Seeds

After checking in, I move away from the reception area in the office of one of my referral sources, the social worker I’m here to see. She and I share many clients, and over two years, I’ve spoken with her often by phone or through email. Today, we meet in person for the first time, and she feels like something of a friend by now. I have a picture in my brain of how I imagine she looks. But what kind of face does mercy have?

A poster near the front desk snags my attention: “They tried to bury us; they didn’t know we were seeds.”

I squint at the picture—mass produced art in an unremarkable frame—its message by Greek poet Dinos Christianopoulos. Is it really my third or fourth sighting of this sentiment in a week? Why the sudden appeal for this saying? Or is it just me, seeing it everywhere right now?

Back at home, I open a jar of quotes, a gift from the leadership at work for last month’s Employee Appreciation Month. I pluck out one of the little papers, unfurl it, and read, “Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds you plant.” The word seeds in the Robert Louis Stevenson quote is the only one in italics.

The daytime sun slants, and the unmistakable evening chill tells me the warmth of our weeks is draining. There’s only so much left, and it’s almost all poured out. The quotes about seeds I see these days—I don’t understand their timing. Why now? In this hemisphere, it’s hardly time for planting.

I’m the only one I know in my immediate or extended family who grieves the loss of summer. The closing of the pool is like the dropping of a casket’s lid. At best, fall is a time of dormancy. At worst, it’s a time of death. The flowers shrivel and drop off, the leaves abandon hope. And many years ago, my father died in September. If his leaving was certain (and it was), his departure might as well have been in the dying months, I reasoned—and still do.

But the seeds.

I read today's Streams in the Desert, and it’s more of what I see everywhere:

“This is the happy season of ripening cornfields, of the merry song of reapers, of the secured and garnered grain. But let me hearken to the sermon of the field. This is its solemn word to me. You must die in order to live. You must refuse to consult your own ease and well-being. You must be crucified, not only in desires and habits which are sinful, but in many more which appear innocent and right. If you would bear much fruit, you must be buried in darkness and solitude. But, when Jesus asks it, let me tell myself that it is my high dignity to enter into the fellowship of His sufferings; and thus I am in the best of company. Plenty out of pain, life out of death: is it not the law of the Kingdom? Do we call it dying when the bud bursts into flower?”

I feel the punch in my gut. I guess I’ll bury myself now for the fruit later. Or at least allow myself to be buried. Deep, quiet, dark, restful.

Winter soon comes, but after it? The death-to-life story. The only one that counts.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Life goes on (and all the other clichés)

On Saturday morning, while the girls and I sipped our coffees during the first session of a women’s conference, Husband sent a photo to the family text thread. I grimaced.

On a plush and verdant bed of Creeping Charlie in our backyard, a raccoon lay in repose. Which one of you did this? he texted.

Dicka: NOT JARVIS!!!!!

NOOOOO

Gone too soon

Maybe he’s asleep?

Me: I don’t know about you guys, but Jarvis was naughty. Maybe God took him out. On the other hand, Farnsworth? An utter sweetheart.

Dicka: Now I ain’t sayin he a hole digga but he ain’t messin w no broke broke

Me: You guys are writing this week’s blog for me.

Dicka: No!

Husband: You’ll have to get the translation for [Dicka’s] gibberish.

Ricka: It’s that one song dad

It’s called gold digger

Go listen to it

Dicka: don’t

It’s a bad song

Maybe Flicka was tuned in to the conference speaker, and that’s why she didn’t respond to the news of the passing of Jarvis. We also never found out who did it, but Husband acted as sole pallbearer that day before we ladies returned home.

Maybe you’re wondering “Who’s Jarvis?” Or “Who’s Farnsworth?” I’m glad you asked. You can read about our yard creatures here.

We had a summer with Jarvis, but I suppose you could say it felt like a lifetime. He was more of a taker than a giver, but at least he left holes in our yard—a reminder of how our paths once crossed. May he live on—if not in our hearts, at least in our text thread from Saturday.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Baby Leon

Here’s a story from years ago. Back then, we lived in North Minneapolis and served as a host family for Safe Families for Children. The baby in the following story was number ten of the thirty-two little ones we ultimately hosted.

It was another time in another world, it seems, but as I reread these words this morning, I’m right back there.

*****

My girl Dicka and I enter the family’s living room in the cramped upstairs apartment in that old house on Fremont, and Monique motions toward the couch, inviting us to sit. We settle into it, the smell of stale cigarettes wafting from the cushions’ fabric. I curtail a grimace. What’s worse? The smell of cigarette smoke, thick in the air and permeating our clothes, or the heat of the place, which probably hovers around eighty degrees?

I gaze at my surroundings. Who all lives here? Monique points out a few relatives, but some others, whom she doesn’t label, mill around in the tiny kitchen too. When I answered the urgent needs request to care for her baby for a couple of weeks, Safe Families for Children informed me of the place where we would pick him up. The address startled me—only five blocks from our house. The roads, crusted with snow the plows have yet to scrape clean, make me want to stay in, but this pick-up situation—so close to home—is an easy one.

From the couch, Dicka and I have a split view of two rooms: the kitchen where two people sit at a small Formica table, crushing out one spent cigarette after another into an ashtray like it’s a contest, and the bedroom where Monique pulls together little Leon’s clothing for his stay with us. The ten-month-old baby is planted on the bed like Buddha, facing his mama while she packs, naked except for his diaper. His hair is a dark mass, curling now from perspiration.

“He’s huge,” Dicka whispers, wrinkling her nose. “Huge and sweaty.”

The place vibrates with activity and noise, but I keep my voice low anyway. “I think he’s kind of cute.”

Leon flaps his arms while this three older brothers—all under five years old—buzz around the cramped apartment with a light saber, a truck, and a ball. They zip through the bedroom, hooting and shouting, where their mama works.

“You get out of here now, you hear me?” Monique hollers at them, swatting one of them on the backside as he runs by, and the group of them bolts from the room.

