sleepover + sun + snow = snowgal

It was the perfect combination: sleepover, sun and snow. All three collided here this morning when my 8-year-old and her friend, who were both still a bit wired from last night's annual school carnival, trudged out into the backyard to scoop, roll and stack. And from that, this gorgeous snowgal came to life. Busy with my "to do" list, I almost forgot to take a look after she said, "Did you see what we made?" It was worth borrowing a few precious moments to wade through the drifts and discover her, this smiling snowgal who wouldn't exist if not for the youthful energy of two young friends.

here's to a year full of life

Thank you, kind readers. Thank you for a year of life-giving exchange. Some of you don't leave comments, and that's okay. Some of you do on occasion, and that's wonderful. Some of you do often, and I so appreciate the vitality of that back-and-forth. But whether I hear from you or not, the exchange, tangible or otherwise, that occurs in blog reading and writing has been an unexpected force in my life this past year. Since starting a "mirror blog" at Area Voices on my 40th birthday in September, my readers have increased by 6,000 monthly hits. My Blogger blog has experienced a similar, steady increase since I began putting thought to computer "page" a year ago. There are days I wonder if I should use my blogging time for a different purpose, but then something I experience strikes me in a particular way, or I witness something that sends a zing up my spine, or I read a passage from a book that changes me and...it's hard to deny the urge to share those life-awakening moments with others. I can't control how others perceive my words. All I can do is stay honest and write, as best I can, from my heart.

I have found the journey deeply edifying. And though I must write, firstly, for myself, if something happens beyond that initial act of thinking and writing that makes another smile or feel a little more alive, the icing on the cake is sweet indeed. I don't always know how my words and sharing will affect others. We labor most often without experiencing the fruits of our labors, yet most days we carry on anyway. Especially as parents, we may not see immediately how our tireless efforts at molding our children will play out. And yet we continue onward, hoping that our love for our children will translate into something meaningful, if not immediately then further down the road. There are times, though, that our efforts at parenting or in other work do produce more immediate rewards. These moments when labor meets reward hearten us and keep us moving forward. We cling to them briefly like dew to a blade of grass until something startles us, perhaps the voice of a child yelling from the other room, "Moooooom!" Our drop of dew falls into the earth then and we move on to the business of not reflecting but living.

Last night at our school carnival, I had the pleasure or bumping into one of my faithful readers at our school carnival. "I just wanted to say...thanks for your writing. It's the first thing I go to in the morning after I've grabbed my cup of coffee. I always look forward to seeing what you have to say." Could there be any higher compliment to a writer than that? The only thing better is the actual act of writing, which is, I know, a gift that not all possess or not all are in the position to nurture. I accept this gift with an open heart and thank those of you who have enjoyed what has resulted. Because even though I write for myself, I write for you as well.

Yesterday, while walking the treadmill, I finished a book I picked up at our local library. It was a random choosing, not something I'd heard of before, but I enjoy memoir and, based on the title, thought it would be something I'd appreciate. The author is both a writer and musician, as well as someone who has experienced the struggle of having ties with two cultures. I knew I'd be able to identify with these aspects of his life. The Color of Water: A Black Man's Tribute to His White Mother, written by James McBride, was, indeed, a wonderful read. I bookmarked a page or two and want to share an excerpt of it with you. It comes toward the end of the book (p. 178) when he is reflecting on the sacrifices of his Jewish grandmother while visiting the Southern town where she'd lived:

