upsetting me.  I began to feel nervous for a second, but realized I had to keep it together for her.  Sure we were in the land of gangs and had heard warnings of this area- but who did these people think they were?

At this point, I was tempted to stop and tell them what I think.  Then I thought of my kids.  Dammit.  I hated how my kids suddenly made me mortal and practical.  Suddenly I had to have fear.  It was bittersweet.  I had to think logically.

“Just keep going and we’ll see if that police car is still there in the parking lot.” 

Sure enough it was.  And as we neared the police car, our ‘followers’ not-so-surprisingly veered off in another direction.  We parked a few feet further up into the Chipotle parking lot.  The climax of the night was over and we had arrived at our destination.

“What in the heck just happened!?” was all Anna could muster.

“I have no idea.”

“I’m not exactly hungry anymore,” she said, her hands still shaking.  I wasn’t either.  But I had to eat.  If I didn’t eat, Mr. Rims would win.  Of course he would never know. 

I ate my 5lb chicken burrito on the way home.  I couldn’t help but think that mean people really suck.  And so does table shopping.

Shared Joys

“We’re only 10 minutes away!”  She squealed into the phone.

“Ten minutes?!  I’ll be right there!”  I hung up, dropping everything.  The errands would wait- they were almost here!

I pulled into their driveway seconds before I saw the truck making its way up the path.  Tinted windows shielded the glare of the afternoon sun as well as their faces.  I sat back in my seat, and waited. I took a breath.

She would be sitting in the passenger seat.  The thought pasted a cheesy grin on my face, waving my hands in the air for her to see me through the window.  It had been two years.

As she came into view, I watched her gaze up at the new home. Her mouth dropped open as a smile bloomed across her face like a field of sunflowers in the light of dawn.  Her hands delicately touched her face and tears began to fall as she shook her head in disbelief- as if she couldn’t believe the moment was really happening.

Immediately, I recognized that familiar look of pure, raw joy.  It was the joy I saw as I watched her hold her newborn babies for the first time.  It was the same joy she had shown when she held my babies.  My joy was her joy.

We became instant best friends the day Mrs. Stejskal asked me to "show the new girl around" in second grade.  She taught me how to do a one-handed cartwheel.  I taught her how to water-ski.  We were inseparable. 

After graduation, I joined the military to ‘fight in wars' and she went to Africa to build orphanages. 

She is sensitive and pure.  I get angry when she doesn't stand up for herself.  Then I talk her into Chipotle instead of Chic-Fil-A. 


After 25 years, we finish each others’ sentences. I know how she thinks and she knows why I am the way I am.

Naturally, she was my maid of honor.  That day, she cried tears of joy for me.  One year later she married the Best Man.  I cried tears of joy for her.

We raised our babies together and had game nights every Saturday.  Then without warning, they lost their job and had to move.

Now three years later, they found a job nearby. We were neighbors again- 1300 miles from where we first met in Deer River.  They had a home again.  And I felt her joy.  Her joy was my joy.

(A pic of us in 2nd grade. I'm the one with the mullet- thanks Mom!)



*This piece was written in response to a Write on Edge prompt.