Storytelling Roots

Storytelling Roots

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

A Picture in My Mind

            Sometimes, without even having to close my eyes, I see this picture of my husband’s fire-engine red Durango truck parked in front of Niagara Falls. In a nearly vacant parking lot, it faces the mist that rises against the plummeting waters that seem so effortless and peaceful in their fall.
            My husband’s head with his thick, slightly graying dark hair is behind the steering wheel while the shoulder-length dark hair of another women sits in the passenger seat.
            Upon a closer look, one could see that his face is ironically dark and grim against the majestic falls; it lacks all signs that he has any inner joy left within him. He is very matter-of-fact, his eyes very calculated, lacking pure or honest emotion. Her face is longing and hopeful. She is patient as her eyes lean into him, looking for something in return. Both are nearly 50-years old. Both have been married and divorced; the only difference is that he remarried and is still married to me.
            Being a vacation destination, Niagara Falls should be a happy environment, exuding a joy-filled aura with its vistas that awe every spectator with their mystic beauty and magnificent power, which is emphasized by the sheer grandeur of the cliffs and rock faces, the quantity of water moving with incredible power and intensity, the mystic feel created by the effervescent mist rising in stark contrast to the falling water. But, today, the mist defies the intense cold that holds the air frozen; it gives off a blue and icy chill. Even the bright red of the Durango looks frozen as the red transitions from shiny to frosted in random patches across the body of the vehicle. Though there are a scattering of a few cars and trucks in the parking lot, there isn’t anyone else to be seen.

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

We Owned the Dirt

“We Owned the Dirt”
            My biological father, Scott, who I haven’t lived with since I was two, made a remark the other day about the time in my childhood when my mom and step-dad, who I refer to as my dad, moved my sister, Jesse, my new baby sister, Emily, and me into a situation that he considered abusive. He’s referring to when they moved us out of our horrible North Minneapolis neighborhood and into the county, where they slowly and painstakingly built us a house by hand.
I always become real defensive when he does this. As he looks at Jesse and me with a half-smile on his face, he’ll lean forward and say, “You know that could have been considered child abuse!” He says this as we sit in the very kitchen he sat in while all this was happening nearly thirty years ago. Oh, it’s a nice kitchen, too: granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. All you have to do is turn around and you couldn’t possibly take in all the artifacts he and his wife have collected from all their years of world traveling. 

Monday, March 18, 2013

A Remembering...

I took a long deep breath and held it in for a few seconds before slowly exhaling. I began looking back on the morning. Just like a Kansas tornado, my mornings were a mixture of chaos and noise spinning madly throughout the house with a lost shoe, a missing backpack, a fight over a sweatshirt, and milk from a toppled cereal bowl running off the counter and dripping to the floor. But then, at 7:45 with kisses, hugs, and reassurances that they will live a full life even if their brother wears their sweatshirt, they would spill out the door and down the block toward school.