"That night I slept in a motel just down the road from the McDonald's, and at about four in the morning, I sat straight up. Something just drew me awake. I tossed and turned for an hour, then got dressed and went outside, walking down the road toward the nearby wharf. As I walked along the wharf and looked over the Nansemond River, which was colored an odd purple by the light of the moon, I said to myself, 'What am I doing here? This place is so lonely. I gotta get out of here.' It suddenly occurred to me that my grandmother had walked around here and gazed upon this water many times, and the loneliness and agony that Hudis Shilsky felt as a Jew in this lonely southern town -- far from her mother and sisters in New York, unable to speak English, a disabled Poilsh immigrant whose husband had no love for her and whose dreams of seeing her children grow up in American vanished as her life drained out of her at the age of forty-six -- suddenly rose up in my blood and washed over me in waves. A penetrating loneliness covered me, lay on me so heavily I had to sit down and cover my face. I had no tears to shed. They were done long ago, but a new pain and a new awareness were born inside me. The uncertainty that lived inside me began to dissipate; the ache that the little boy who stared in the mirror felt was gone. My own humanity was awakened, rising up to greet me with a handshake as I watched the first glimmers of sunlight peek over the horizon. There's such a big difference between being dead and alive, I told myself, and the greatest gift that anyone can give anyone else is life. And the greatest sin a person can do to another is to take away that life. Next to that, all the rules and religions in the world are secondary; mere words and beliefs that people choose to believe and kill and hate by. My life won't be lived that way, and neither, I hope, will my children's. I left for New York happy in the knowledge that my grandmother had not suffered and died for nothing."

Powerful stuff. And if you want to check out one of the coolest author websites around, go to McBride's site. It's obvious creativity oozes from the soul of this man, who grew up one of twelve children. In fact, aside from the other wonderful aspects of this book, reading about the life of a large family gave me a lot of hope for my own boisterous, oftentimes chaotic brood, knowing that all twelve went on to do amazing things. Sometimes perspective from those who have "been there, done that" is enough to keep us keeping on.

Finally, and again...thanks...

in honor of maria faith

One tiny coffin
(In memory of Maria Faith Madson)

When the students of carpentry gathered round
To learn how to make a coffin
Did they know the dimensions of one small box
They’d someday be asked to fashion?

When they gazed upon the heavy, long boards
To be sawed and shaped and hallowed
Did one of them think he’d create a tomb
This narrow, this short, this shallow?

And did the one chosen to hone this work
While smoothing and sanding the rows
Imagine fine fingers and feet of the one
Who would today lie in repose?

Could he have foreseen this procession of
Five siblings and a mother true
Who flanked the sides of the father who bore
The feather-light load that was you?

Perhaps he did sense from some far-off place
A lamb cloth so tenderly pulled
Over the sweet little body that once
Housed a white-as-snow precious soul

He may not have known, so I cried in his stead
Sharing a mother’s grieving
While thanking our God for the gift of you
That made our hearts more heaven-leaning.

my ten names

Another fun online exercise. It would be fun to do with your kids, too. Join in if you'd like!

1.YOUR REAL NAME
Roxane Marie Beauclair Salonen

2.YOUR GANGSTA NAME: (first three letters of your name, plus izzle)
Roxizzle

3. YOUR "FLY Guy/Girl" NAME: (first initial of first name, first three of your last)
Ronen

4. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (fav color and fav animal)
Reddog

5. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, town where you were born):
Marie Lovell

6. YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (the first 3 letters of your last name, first 2 letters of your first name, first 3 letters of mom's maiden name)
Salrobyr

7. SUPERHERO NAME: (favorite color, favorite drink)
Red Mocha

8. IRAQI NAME: (2nd letter of your first name, 3rd letter of your last name, any letter of your middle name, 2nd letter of your moms maiden name, 3rd letter of you dads middle name, 1st letter of a siblings first name, last letter of your moms middle name)
Olryect

10.WITNESS PROTECTION NAME: (fathers middle name and your grandpas first name)
Emmett Joseph

Now, if you'd like, repost as your ten names!

it's the little things

Always and forever, it's the little things in life that delight me. This morning, the "little thing" came in the form of a note from my 6-year-old. I was in my typical morning fog, and as I emerged from the bathroom, a chipper little dude decked out in his school uniform met me in the hall. "Morning," I said, then proceeded to move past him, but he stopped me, tapping me on the leg.

