THE STRANGER AT THE FOUNTAIN

LISTEN / FILM CREDITS

July was new. We said goodbye to old friends, as tradition, marking our farewells with swinging in The Wabasha Street Caves. Beasley's Big Band whipped up a happy contagion echoing in the cavernous corridors, and we swung. When 'Sing, Sing, Sing' played, the floor parted like Red Sea for Zeke and me. I followed his decisive, quick movements, somewhat belated to their pull, moving to the rhythm pounding inside and through. Ten minutes of adrenaline. By the end, the small crowd applauded as sweat drenched our faces and palms. 

The first beats of 'In the Mood' called and in the chaos, Johanna and I latched arms, imitating Anne and Diana from the Christmas Ball scene where they wore puffed sleeves and their chins in the air, when a young man tapped my shoulder and separated us from our ridiculous imitation. I didn't have voice to say, 'No thank you'. His arms led swift and determinedly, I was unaccustomed to his gentle, however forceful way, and tripped embarrassingly on my feet. The song closed, we parted with few words. The music and heat began to throb. I passed the knight's armor through the double wooden doors, escaping into the solace of the cooling evening. 

Pulled to the fountain, I picked a handful of over-sized pebbles, positioned myself seven feet away from the bowl of water, and with back turned and eyes closed, tossed the rocks, bit by bit, aiming for the double tiered bowl, waiting for that hopeful ker-plunk!

"You are still here?" A voice like the oak my grandfather used to read David Copperfield in, humorously asked. I opened my eyes to a passing stranger with a gently aged face and long, smiling eyes.  He was irresolute and curious, as several hours before I had also been tossing pebbles.  
"Oh, no, Sir." Laughing, I defended my sanity, "I just found my way back." 
"May I join you?" 
"Sure. Here," I placed a few stones in his palm, "Now stand on this brick, with your back turned. Perfect, now close your eyes and think of the most wonderful thing you can... something that isn't true yet. Don't say what it is yet, just let it be." He smiled, his eyes closed. I laughed, "Now, throw one of the pebbles over your head and aim for the fountain." He tossed, the pebble missed and fell onto the red bricks. 
"Try again." I encouraged. 
"And what happens if it makes it in?"
"I don't exactly know. I like to believe your wish will come true. But I know God hears them. And what he does with them is for the good."

We continued for several minutes, tossing stones, as if we were long-lost friends of misplaced generations. 
"Do you like dancing?" He asked.
"I really can't dance, I just try very hard to deceive people... well, except for Native American tribal dances. I'm good at those." 
He laughed louder than the fountain. 
The ping of stones hitting the water filled us with a soothing contentment and we began to part ways, as dusk was also settling into night.
"Goodbye friend! Have a good summer--or life, actually, because I don't think I will see you again. But I hope I do!"
His smile reminded me of a full moon and he said, "Adieu." 
I called back, "What did you wish for?"
"Oh! I forgot to." 
"You better hurry, you only have a minute left until the magic wears off!" 
He laughed again, then called across the cobblestone courtyard, "Are you really a Native American?"
"No Sir, but in my soul I am."

I remember he wore a white shirt. I like to think he was an angel. 

MORE THAN A POCKET WATCH

November of 2012, Uncle John gave my pa a pocket watch. There was a letter folded in the package, explaining the story.  

Erich, 

What makes this story powerful, is not so much the story of the watch, but when it took place. Uncle Harwood had gathered his living siblings together at Grandpa Halberg's house on the St. Croix, to discuss Grandpa's fate. I don't recall who all was there, but it included Uncle Harwood and Dad... I'm not sure who else. I was there, but not in an active role... I was just a kid. As they, the brothers, talked, it was becoming clear that Grandpa could no longer live there... he would have to go to a nursing home. The feeling in the air was that of sadness. 

As this discussion is taking place, Grandpa was in his little bedroom by himself. Unexpectedly, he came out of his bedroom... every one, except Grandpa, was sitting. All eyes turned to him, no one knew what to expect, and there was a breathless silence. Then, Grandpa began to tell his story... 

'When I graduated from High School, my father wanted to give me a pocket watch. I told him that would be nice, but what I really needed was a new suit of clothes. So that's what he gave me. Then, when I finished college, my father wanted to give me a pocket watch. I told him that would be nice, but what I really needed was a new suit of clothes. So that's what he gave me. Then, when I graduated from Seminary school, my father wanted to give me a pocket watch. I told him that would be great... and that's what he gave me.'

