On the Ice

This afternoon, it was gray and snowing lightly. It was strangely quiet for the middle of the city and the only sound came from our boots scuffing the sidewalk as we made our way to the park to skate. I said, "It's beautiful," which is not something I've said too often in recent weeks because the snow and cold have become hard to bear. Zeca said, "It's pretty in that way the snow is at Christmas."

And that was it. Exactly.

Once at the park, I took the sidewalks while my kids trudged through the deep snow, talking to each other. I wondered what they were saying but was content to watch them from a distance - two kids in dark blue jackets, side by side, marching through the snow. Zeca fell at one point and Miguel waited as she got back up and then they continued on.

We met up again at the ice house at the edge of the lake, changed into our skates and hit the ice. The kids skated together and I snapped pictures.

Friends joined us and we skated in circles around the island with an occasional high five or a hug from a passing kid. It was a perfect afternoon and, on days like today, I think Minnesota and I understand each other perfectly.

Shalinsky's Drug Store

My mother was a busy woman. She worked full-time and raised three kids, mostly on her own. When I was young, I don't remember her spending much idle time with me. She wasn't the kind of mom who played games or read to me. She wasn't one to sit back and watch me put on plays. I can see that differently now when I take in the greater context of her life or maybe I'm just more inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt these days. But, my mother loved a good malt and there was only one place in Kansas City to get one - Shalinsky's Drug in Argentine. I can still remember the tingling bell that announced our entrance into the drugstore and the displays of Russell Stover's candies towards the front and the rows of greeting cards. My mom would take me by the hand and lead me to the soda fountain. This would have been in the 1970's but Shalinsky's still had that old time soda fountain feel with the sea foam green malt mixer and the metal mixing containers. She'd put her purse on the counter and we'd hop up on the old vinyl stools and she'd order us a chocolate malt to share. The person working behind the counter would bring us the metal malt cup and pour it into our soda glasses and we'd sit there together sipping our malts. Sometimes, she'd ask me about school or friends but, more often than not, we'd sit there in silence, glancing at each other every now and then to smile.

Shalinsky's is gone and, strange as it may seem, my mother is buried across the street from where it once stood. I wish I could go back and take my kids with me for one more malt. I'd tell them I've never had a malt as good as the ones I had there. That's the truth.

Icy Roads

I slid through a red light today, right through a space between a school bus and a station wagon. The sun was shining and it's warmer today than it has been and I didn't realize the roads were slick. But, of course, the roads are still slick. It's still winter and it's still Minnesota but I forgot and, for a brief moment, I didn't have control of my car. It's amazing how a long a moment can seem. I saw the bus and the station wagon. I imagined the impact. I thought of my kids in the back seat and prayed they wouldn't be hurt. I gripped the steering wheel, said, "Oh god" and we slid through, like thread through the eye of a needle.

The driver in the station wagon honked repeatedly and I said aloud, "I couldn't help it! Like I would run a red light on purpose!" I knew he couldn't hear me but I said it anyway. Maybe I was saying it to myself or to the kids. Maybe I just wanted the three of us to know that it was beyond my control.

We came to a stop and I put my head on the steering wheel and exhaled. Zeca mumbled something and I snapped, "What did you say? I can't hear you!" She cleared her throat, "You can't be mad at him for honking. He didn't know it was an accident. He didn't know you didn't mean to run the light." Miguel said, "Mom, he probably honked because he was scared. You would have done the same thing."

They were right but my heart was still beating too fast and I was afraid I was going to cry so I said nothing and drove the rest of the way to school. They tumbled out of the car as usual as we all said "I love you!" and "Have a good day!" and I got about a block from the school when I started crying because "What if?" What if the bus had slowed down in that intersection? What if the wagon hadn't been able to stop? What if?

I've been thinking about gratitude a lot lately and, as I sat in my car and cried this morning, I was grateful - for good timing, for my kids and their kind hearts, for perspective. I'm also grateful for the frightened driver of that station wagon. If I could, I'd take him out to coffee, apologize and thank him.