"I have sompin' for ya, Mom," he said, thrusting a small yellow card at me.







Instantly, I was awake and thoroughly joyful. It was better than the strongest shot of caffeine. I bent down and gave him a huge, truly heartfelt hug. To someone else, this card might seem like a few imperfect scratches on a page. But to me, it's my son's attempt at showing love. I received the message loud and clear.

He was in an especially good mood for another reason today. His class was released several hours early due to an event at his school. However, only the kindergarteners got to go early. His sisters had to stay the duration. It was an extra-special day for him playing "mock hookie" and I took him and his little bro for a special lunch at Burger King to celebrate his "half-day out." He feels slighted when he hears reports of our during-the-school-day outings, and I enjoyed having just the two of them with me again.

Nick was especially excited to have his brother along, and they both lit up over the idea of hanging at BK together. While we were waiting for our burgers, Adam pointed to a food bag and said, "Does that say, "Win?" Indeed it did. "Yes, how did you know?" I asked. "Oh, I just sounded it out." Another leap of the heart for me. My guy is learning how to read!

Of course, Nick, 3, didn't want to be left out. "That says Win," he declared, pointing to the same bag. "Yes, how did you know?" "Because Adam said so." Yeah, Adam will be "saying so" a lot in the next couple years. You don't get too many breaks as fifth of five, but, as I often say, you take your luck as it comes.

To give Nick his due, just yesterday I said to him, "Hey Nick, I love you."

"I know," he said casually, walking in the other direction. Then he turned around and added, just as matter-of-factly, "I've always known that."

I am so glad he takes the love of his mother for granted. I know not every child does. I hope it will always be so.

And I hope your day was brightened with a "little thing" or two, too.

honor your colors

An email from my friend Mary this morning nudged me to write about something I've had in my "for future" file ever since beginning this blog a year ago. Mary introduced me to the "true colors" personality identification method several years ago, and since then it's become the "language" we use when describing people to one another. It's one of many methods out there that identifies personalities; specifically, by using four different colors to categorize. The book Mary shared with me introducing this typology, "Follow Your True Colors to the Work You Love," by Carolyn Kalil helps people zero in on career choices that best suit them. When I read it, I wasn't on a career search, but it was transformative in the way it helped me understand those who are not the same personality "colors" as I am. It also was affirming in that it showed me I haven't strayed from my "color scheme" in choosing my profession. Though I'm aware of other personality-identifying methods, this one seems the simplest to me of those to which I've been exposed. I truly believe that by considering personality colors, we can help move about our world with more understanding of others with whom we come into contact. In terms of parenting, understanding our children's colors can have the same effect, and greatly help us meet our chlidren where they're at through respecting their unique color scheme.

I ended up buying the book after Mary shared hers with me, but in all my enthusiasm, lent it out (and it's still "out"). But I can basically describe what each color encapsulates in terms of personality traits. So here's my very simplified version of the "true colors" concept:

Blue = compassionate, peacemakers

Green = analytical, "big picture" thinkers

Orange = fun-loving, spontaneous

Gold = thrives on organization and having a plan

When I read about those who vary most from my own personality type, I instantly had a newfound understanding and compassion for those types who have tended to rub me the wrong way most of my life. (I am sure that when these people cross my path, I irritate them just as much.) There really are few people who get under my skin, because I tend to be a compassionate, peace-loving "blue" type. That said, the high "gold" personality and I sometimes have a difficult time meshing. But just understanding that it's likely nothing personal, and more likely a product of our at-odds personality types, helps a great deal in my ability to interact with them. I am definitely attracted to other "blue" people and can easily spot them in a crowd. Even if I weren't aware of these color distinctions, blues tend to find one another. When we do meet up, all is right with the world. Most of my friends are primary blues and I love them to pieces.

It's easy to see why identifying your color can help your life, and possibly help you understand your child and others in your world. If you're at all curious, I'd recommend taking the online personality quiz to help you identify your colors. It's super quick. If you want to learn more, you can find the book online or through the library.