As we wait, the heat and smoke roil my stomach. Soon, we’ll be back outside in December’s cruel wind, but at least we’ll breathe new air. I’ll have this baby in my arms too then—this little one we promised to take care of for the next two weeks. The mama and daddy will use their freer time to do some apartment hunting while they stay with extended family members in this house.

A few details about Monique’s situation warm me. There’s a man in her life, the father of their four children. He’s a good man, from the sounds of it, committed to the mother of his kids, and holds a steady custodial position at the Twins stadium.

Monique leaves Leon sitting on his wide base on the bed while she lugs two brimming bags of baby clothing out to the living room and drops them at my feet. “This should be enough.”

The moms are always generous with their packing—except for the mother of our first set of twins. Those babies came to us in one set of diapers and the onesies on their bodies—no extras—and we scrambled to gather more for them. Monique gives us enough for Leon to stay a month.

She saunters into the kitchen to collect new and partly used cans of formula. She returns and pokes them into one of the bags at my feet.

“I put a few diapers in there—that’s all I got—,” she says, “so I guess he’ll need more. He wears size fours.”

“He’ll be good,” I say, waving away her concerns. “I have lots of diapers his size in my stash at home.”

I think of my diaper lady, a woman at church who works fulltime, but wants to support us in some way. She can’t host kids herself, but she plies me with diapers and the specific kinds of formula needed for the babies who stay with us. Every time I eye the stack of size fours shelved in our basement, I see her commitment. And every time I watch the milk drain from a bottle as I feed a baby in the night, I see her love.

“I bet you were on the road a long time today,” Monique says. “Was it slow coming in from the suburbs?”

For a number of reasons, all wrapped around safety, the organization counsels us host families to give the parents our contact numbers, but never to tell them where we live. Monique sizes me up as a suburban lady.

“It was no big deal.” I smile. “Really a quick trip.”

If she only knew how quick. If she only knew I lived in the inner city, just like her, and only five blocks from where she now prepares her baby for his stay with our family.

I mull over Monique’s words. What makes her assume I’m a suburban woman? Does she judge me by my externals? Do I judge her by hers? We humans do that kind of thing, making assumptions about life and those around us—not knowing much of anything until we listen.

Monique dresses Leon in the bedroom, totes him out to the living room, and plunks him into my lap. He feels like a twenty-five pounder; no doubt my arms will be stronger after his stay. He flashes me a broad grin, and dimples skewer his cheeks.

I smile at Dicka, grateful for her presence; I need the extra arms for the baby and all his bags of clothes. Monique follows us out to the car, and Leon’s dad pulls up in front of the place—freshly home from work—and climbs out of his vehicle. He joins us, buckles his youngest son into the car seat in the back of my Honda, and smooches the baby’s head.

The two young parents wave goodbye as I drive away from the curb with one of theirs, maybe imagining I’ll care for their baby in a world far from their own. I think about Monique, looking at my skin, my clothes, and making guesses about my life. And I contemplate what I think I know about her too.

Underneath our differences, does she know we’re alike?

Do I?

*****

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Happy 10th birthday, My Blonde Life!

I once read ten years old is the safest age to be, but now I can’t find that statistic anywhere. What’s my point? I’m not sure, except I’m here to say the blog, My Blonde Life, turned double-digits this week!

As usual, I bought a cake. And as usual, we ate it, celebrating the silent family member who has spoken 520 times into our lives now.

An anonymous someone sent me the following note this week:

On behalf of many other readers of the My Blonde Life blog, congratulations, Tamara Jorell, on ten years of thought-provoking, humorous, tear-jerking entries! These ten years have flown by for those of us who look forward to a Thursday dose of reality perspectives different from our own, with frequent timely pokes at our lethargy of spirit about important matters. You have made us snort, sniffle, and chortle out loud, all while reading the weekly post and sitting in an empty room.

Thank you for resisting common clichés by kneading each sentence so the creative yeast can work its effect. Thank you for your meticulous attention to sentence structure and grammatical correctness with bee-worthy spelling precision, all of which help your teacher-readers breathe easier as they inhale that yeasty creative goodness!

Thank you for all those mental notes you make as you experience daily life. Thanks for the notes that make it into strings of words in those early hours when you fight the writer’s blocks that hover Jenga-like over your racing thoughts. Your words have made a difference in the lives of your readers, so keep writing!

Thank you, readers, for coming along for the adventure! Let’s see what happens now.

Left to right: Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka

Blind once

“You should write the story about the time the tree fell on someone’s car in front of our old house,” Dicka said two days ago.

I replayed memories from four years ago, and the incident’s fuzzy details sharpened.

On August 15, 2020, someone had parked on the street in front of our Minneapolis home in Dicka’s usual spot, forcing her to park her Honda farther down the street. A storm blasted in and hurled a boulevard tree onto the stranger’s car, smashing its roof and shattering its windshield. Her car was spared.

The accident thrust me into contemplative mode, and other stories rolled into my mind.

The tornado of May 22, 2011, laid waste to our North Minneapolis neighborhood, its destructive fists slamming houses all around us. Our damage? The winds blew a lone shingle onto our front steps.

A stranger broke into our home on the night of February 28, 2014, while we were sleeping. Police later informed us the intruder had been unarmed while in our home and only wanted to steal from us and not kill us.

Leaving Beldenville, Wisconsin, on July 27, 2024, Husband drove the two of us west back to the Twin Cities and into the setting sun. At an intersection on 690th Avenue, he blew through a stop sign. A car, heading southbound, sailed past us, missing us by a breath. Husband’s phone trilled.

“We almost witnessed both our parents die at the same time,” Ricka said on the other end of the line from the car behind us she rode in with her sisters. “I would’ve needed counseling for the next ten years at least.”

Adrenaline whooshed through my bloodstream, and it took me more than a few minutes to normalize.

My life is fraught with evidence—with signs of repetitive rescue. I’m the recipient of deliverance, and I can’t make sense of the why behind it.

Some people see goodness in their lives and say, “I’ve done something right.” Or difficulties hit them, and they say, “I’ve done something wrong.”