Then Grandpa, who had used this watch his entire adult life, explained that he wanted to give the watch to Avery. He also expressed the idea that he wanted it to go to the first born son of each generation. Then Grandpa went back into his bedroom... that was the last time I ever saw him totally lucid. It was a magical moment. 

Years later, Dad gave me the watch, and told me the story... even though I was there, I loved hearing it. Then, since I will not have a son of my own, I gave it to you. When you feel the time is right, you can give it to our dear Aharon... and the story will continue... 

Hope this helps Erich. I love you very much.
Your brother, John

HAPPY XMAS

I wish my eyes could take pictures at will. I would have pulled to the side of the road, but I was on a bridge crossing a river and there was ice on the road and my car was breaking down anyway, so I had to hurry to the car doctor. 

Six.hundred.dollars for a new alternator. Merry christmas to me. Had to break into my New Zealand fund again. But it could be worse... I could be in a desert with chickenpox.

I was inspired. I have been drawing like a child all day.

p.s.  Miss Holine has my admiration. Definitely an old soul. 



p.s.s.  my friend Joh is a lyricist. 

birth of the Powerful:

the Powerful grew inside her.
Holiness cradled in water.
the Child of a daughter.
His lungs were small
her smile was faint
His father on earth had hands that were stained.
on that night, so silent, the earth heaved a sigh.
the mother and father rejoiced to the sky.
you could hear it, angels singing. 
and my unborn eternity, with them, was ringing. 
the chaos was starting to bend.
and reality, starting to mend.
and curtains, beginning to tear. 
and sinners, beginning to stare.
all with this birth of a boy in a manger,
under stars in the heart of bethlehem. 

without any fear, m

REMINISCE

After sunrise, I drove to pick up my cousin and we took off for grandma's. I hadn't seen Grandma for a while. She looks older. Although I recognized her face less, her eyes are the same; as clear as July sky. We sat around her hand-crafted Swedish table, the one I put a two-inch wide scratch in the day after she had it assembled, and passed stories back and forth as we sipped coffee. Grandma's philosophy on coffee: 'I like to have a little bit of coffee in my milk.' According to Grandma, 'Grandpa was always making himself half a cup of coffee.' Sounds like me and my pa. 

Francis is a storyteller. I could sit at the table for hours listening. In fact, that's what I did. I knew while I listened, that this was a precious time. This sitting so close, in a home filled with memories, listening. Listening to stories about my great-grandfather John who was raised in the mountains of Sweden, my great-grandmother Nettie and her gardens... reminiscences, sweetly and tenderly spoken. She'd tear up, recalling her children's first steps. She shared about the trials and joys of raising nine children, about saving her baby's life when it turned blue, about Grandpa saving their baby's life when it had a convulsive fever, about her best friend Gwenevieve and her cancer and death, about depression and how good it is for us to cry, about marriage and how it is about sacrifice and giving to the other, about parents who selflessly raised children of special needs, about suffering with diabetes, about Sweden, about the beauty of the simple things. I am proud to be her granddaughter.  

As I scrubbed the kitchen floor while she napped and my cousin vacuumed, I couldn't help but cry to remember of all that I could: that kitchen floor my cousins and I tripped over each other on when we scattered outside to play in the woods or capture the flag, the kitchen floor I collected misplaced and fallen crayons off of after scribbling in Lion King coloring books, the kitchen floor my aunts did yoga on when one flew in from L.A.--a home so filled, so filled with family, so filled with memories that don't exist anymore, except for these glimpses. 

She listened to us too. It was a good time. Good, as in, I won't forget it.

On the drive back, my cousin and I detoured on a side-road and for the first time, I drove my car on adventurous terrain. We basked in the pastel dusk over the lake until we became numbed by the biting November wind. 

now to finish, Huxley's incredible Brave New World,
m

P.S. Have you ever showed up late for a surprise party on the wrong day? Imagine that. I don't think we'll live that one down, at least until dementia. 

THREE SCENES

Scene 1. The moon had been out for hours. Moriah lies beside her sister, the dog between them. They had just fought over the fleece blanket with Dalmatian colors, Moriah had let Rebekah win. Rebekah lies perfectly still, but Moriah keeps tossing herself into different positions.

Moriah: Bekah, good night, please don't talk anymore I really need to sleep. And I really want to answer your question, but I need to sleep.  

Rebekah: You'd be a single mom. 

M: What--?! What does that even mean? 

R: You know how Tobey McGuire only plays the nerds or the unpopular characters in movies, you'd always play a single mom. 