Just to give you an idea of what you'll find if you take the test, your results will look similar to mine below (excuse the poor quality). It's interesting. I've taken this quiz about five or six different times, and every time before today I was blue-green (the primary color is most important, but the secondary one is an important complement). Today, a bit more of orange than usual entered in. Perhaps I'm loosening up a bit these days and not analyzing everything as much as I used to. Regardless, I seem to be fairly solidly a blue, no matter what day or in what circumstances I take this quiz. And as you can see, I rank very low on organization (gold). Of course, we are all a mixture of all these colors, but our two primary colors tell us the most about ourselves.

So when Mary wrote me this morning, she wanted me to tell me about someone in her life who has caused her some frustration. To give me an instant visual of this person, she told me what she perceives to be their colors. Based on that, I knew just what she meant when she said she was having a hard time finding common ground with them. And even though that doesn't change the situation entirely, it allows her to be mindful of those colors when the two of them are in the same room, and better navigate their personality differences.

I think it would be a fun exercise for you readers to take this test and share your results. I promise, even if you are full-blown gold, I will not hold it against you. If, on the other hand, you are blue like me, well, no wonder we found each other!

Happy color-identifying. I look forward to hearing back from anyone who feels like sharing their results.

what they'd miss

Recently, my 6-year-old was upset with me. "I HATE you!" he screamed from the backseat of the van, furious about...I don't even remember now. Something very relevant to his life, I'm sure, but not serious enough to merit that. I've learned over time, however, to not take these words too seriously, even though I don't enjoy hearing them. I know he's really saying, "I'm mad at you," or, "I'm frustrated about..." or, "This doesn't seem fair to me and I'm angry about it." And so I try to help him rephrase his words by listing some of the above alternatives.

"I want you to feel what you're feeling. But when you say you hate me, you are saying you wish I wasn't in your life," I added the other day.

(Pause)

"Well, if you weren't in my life...who would pick out my clothes in the morning?" he asked.

I thought it was interesting that, of all the things I do for him in a given day, this act seems to rank the highest. It's true that I make sure his clothes are laid out every morning, even if I don't remember until midnight. I don't always do the same for his older siblings, but he's in kindergarten so he's got a free pass on picking out morning clothes -- for now anyway. How nice he's noticed, I thought. It makes the extra efforts worthwhile knowing they're appreciated.

That got me wondering what the rest of my family most appreciates about me. What is one thing they would miss most if I weren't here? I suppose losing some special to cancer recently has got me thinking about these things even more than usual. It's not that I need an ego boost, but I am curious what attribute of mine my family members most value and would miss if I was no longer accessible, even if for a little while. So I phrased it in a way that wouldn't cause them too much worry and will record their replies:

Nicholas, 3: "Your skin."

Elizabeth, 8: "Your smile."

Olivia, 11: "Your writing."

Christian, 13: (pause....pause...pause...) "All your great cooking." (He seemed hard-pressed for an answer and I think this one came to mind as the thing he felt he ought to say, not necessarily what he means.)

Troy, 40: "Your brown eyes."

It's only fair I reciprocate, I think. So, here are my "what I would miss about you" answers:

Adam: Your interesting mind.

Nicholas: Your awesome facial expressions.

Elizabeth: Your gentle, revealing smile.

Olivia: Your compassionate nature.

Christian: Your comedic ways.

Troy: Your fun sense of humor.

It's hard coming up with just one thing. Another of many things I'd miss: my kids' creations, from the cool computer features my oldest son figures out how to access and shares with me to the art projects of the youngest. Here's one that recently came home in the backpack of my 8-year-old. It was part of a Nativity scene made piece by piece by her class. Her assignment was to make Baby Jesus:

Wishing you a week of few tears. But if they must come, I hope they are healthy, cleansing tears -- the kind that rinse the soul to make room for something new and hopeful.

babies maria and julia: heaven and earth

The Madson twins, Julia and Maria, were welcomed into our world last night! When I saw the photo of them holding hands, the tears inevitably flowed, especially knowing little Maria only stayed with us a mere two hours. And yet, those two hours were a gift to her family members, who had been prepared for her shortcut to heaven. What a relief to know that Mommy Roxanne seems to be doing well and that little Julia is healthy.