No.

“Why was this man born blind?” Jesus’ friends asked him. “Was it because of his sins or his parents’ sins?”

“Neither,” He said. “This happened so the power of God could be seen in him.”

And He healed the blind man and sent him on his way, infuriating the religious leaders all over again.

And this is the way of it: a plan is assigned to each course, but we can’t know which way it goes until it does. Good comes, bad comes. I can’t figure it out any more than you can, but it’s the perfect time for faith.

I was blind too once, but now I see.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Travel stories: New Orleans (part 3)

During our singular night of sleep in the Crescent City, I drifted off, imagining the sun searing the day, warmth steaming the night, jazz spilling from horns, and people still milling around the nighttime art bazaar on Frenchmen Street.

After breakfast on Saturday morning, we hopped the streetcar in front of the hotel and plugged our fare into the machine. A woman behind us waved a twenty-dollar bill at the driver who warned her she wouldn’t get her change back. She said she was French and couldn’t speak English. I didn’t have exact coins for her, but I did have some dusty français to protect her from overpaying by $18.75.

“Il n’y a pas de change ici,” I said to the woman.

Her face brightened, and she asked me something else.

“Tell her she can wait until later to pay,” the driver said to me.

“Vous pouvez payer plus tard,” I said to the woman. “Gardez votre argent.”

She thanked me and tucked the bill back into her bag.

“Wow, Mom,” Dicka said to my French 101 sentences. “That was awesome.”

As the streetcar clattered down Canal Street, I thought of how I had used change as a noun with the lady instead of the correct word monnaie, but she understood me anyway. And I was still mentally conjugating French verbs when we got off our ride at the Mississippi River and spied an alligator in the water near a riverboat.

We noshed on our second round of beignets in two days—this time at Café Beignet—and the family pronounced the donuts superior to the previous day’s sampling, except for Flicka who preferred Café du Monde’s denser dough.

We ambled along Jackson Square, admiring its artists’ paintings, and a pang of yearning for youth and Paris shot through my core. Artisans sat on folding chairs under the shade of umbrellas on Chartres; painted canvases hung from wrought-iron fences or rested against their stone bases.

At The Gazebo, we ordered one alligator sausage to-go from Kevin who said, “Try it plain first. Then dip the next bite in remoulade and see what you think. It really brings out the flavor.”

The day we saw the alligator, we ate the alligator, I thought as we sliced up the grilled reptile with a plastic fork and knife and tasted it together.

We strode on toward the French Market—our last stop of all. The humidity sat at one notch before rain, the atmosphere as saturated as Husband’s T-shirt. Marketgoers poked through jewelry, candles, alligator heads, and nativity scenes. Ricka purchased a sundress, and I bought amber oil from Senegal.

Around 2:00 p.m., our twenty-four hours in NOLA were spent, and we had miles to go before we could sleep (in the car again.) And so, we drove.

We arrived in Memphis around 9:00 p.m., eager for a walk down Beale Street where Louis Armstrong, Muddy Waters, Albert King, and other blues and jazz legends had played. We parked near the intersection of B.B. King Boulevard and Beale and headed for the blues establishments. Beale was blocked off, though, and metal detectors marked the entrance. Security guards checked IDs. Here we go again.

Despite Dicka's twenty years, the guards said they would allow her onto Beale Street with the family. Husband who was carrying, however, asked a nearby police officer about his entry, showing the man his badge. As law enforcement too, could he go in?

“No way,” the officer said.

And just like that, our hopes of Beale Street ended—and the Marc Cohn song dropped in again:

Then I’m walking in Memphis

Was walking with my feet, ten feet off of Beale

Walking in Memphis

But do I really feel the way I feel

We conquered the final swath of road in a forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead fashion. Except we didn’t forget.

“Let’s drive down to New Orleans, get beignets and coffee, and drive home,” Dicka said one day in early summer.

And so, we did.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Travel stories: New Orleans (part 2)

The streetcar rattled down St. Charles Avenue, its windows, minus screens, open and ushering in the sultry air. We sat on seats built from slats of wood—a reminder of yesteryear. Elegance lived along both sides of the street, and I imagined owning one of the southern mansions floating by. Balconies trimmed homes, hanging baskets of ferns adorned porches, and lanterns lit stately front entries. At first, from a distance, I thought those flickering lights were bulbs, and I wanted them to decorate my northern home too, but as we strolled the Crescent City, we spied real flames—gas-fed flames—fluttering within lanterns everywhere.

As the afternoon dwindled, we entered Café du Monde by Jackson Square in the French Quarter, famous for its beignets. The waiter’s demeanor showed us his day had been a long one—maybe we should’ve come earlier?—and he carried a blend of exhaustion and disinterest as he quickly served us beignets and just as quickly asked if we were ready to pay. We gave him cash—the required form of payment—and ate the renowned donuts to the strains of a sidewalk artist singing, “House of the Rising Sun.”

We dusted away the powdered sugar and strolled off, Husband leading us down a raucous street. Dicka stopped to watch a sword juggler, but the man stood on a chair, delaying his act with such bravado in storytelling we lost interest and kept moving. We wanted to see swords flying, a touch of the harrowing, but no. We took a right at the corner and pursued the next route.

“That street we were just on was Bourbon Street,” Husband announced.

Ricka wrinkled her nose. “I’m not into all the famous streets you guys are.”

“Now you can say you’ve been there,” I said, “and that’s the point. Like Haight-Ashbury, Sunset Boulevard, Park Avenue.”

We sauntered past vampiric shops, palm reader stands, voodoo venders, and tarot tables set up on the sidewalk. I shivered in the sweltering heat.

“No muggings will happen, and no spells will land,” I said to the family. “I prayed a wall of fire around us.”

“So, that’s why it’s so blazing hot,” Husband said.

Back at the hotel, we guzzled water and slabbed out on our beds. The heat had stripped away our energy, but there was no way we’d spend our only night in NOLA retiring early in a cool hotel room.

