Prairie Men to the Rescue
One by one, men came to my rescue. First, the HVAC guy. He installed a new furnace! In the meantime, I had discovered that one of the bedrooms had baseboard heat. I never suffered again after that first freezing night. Next, I learned how to start the gas fireplaces. And soon, my truck would arrive with all of my totes—all 107 of them. I had purchased those black-with-yellow-lid Costco totes rather than pack my hoard into cardboard boxes—which I abhor. Each box had a numbered sticker. Using the Notes app on my phone I voice-recorded the contents of each box under its associated box number as it was filled. A simple search for “frying pan” would reveal the box number, and because they weren’t laid out in numerical order, it would only take a dozen minutes to find the freakin’ frying pan in the lip-blistering, cold, storage barn.
A local cabinet maker, snowblower, lawn mower guy was the man-hero who had unloaded totes and assorted “too big for a tote” household goods from the semi to the barn, along with…probably 75?…cardboard boxes of cookbooks. Yes, as much as I hate cardboard, the problem with books is they are heavy. Anything over a cubic foot is too much to lift for this old dame. And they stack neatly, like blocks. They had been in these boxes for over ten years.
I had ordered one of those U-pack trailers that u-load u-self. Then you call for pickup, and they come to tow it away, sometimes stopping to add other peoples’ cargo to the haul. It was packed end to end, floor to ceiling. I am a hoarder and it showed. I actually ended up with two semis delivering my things cross country. A good friend gave me furniture that I really needed and she needed room in her garage.
Being a true Minnesota man, my neighborly moving man never complained about the cold, or the weight of all those books, or questioned my sanity. Well, he may have, but he never mentioned it to me. Too nice. All he did was do the work, and invite me to his family’s church. He was just there to help out the gal from California who bought this old house because that’s what neighbors do. I paid him, but not enough. To this day, he and his wife and daughters, not only plow the snow, they also mow the lawn. I couldn’t live here without them. And if my house catches on fire, he is also the fire chief. I couldn’t be in better hands.
I have to mention another man, too. A young man. At least he was when he worked for me. Now he’s a husband and father. They grow up so fast. For a few bucks he and a friend would pop over to move some totes out of the barn and into the house, about ten at a time, every few days. If it needed a strong man to lift it, this was my guy. I paid him, too, but not enough.
The book cases started to fill with cookbooks. Towels appeared out of box 88, a roasting rack and a toaster from box 2, salt and pepper shakers from box 30, Christmas decorations were in box 86, along with martini glasses. It was starting to come together.
And then, the snow came. On the first day of winter, December 21, 2017, my bleak and barren landscape became a winter wonderland. The frozen mud, the corn tatami mats, the straw-colored grass—all were enrobed in sparkling white fluff. The needles on the pine trees looked sugar-dipped. On that first sunny day the snow actually twinkled. And somehow the world felt warmer—even though it was 2 degrees. The delight I felt waking up to my first snowfall is identical to the delight I feel now, five years later, after fresh fallen snow. And the twinkle is still there. It wasn’t just a snow virgin’s illusion. This very morning the sparkling drifts welcomed my morning as the sun rose in the -11 degree air. A friend from the desert asked me to make a snow angel and send her a picture, and like an idiot, I did. The trick to getting up out of deep snow is to not lay down in deep snow.
That first New Year’s Eve I filled a martini glass with snow and poured Smirnoff vodka over a candy cane. This would not be the first, nor the last Santa’s Little Helper I ever cheered, but it was the most special. It didn’t hurt that it was accompanied by a handsome platter of caviar with oven-toasted white bread points and the customary accoutrements of creme fraiche, egg whites, egg yolks, minced onion, and lemon. I can’t say why I prefer crust-free white bread cut in triangles and oven toasted over the conventional buckwheat blini—oh, yes I can—toast points are way better. If you ever come for a visit, bring caviar and I’ll prove it.
Day by day, the house was looking more like a home and less like the Bates Motel. I stopped comparing it to what I had left behind. I had found my way up out of the deep and was wading the shallows again—one careful step after another.
One thing really began to stand out. In California, half the population lives south of Ventura Boulevard in the San Fernando Valley. That’s like having half your body weight in your socks. With people come cars. With cars come noise pollution, air pollution and brain pollution. Also that busy-busy buzz of activity that some people, like New Yorkers, for example really love. Not me. In rural Minnesota there are fewer people, fewer cars, less hubbub and cahootery, fewer hooligans and shenanigans. And magically, the brain settles into the luxury of The Absence of People and Things. No more mile deep, mile high, attention grabbers. Instead, a person can see the sky reflected in the serenity of a shallow pond or frozen puddle. A twinkling light is the sun coming through a crystal of ice, not the headlights of an oncoming car. And it is quiet, wall to wall, through and through. The wintertime brings a gift—a peace of quiet.