M: I think I'm offended. And I really need to sleep--I can't sleep! Why on earth do you think that? 

R: Because. It just fits you. You're independent and I can just imagine it. 

M: No, I wouldn't ever want that. I'd want to be someone like Meg Ryan who owns quaint book shops and wears big coats. Someone quirky who falls in love with witty men. 

R: ...I guess I can see that too. 

M: Okay, now be quiet. I need to sleep. (She wiggles and pulls the blankets closer.) I can't sleep. O--! Here! I'll do what Carla would have us do before performance. Relax my legs. Good, now my head. Now, put my tongue to the back of my throat... 

(A small sputter like water from a pump well spills into a laugh from Rebekah's lips.) 

M: Oops. I said that wrong. 

R: I'm imagining you putting your tongue to the back of your throat... 

M: Okay ha ha. Now, let me sleep. (Three seconds of silence) Bekah, did you read that article on American Girl dolls? 

R: No, but Mom told me about it. It's horrible. 

M: I know! I am so angry about it. 

R: You know how Kit was your favorite, well you're actually a lot like her. You have the same haircut, she lived in an attic, she spied on people, she helped Hobos. 

M: And I can imagine you as Felicity. Would have run away to save that horse like she had? 

R: Actually, I've thought about it, and I would in a heartbeat. You know--my favorite horse is the same coloring as Penny. Remember how you used to have such a crush on Ben? 

M: Yeah, goodness, what a dork! 

R: If you lived in Victorian times, you would have been Annabelle. 

M: (Sarcastic) Thanks. Bekah, you actually could fit into that time period really well though. 

R: Just like you would have fit into the Great Depression period. 

M: Yeah, and I would have escaped from a jail through a bathroom window and crawled across a railroad track bridged over a gorge! 

R: Remember what George said. We were put into the right time period to best know God. 

M: Yeah, there's that, but also, if you had been in the Victorian Period, I wouldn't have fit in there. And if I had been in the Great Depression Period, you wouldn't have fit in there. So I'm glad we're both here. Goodnight. And for real this time, no more talking. (Ten seconds of silence) Do you really think I'd be a single mom?

Scene 2. Two friends sit in a coffee shop, facing a yellow house. Moriah sipping on a jar of red wine, while Holly nibbles on a sliver of banana bread.

Holly: And he's actually a hot one. 

Moriah: Really? 

H: Yep. Tall, black beard, brown eyes. I find him attractive. 

M: So, then I probably wouldn't...? 

H: No, you probably wouldn't. Our views in hot men are totally different. Like Johnny Depp and Leonardo DiCaprio. 

M: Wait, I like Leonardo DiCaprio. 

H: My point. 

Scene 3. Two friends giggle over their days. Moriah rolls over with a new thought--breaking from the topic. 

Moriah: I think I kissed six people today. 

Holly: I could think a lot about that right now. 

M: I did though. 

H: Explain, please. 

M: They were all shorter than me. 

H: Kids! Thank God. The way you put that was just a little... odd. 

M: No, no it wasn't. 

H: Yeah. It was. And you counted. 

M: I averaged.

THIS IS BECOMING AN ANNUAL DISASTER

Life is full of choices. Like making the choice to give yourself a haircut in the bathroom sink, 15 minutes before work.

I accidentally gave myself bangs, after being proud of the valiant progress I had made in growing them out too. For three seconds in disbelief, I stared into the mirror, abrasively accepting the fact, before I let myself laugh it out. 

"What did you do--?" my sister enters, staring blankly, quite aghast.
"I could almost cry," Mom moans, "Don't you have to go to work? It's 3:40."
"Yeah, but I need to fix this." I lean against the counter into the mirror, scissors clicking and stumps of wet hair collecting around the sink.
"Moriah, you're just going to make it worse," my sister interjects.
"Not until I fix this--" 

I made it worse.

"It sort of looks like Lady Gaga"  or "the Beatles..." or "a small mammal" were compliments I received last evening. 

While at the salon this morning, my hairdresser and I laughed, as she agreed that the back of my head did look like a football or a possum. 

Consequently, the hair I was trying to grow out {in fact, I was pulling at it everyday, so that it would grow faster} is as short as ever. Back to a bob just below my ears. I'm not laughing anymore, I don't like my haircut one bit: I feel like a floppy eared Cocker Spaniel. 

But the thing is, it's hair. Just hair. It'll grow back and when it does, I'll probably end up chopping it off again "accidentally".

WHEN IT COMES TO SNOW, MY SISTER IS A ROMANTIC