Outside, the atmosphere clung to its ninety degrees—even as the sun sank into bed—so we ladies stepped into our sundresses. Husband pulled on a pair of pants—much to his dismay—but how could he pull off dress shoes in shorts? And he needed those dress shoes; a hot night of music in the Big Easy called for blue suede wingtips.

Our Uber rolled up to the curb in front of the hotel. We climbed in, and the driver transported us toward the nightlife of the city.

“Who told you Frenchmen Street was the place to go for jazz?” the man asked.

“A guy who works at Stein’s Deli,” Husband said.

“Well, he was right.”

He dropped us in front of Blue Nile, and we headed for the door of the establishment. Bouncers were checking IDs, though, so we kept moving. We weren’t about to abandon twenty-year-old Dicka to the streets while we soaked in the jazz scene without her.

We strode past Snug Harbor, and the name of the venue spirited me back to our babymoon the summer of 1999. Five months pregnant with Flicka, I walked that same street, holding Husband’s hand then too, and there we heard the trumpeting jazz sounds of Jeremy Davenport. We experienced the musicians at Preservation Hall in the French Quarter on that trip too, and I sat cross-legged on the wood floor right up front in that packed place, never mind my mid-pregnancy state. We were close to the musicians—close enough to see rivulets of sweat course down their necks, droplets of spit stream from their horns. Oh, when the saints come marching in...

After shrimp po’ boys at Marigny Brasserie, we looped back to catch the music. The clubs with their doors flung wide showcased fancy and shiny musicians in their darkened interiors, their tunes reaching us out on the street. We paused at one spot, then the next for the wailing saxophones, hi-hat cymbals, and jazz snares.

But just a block away, parked on the sidewalk, was a group of five players. Among their instruments was a washboard, and their crooning flowed from a simple love of the art form—or at least that’s what drifted to us on the night air. And so, we stayed.

Missed the Saturday dance

Heard they crowded the floor

It’s awfully different without you

Don’t get around much anymore

Thought I’d visit the club

Got as far as the door

I couldn’t bear it without you

Don’t get around much anymore

*****

Come back next week for the final installment of New Orleans’ travel stories.

Travel stories: New Orleans (part 1)

“Let’s drive down to New Orleans, get beignets and coffee, and drive home,” Dicka said one day. As if driving 1,200 miles from Minnesota to Louisiana for some fried donuts dredged in powdered sugar was nothing.

Husband, the ever-adventurer, agreed—the rest of the family too—and plugged a date into the shared calendar.

A mother’s job is to worry and assume anyone driving at night—and certainly through the night—is going to meet their Maker before finishing their journey. And so, my worries percolated the evening of Thursday, August 15, at 6:30 p.m. as we backed out of our driveway after work, bound for The Bayou State.

As the miles flew away in the wind behind our Toyota RAV, night fell. Uh-oh, here we go.

“We got it covered, Mom,” one of my progeny said. “We’re taking three-hour shifts driving. You can sleep.”

I played the audiobook of Lee Child’s The Secret (Jack Reacher #28) and hoped the story would keep the drivers awake and engaged because of all the genres assigned to it: mystery, thriller, military fiction, crime, suspense, and detective. And most importantly, I trusted it would keep me awake to control everyone’s nighttime behind-the-wheel vigilance and ensure the family’s safety.

But I dozed off in the backseat somewhere between Iowa and Missouri, and our stops for fuel and snacks in the middle of the night swirled into one ball of bleary-eyed choices in front of gas station coolers filled with drinks I had never heard of in locations I couldn’t discern.

“It seems like we’re in a foreign country,” Dicka said, pointing out bottles of juice in a gas station somewhere in Arkansas maybe.

And we drove on.

The sun climbed in the Tennessean sky on Friday morning, and I coaxed Husband, the current driver, to pull over at any exit in Memphis so we could walk out Marc Cohn’s 1991 song together. My man lives to humor me and did once again, choosing a random exit beyond Elvis Presley Boulevard to leave the freeway. He parked in the lot of a Hubbard’s Hardware store.

The five of us got out of the car, and I played the song on my phone as we strode in the bright sun, not the downpour the Grammy-nominated hit described:

Put on my blue suede shoes

And I boarded the plane

Touched down in the land of Delta Blues

In the middle of the pouring rain…

Then I’m walking in Memphis

Was walking with my feet, ten feet off of Beale

Walking in Memphis

But do I really feel the way I feel

We dropped our bag of car garbage into the dumpster at the end of the lot as the song ran out. Tuneless, we headed back to our vehicle. The girls said I was silly. Husband said he was ready for the Crescent City. Any intrigue from Cohn’s haunting melodies and my idea for a literal walk in Memphis evaporated in the rising heat of the morning. But nostalgia buckled itself next to me for a good part of the ride anyway.

“You can check this one off your list,” I said to the girls as we crossed into Mississippi. Our Epic Family Road Trip of 2019 didn’t include the Magnolia State. After Arkansas, we had instead curved right for Texas that summer. But now here we were in the state that shared its name with the mighty river.

We stopped at a gas station in Pickens. A man, perched on the lowered tailgate of his pickup, chatted with a friend. A mound of watermelons—maybe forty or fifty ripened beauties—filled his truck’s bed, sweetening the convivial scene.

“We’re not in Minnesota anymore, Frodo,” one of the girls said, and our trip’s slogan was born.

Warm temperatures turned warmer as we traversed the United States all the way to the bottom of the map via 55 South.

“It’s a billboard fight for your soul,” Husband said, noting the numerous signs on our route that flipped from Jesus to adult entertainment—and back again.

We checked into the SpringHill Suites on New Orleans’ Canal Street around 2:30 p.m., our long drive complete. Now we had only twenty-four hours to let the car cool down and rest while we didn't.

Famished, we ventured to Stein’s Market & Deli, a recommendation from Wilson and Beatrice, in the Lower Garden District. Paint and posters obscured the little hole-in-the-wall’s front door, but we found it, a bell announcing our entry. Creaky wood floors in the scruffy east coast-style Jewish deli welcomed us, and we tucked into our muffulettas at a long wooden table we shared with strangers. Reviews mentioned the surly workers, but I asked for jazz recommendations from one of them, and he was kind enough to say the best sounds came from Frenchmen Street.

We left Stein’s and stepped into the ninety-three-degree heat of the day, pointed toward St. Charles Avenue. Sweat prickled our faces, but we had a streetcar to catch to view the most opulent homes in the city.

And those beignets? They were out there somewhere, waiting just for us.

*****

Come back next week for Part 2 of our New Orleans’ adventures. There might be an alligator involved.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Water stories: Part 2

You get three stories in one today, lucky you. Enjoy your Thursday!

*****

No one wants to dispose of a body during a pool party, but life happens—and apparently death too sometimes.

And so it was the day Wilson and Beatrice brought their sister-in-law, niece, and nephew over to swim. The languid sun sprawled on its cosmic cushion, and our girls lounged too, suspended in triple-decker hammocks strung between two oaks. The visiting kids and adults splashed in the tropical oasis of our backyard, diving for toys and tumbling off floating pool mattresses into the azure depths. Water shenanigans. Delighted shrieks. Bubbly laughter.

I’m not sure who saw it first, but Ricka yelled to me as soon as I slid the glass door shut behind me and stepped into the backyard.

“Mom, it’s a baby opossum,” she said, thumbing toward a furry lump in the grass. “And something’s wrong with it.”

“Oh, no.” I strolled to the spot she indicated. The small creature lay motionless, except for its eyes, which moved, meeting our gaze. Flies circled its body.

“Why does this always happen when Dad’s gone?” my girl asked, and I didn’t know why his work trips were so ill-timed either.

“Well, we have to do something,” I said. “We can’t let it suffer.”

“Don’t look at me.”

Beatrice and Wilson’s sister-in-law hopped out of the pool to take a peek. I don’t recall retreating from the scene, but from a distance I eyed her assessing the situation, hands on her hips.

“Do you want to take care of it?” I called out, hopeful.

She peered at the tragic display. “I’m not a killer.”

As I jogged to the pool house for a shovel and returned to the action, I realized how crazy my question must’ve sounded: Hey, I know you’re our guest, and I don’t even really know you, but wanna finish off a dying opossum for us while you’re here to swim and have a good time?

“That looks like a murder weapon,” Ricka said, pointing at the rusty shovel in my hand. She hollered something to our neighbor about being the only guy there.

By now, Wilson was a dripping presence next to me. “I can do it.”

“Really? I mean, you grew up on a farm,” I said, hoping to appease myself, “so maybe you’ve done this before?”

“It was usually something my dad did,” he said with a smile, taking the implement from me, “but I’ve got this.”

I grimaced. “Thanks.”

Grieving the afternoon’s loss of innocence and worrying our neighbors might never come back, I scurried toward the sliding glass door, hoping to disappear into the house in time. Before I could step inside, though, a morbid compulsion prodded me. I snapped a glance over my shoulder.

Wilson stood at the edge of the woods, flailing the shovel.

*****

Husband keyed in our information on his phone, registering the two of us for our church’s two-hour marriage dinner cruise down the St. Croix River on August 11. Snapping up two of the fifty remaining spots, he told me the three-level riverboat could hold six hundred fifty people.

“Six hundred fifty?” I said. “Seems like a Titanic situation waiting to happen.”

“You know there won’t be enough lifeboats for us,” Husband said. “We’ll be hugging each other in the water until we die.”

“It’s the St. Croix,” I said. “Surely we can swim to the edge of the river.”

“Well, I can. But with your bad arm, I’ll have to choke you out, so I can save us both.”

“Choke me out?”

“So you don’t fight me while I’m trying to save you.” He plugged in our bank card information. “Ask any lifeguard. That’s what they do.”

We boarded the boat on Sunday in Stillwater with over six hundred others, the late afternoon sun glancing off the gleaming white of the vessel’s main deck. We would go as far as Hudson and then turn back. Flashes of boats of all sizes from literature and history washed into my mind: the Apostle Paul's ships, Huck Finn’s raft, Moby Dick’s Pequod, the Edmund Fitzgerald.

During dinner, I pierced a sliver of wild rice-stuffed chicken with my fork and brought it to my mouth, gazing through the boat’s windows. The waning sun ignited the distant shore. “I guess it would be a long swim.”

“You could probably do it,” Husband said around a bite of potato in his mouth.

But I was happy I didn’t have to.

*****

I stand in the shallow end and watch him dive into the deep, swim underwater the length of our pool, and emerge a foot in front of me. A thrill-rush sloshes over me like I might be yanked under if I don’t watch my footing. Husband wouldn’t do that, but it’s a childhood worry from somewhere. Water drains from his hair, his beard.

“You look like Poseidon,” I say.

Later, I pull up images online to show him. Weathered statues, ancient sketches, cartoon renderings. I find an impressive representation. In it, muscly Poseidon grips a trident amidst the roiling sea; his hair flows in the tempest. “This one is AI-generated and not a real photo,” I say.

“Not a real photo of the mythological Greek god?” He laughs.

“Right,” I say.

I scroll through twenty, maybe thirty, more pictures. All the dark waters, lashing storms, and wicked gales sweep my breath away.

But so does my very own Poseidon.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Water stories: Part 1

They say blood is thicker than water, but I say watery bonds can wash in and refresh you when you least expect them, and that counts for something.

For this week, let’s swim back together to 2022, to our first summer in our new home.

If our slough of a swimming hole—er, pool—had been a real person that year, you might say we cajoled it for weeks to behave and please pull it together asap, okay? for Dicka’s high school grad party in early June. Prayers and pleas splashed together in my swirling thoughts, but we couldn’t get the situation sorted out in time for the partygoers to swim. I smiled anyway, hoping our tropical theme with inflatable palm trees, plastic leis, pulled pork on Hawaiian buns, and pineapple upside-down cake would distract from the swamp in the center of our back yard, but I’ll never know.

Weeks later, we learned things about our personal bog, and those things pushed us to hire Dolf, the electrician, to rewire the shed to power the pump to filter the pool to bring us near perfect swimming adventures. But as August drained away that year, so did our pool water because of the vinyl liner growing a wider and wider gash near one of the jets.

In July’s sweet middle, though—after Dolf and before The Leak—we dried off from our daily dip one day to go to a picnic next door. It was a small gathering of ten of us neighbors, and it was there we met Beatrice and Wilson.

We humans are an inquisitive lot. We want to know the reason a person died when an obituary won’t say it, what an infant’s legs look like under all that swaddling, the ages and salaries of those around us, and how a stranger decorates the inside of her house. But we can’t ask to know or see these things (and more) because our culture says we shouldn’t.

Before our ownership, our home was the talk of the cul-de-sac. As the story goes, the house was a gutted work-in-progress that didn’t really progress, and at least five years ticked away with not much to show for them. We came on the scene with our purchase agreement in 2020, though, and renovations clicked one notch faster. Meanwhile, the neighbors watched, waited, hoped, and worried. Trucks and trailers had blocked their mailboxes and lives for years. And then it all went away—except for their questions—when we arrived, humping our boxes through the front door in early 2022.

After we tucked away our burgers and salads that day of the picnic, I sensed all the questions our new neighbors had but couldn't ask and assuaged their curiosity with an invitation to walk through our place. For years, they had only seen the undone outside and seemed eager to peek around on the finally completed inside. They had put in their time of wondering and now deserved a little wandering (on our property.) I waved six of them around the interior of our house, and then our tour spilled into the back yard.

We regaled them with pool stories, grim tales of what had once been.

“Come over to swim anytime,” Husband said at the end.

“Oh, really,” one of the neighbors said with a smile and nod, but I don't think she believed us.

“We mean it,” I said, hoping to convince.

“Oh, really?” Beatrice and Wilson said. They smiled and nodded too, and they believed us.

Embracing our open invitation, Beatrice and Wilson swam through the remainder of the 2022 swim season and joined us for the next summer too. If we weren’t home on their swim days, we’d return to fresh garden veggies or clippings of herbs on our patio table—little gifts they left behind to refresh us.

One day, Husband and I swam with Beatrice and Wilson, but during our time together, the sun hustled off to somewhere better. Maybe it eyed the same charcoal skies we did, the same raindrops that soon pricked the surface of the water.

And then came the downpour. No lightning, just rain—heavy rain. The torrent drenched our upper bodies as much as the pool water soaked our submerged halves. Should we stay in or get out?

“I'm sure it'll let up soon,” I said, but it didn’t let up soon.

“It’ll pass over any minute,” Wilson said, but it didn’t pass over any minute.

“It’s gotta clear up any time now,” Beatrice said, but it didn’t clear up any time now.

“Looks like a little patch of sun coming,” Husband said, but a little patch of sun wasn’t coming.

And for forty-five minutes, we laughed over the waters, we talked above the deluge, we wiped the blinding rain from our eyes, and we outwaited the cloudburst.

A snapshot of our swimming pool made it into Beatrice and Wilson’s 2023 Christmas card, garnering a mention in their accompanying newsletter. That once dilapidated hole, now noteworthy neighbor, kept sloshing reminders of its existence into the snowy months.

And summer would come again.

*****

Come back next week for Water stories: Part 2—more pool times with Beatrice and Wilson, a visit from Poseidon, and a ship that didn't sink.

Left to right: Wilson, me, Husband, and Beatrice

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Healing

Month after month, I push through list after list. The day job bleeds into the second job. Activity blocks in different colors fill every minute in my Outlook work calendar. Full work weeks flow into fuller weekends. On Sunday nights, despair creeps in because it’s almost Monday, and I’ll have to do it all over again. Zero downtime. The mental load is heavy, the proverbial plate heaping.

Rest.

Yeah, yeah, my mind says to the still small voice, I will. But I don’t.

“When I’m not at work,” I say to a new friend, “you’ll find me at work.”

Truth—from everywhere—pings into the inbox of my life.

“Your caseload is heavy,” my supervisor says, looking at my schedule. “Watch for burnout. It can happen fast.”

“Mom, you should just rest for one whole day,” Ricka says, noticing my entries on the family calendar.

“I wish you didn’t have to work,” Husband says, seeing me scurry everywhere always.

“The idea is you take your rest into the week,” Flicka says when we talk about the Sabbath.

“Oof,” Dicka says when she hears what time I wake up to start my day.

Rest.

How can I? I say back to the voice. And when?

But as I rush to the car on Sunday morning, July 14, and misstep, landing on the cement driveway on my arm, I might see how and when. I sit there for a beat, my water bottle glugging out its contents, and I’m angry at my platform sandals for hitting a loose stone I didn’t notice over my frenetic thoughts. Now I have to heal, and who knows how long that’ll take?

I go to church anyway, my arm throbbing, and whisper to Husband during the sermon to please schedule an appointment at MedExpress for me. I would do it myself, but my right arm—my writing arm—hurts too much.

“Pickleball?” the nurse says when I take a seat in the exam room.

“Dumb shoes,” I reply.

“No broken bones,” the doctor later tells me after the radiologist reads the x-rays.

“Oh, good,” I say, but it’s not. It still feels like a fractured radius. And it still feels like life will need to slow down.

I sit here this morning at 4:30 a.m., writing this blog entry for you, still unable to open a jar, and wishing I could end my story with a tidy takeaway from my skirmish with the concrete. I'd like to say I’ve learned my lesson, I always heed my loved ones’ advice, and I obey the still small voice whenever it comes. Well, I'm trying.

In the past two weeks, I've looked up the difference between burnout and compassion fatigue, studied more on the Sabbath, watched I Can Only Imagine and two episodes of Virgin River with the family, and canceled social plans twice.

And I'm healing.

How are you?

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Rest? Hmm...

The to-do list pushes me into an unsustainable pace. I decide to practice self-control and not do every last thing, but I forget.

God drops me a word more often than you can imagine—Rest—but I don’t listen.

Here’s a blog entry from 2018 when I was at the height of one particular scrambling season. I’ve learned this much about myself since then, though: I’m not a quick study.

This week, I’m taking a little forced rest, but a story will come out of it later. Count on it.

*****

A crushing to-do list is all fun and games until someone smashes her pinky toe on a chair in the basement.

But let’s start at the beginning…

In late March, it all began innocently enough with a list—soon to be called THE LIST. I scribbled down the tasks I needed to accomplish before Flicka’s high school graduation reception. But she’s not my only kid, so I added what the other two girls required to complete their school year. The to-dos and to-buys spanned pages. I dove into The Painting of the Basement—the biggest job of all. And while the painting would one day be cosmetic, for now it was utilitarian, calling for us to brush the cinder blocks with endless coats of a special viscous goo to prevent any more water from seeping in during heavy rains. While each layer dried, THE LIST jerked me around the house to other things.

My low back hurt. I slapped an ice pack on it and kept going. Between phone calls required to run a household, I repainted almost every room in our home. I filled out forms for school and doctors and summer camps. I ran vehicles hither and thither for bodywork or oil changes, acted as therapist for friend crises, watched badminton matches and track meets, prepared food for potlucks, and scheduled doctor and orthodontic appointments.

Slow down.

My bully of a list shoved me around some more: print, address, and send graduation invitations; shop for grad clothes; coordinate dog care for Memorial weekend; call the insurance agent, electrician, and a doctor about my back; clean up the yard (pick up dog poop, plant, mulch, mow.)

Slow down.

A school volunteering gig, more painting, physical therapy, sorting, second-hand store runs, ice packs, and finally, an MRI for the back.

“This is what happens when you get old,” my doctor at TRIA Orthopedic said, but in fancier terms.

“Hm,” I said.

Slow down.

Then one day last week, I scurried around the basement in flip-flops, dodging tools and paint cans while heaving a laundry basket. On the way to dump the clean clothing onto the couch, I whacked my foot on a chair.

I dropped the basket and crouched to assess the damage. My left pinky toe had flopped to the side. “Oh no. No, no, no, no, no.”

I shoved the toe back into place, hobbled upstairs for the first aid tape, and wrapped the injured one up with his buddy next to him. Grabbing an ice pack, I headed back to the couch. I plopped down, propped my foot up on the pile of unfolded laundry, and bawled.

Husband hurried downstairs to me, his eyes wide. “What happened?”

I explained the accident, mascara-blackened tears splashing onto my old paint shirt. (And good thing, because dashed expectations can stain fabric if you’re not careful.) Memories of the broken pinky toe on my other foot eight years earlier whooshed to mind. I had limped around for six weeks before shoes felt good again.

“Does it hurt a lot?” he asked.

I waved away his question. “Now it’ll slow me down for the next four to six weeks.”

“Maybe that’s the idea.”

“I’m a mess.” I sniffed. “You better turn me in for a newer model.”

Compassion edged his half-smile. “It’ll be okay.”

But for a week, it didn’t feel okay. I blamed myself for the incident. If I had worn more protective shoes, this never would’ve happened. If I had paid attention to the placement of the chair, if I had neglected the laundry one more day…

I sat down often, iced my back and toe at the same time, and imagined the clock ticking away precious minutes. But I also heard the birds chirp outside the window and remembered I had a little something called breathing I could once again practice.

And THE LIST turned back into the list.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

The run

Everybody gathers to watch THE VERY BEGINNING. The starter pistol blasts, and my running partner and I take off. Those fresh first steps—larger than life—garner admiration. It’s really a significant something to start the long race—to commit to doing it in the first place. Heavy preparation leads up to it: hours of training, instructional books, needed counsel, planned attire.

The crowd applauds and shouts encouragement, but early on, they go home. No one waits around for the end. They have their own lives, see.

And still, we run.

We grab energy gel packs here or there, squeeze them into our mouths, gulp some water, and keep moving. At mile seven, a kid jumps into the race with us, and it’s harder to pay full attention to my running partner, but he’s there.

At miles nine and twelve, two more kids join us. Along the route, the second two do things with the first one—things like squirm and dash and whine—and I wonder if they’ll make it. But yes, they will, and out of the corner of my eye, there’s my partner, still matching my stride.

I look at my watch. The young ones hamper our pace, but I’m happy for the slowing. We’ve got a long way to go. Does speed even matter? The distraction of them brings humor, light, and more purpose to our run.

But where are the onlookers? No one waits around for the end. They have their own lives, see.

And still, we run.

There’s a wall at nineteen miles, they say. A mental wall. Some people give in to the difficulty, collapse under the pressure. Some make it through, of course, while others drop out earlier. There are always reasons—reasons I can’t judge because I don’t know. And I struggle to breathe too sometimes, but I don’t want to stop.

Today we’re at the thirty-two-mile mark, and the crowds are far away. And what of our three little running companions? They’re big, strong, able-bodied, and efficient. They still log steps with us sometimes, but mostly, they race on their own.

I smile at my running partner, our worn shoes, our methodical strides, our similar pace. The unnecessary has dropped away, and though long, our run together has gotten smoother, sweeter, softer.

People are aware we’re still running, but no one waits around for the end. They have their own lives, see.

And still, we run.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Of salads and sparklers

On June 26, I remembered the Fourth of July. Husband and I planned the festivities, came up with the menu, and invited Todd and Trixie to join us. They said yes. All of our celebration planning occurred within a five-minute window.

This patriotic holiday—loaded with nostalgia for me—is one of my favorites, and what pairs better with nostalgia than yesteryear’s recipes? I told Todd and Trixie about our food ideas, and they were quick to comply.

“Todd says we’ll bring the ambrosia salad,” Trixie said. “And at a minimum, we need sparklers.”

I forgot what the old-fashioned “salad” contained and said so.

“I think it involves Jell-O, marshmallows, and possibly asparagus,” she said.

A quick Google search showed me variations on the dessert, and she wasn’t far off. Mandarin oranges, marshmallows, coconut, pineapple chunks, maraschino cherries, pecans, and bananas were popular ingredients. And whipped cream, sour cream, or mayonnaise held them all together.

“I thought there was elbow macaroni in it too,” Husband said.

“It isn’t saying that,” I said, reading the ingredients aloud, “but it seems possible.”

We discussed the other parts of our meal. No sundried tomato and feta brats or butter burgers with caramelized onions and gruyère this year. Nope. We’d enjoy plain ol’ hot dogs on plain ol’ white buns.

“No fancy chips either,” I said in case Husband was getting any crazy ideas. “Just Old Dutch potato chips. With French onion dip.”

We decided classic pea salad, watermelon, potato salad, Jell-O poke cake, and rootbeer floats were invited to the party too.

Todd and Trixie arrived on the big day with homemade pulled pork, sangria, and fireworks. We hustled out to the pool as the skies darkened. No hope of sunburns from our summer holiday this year, but we took a rainy dip to mark the occasion anyway.

Hours chased away the raindrops, giving us the chance to smoke up the atmosphere with fireworks that looked and smelled exactly like the 1970s. And they spun me back to the days when sparklers inspired oohs and aahs and those “snakes” stank like sulfur and stained both the pavement and our memories.

“Did you read the instructions first?” Todd said to the girls about each item they lit. “You should read the instructions first.”

Trixie struggled to ignite an extra-long sparkler. “This isn’t American’t but American,” she said when she had success.

And she danced with the dazzler in the hazy dusk.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

The Poconos

While we’re preparing our Independence Day food, here’s a story from yesteryear. Happy 4th of July, everyone! (Come back next week for our holiday menu and pics!)

*****

We cranked down the car windows, letting the hot summer air blast our faces.

“Ready?” Husband said, glancing in the rear view mirror.

“Yeah!” Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka, ages seven, five, and three, hollered from the back seat.

“On the road again,” we belted out, “Just can’t wait to get on the road again, the life I love is making music with my friends, and I can’t wait to get on the road again.”

We sang the next part of Willie Nelson’s song with Husband’s amended lyrics. “Like a band of gypsies we go down the highway, we’re the best of friends as long as we do things my way, on the highway, on the road again.”

We had already spent a week in New York City at my brother’s place in Queens, venturing out each day to perform our touristy duties of consuming pasta in Little Italy and making Flicka’s wishes for a funky haircut come true in a basement salon somewhere in Greenwich Village. We narrowly escaped the temptation to purchase miniature turtles at a shop in Chinatown, opting instead for paper parasols and silk pajamas. And we took the Staten Island ferry to Lady Liberty’s place to say hi.

The car now gobbled up the miles along I-80 until we caught sight of a chalet, our timeshare for the week, nestled in the Pocono Mountains.

“‘Nobody puts Baby in a corner’,” I quoted Patrick Swayze’s famous line from the 1987 flick. “Fun that the movie was set here.”

“Pretty sure it was the Catskills,” Husband said.

I circled back to the eighties. “I think you’re right.”

We climbed forty-plus steps to our lodging, dumped our luggage on the living room floor, and the girls scattered to their new rooms. Dicka took a spill, though, catching her nasal septum on the edge of the coffee table. Blood pulsed from her nose.

“Oh, wonderful.” I darted into the kitchen, grabbed swaths of paper towels, and returned to the scene of the accident where Husband was cupping his hands under the deluge.

The bleeding finally stanched, we tugged on our swimsuits and set out for water. We located the pool, teeming with vacationers, and jumped in. My ducklings, clad in swim wings and goggles, bobbed in the deep end with Husband and me.

New York accents mingled with Southern drawls. And was that German? Italian too? A sampling of the world floated in the pool along with us.

“I’ve never seen a suit like that before,” Flicka said, gazing at a Muslim girl in full-body swimwear.

I nodded. Then I peered at the water and wrinkled my nose. “And I’ve never seen so much hair in a pool before.”

Husband cringed. “Can’t be good for the pool’s filter.”

The next morning in the fitness center, I lowered myself into another pool for aqua aerobics class. My classmates, a handful of older ladies decked in floral swim caps and Long Island accents, chattered amongst themselves, their raspy voices betraying their habit which I had seen them stub out into the ashtray by the door before class.

We worked our arms using Styrofoam noodles, gripped the edge of the pool for our leg lifts, and hop-twisted—Jack LaLanne style—through a few songs. The women chitchatted again during the cool-down, and I wondered if I could: 1. say ‘Larry’ in a Long Island accent like the woman who so often mentioned her husband, and 2. find a swim cap as cute as any of theirs.

“Let’s run to Blockbuster,” Husband said when I returned to the chalet.

Since the family was ready to go, I slipped on my long grey sweater over my swimsuit and trekked out the door with them. We drove to a nearby town, but as I stepped inside the video store, reality smacked me: we were no longer in the resort, and my attire was utterly inappropriate for the setting. What was I thinking, not getting dressed? I squared my shoulders, closing my sweater tightly around me while we perused movie titles.

We found more than an afternoon’s worth of entertainment and proceeded to the checkout line. A male voice wafted to me from behind.

“Ma’am? Ma’am?” said the voice.

Was he calling me? I turned to face a young man. “Hm?”

“Your dress is up, ma’am,” he said, like he was pleased to save me from embarrassment.

My face heated. I extricated the hem of my sweater from the leg hole of my swimsuit—how had it gotten there anyway?—with a harrumph. “Thanks.”

I whirled to face forward again. ‘Your dress’? It’s a sweater, thank you very much, I felt like saying. To cover my swimsuit, if you don’t mind.

We remember our trip to the Poconos in 2007 as one of our favorites. We’ve still never witnessed a nose gusher like Dicka’s. “Ma’am? Ma’am? Your dress is up, ma’am” is a well-worn quote in our house now. And I shudder every time we recount stories of the hairy pool.

But would we go back to that timeshare in the Poconos? In a heartbeat.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.