Here's the "official" report from Daddy Brian:

"Big sister Julie Hope was born at 5:52 weighing 5 lbs 6 oz and is 18 inches long. Maria Faith was born 6:01 weighing 3 lbs 13 and is 16 inches long. Roxanne did a great job as she always has and everything went smooth. Both girls were held and loved by grandmas and grandpas, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, and of course mom and dad. Maria Faith was baptized and confirmed by Father Bachmeier. Maria Faith went to our Heavenly Father while in Grandma Janet's arms after being with us for less than two hours. Father Gunwall led us in prayer. I miss her but I know she is in heaven and will be watching over us.We appreciate all your support and prayers for our family."

To read more of their story...

a tale of lovers and losers (er, winners)

It's not February yet, but I'm compelled to tell of a love so true it cannot wait any longer. This love spanned many years and hundreds of miles, and its sweet ending seemed most unlikely -- until yesterday. That said, waiting even one more day to record it would be wholly unfair to those involved.

It's hard to say when this love first took root. It most surely initiated at a water well somewhere in South America. But so much of the back story will never be known by me, the storyteller. Those who share this love do so through closed mouths and silent eyes that only reveal bits of the account, which most certainly included the torment of separation and toil coupled with a deep and everlasting love.

For me, the story began sometime in the early 90s, if I recall correctly, when I received this darling gift from my dear college friend following her trip to Mexico:

The water-carrier piece traveled with me through every move I have made since, only after being carefully rolled in newspaper and placed in the appropriate moving box before being transported by U-haul or some other vehicle. I've always offered it a spot of top honor in my home. To me, it is a beautiful representation of my friendship and a true treasure. Until yesterday, though, I didn't know the sad eyes of the jug woman had been trying to speak to me all these years, to tell me of a lonely, sad life that would not improve until a reunion with her soulmate could happen.

January 22, 2009, marks the date when sparks flew once again. It all began to unfold last night at the Ugly Sweater Party. Our host announced that at the end of the event, winners of the "ugliest sweater," to be determined by secret vote, would be revealed and prizes would be given. As our Bunko games heated up, the host kept mentioning one of the prizes and its names, "Eileen," or so I thought. As the two top teams squared off at the head table for the final game, someone brought Eileen to us. It was then that I realized the prize's name was "I Lean," not "Eileen." You can draw your own conclusions as to why. Introducing "I Lean":

Upon meeting the weighted-down gaze of "I Lean," I knew this night would not be like any other. "I have the match to this!" I said excitedly. "Well then, if you win, it's yours!" I was told. And at that moment I could hear "I Lean" whispering to me, "You must win. If you win, I will be reunited with my long-lost lover. My very life depends on you winning." And so I proceeded to roll the dice and help bring my team to a victory, and, thus, claim "I Lean" as my prize. Even though he originally was to be given as second prize to the winner of the ugliest sweater, the gal who won that honor graciously surrendered "I Lean" after hearing this too-good-to-be-true love story. Who would dare mess with fate, after all?

And so, finally, after many miles and much heartache, "I Lean" and his counterpart, "Eileen," have found one another once again. And while I know "I Lean" looks much shorter than "Eileen," trust me, it is only because of the weight on his back and the feelings he has for his beloved. He will, forevermore, be leaning toward his dear one in a gesture of lifelong respect and love:

AND NOW to announce the winner of the ugliest sweater (drum roll puh-leasssee!)...AS PREDICTED by the most astute group of readers on Area Voices AND Blogger...NUMBER 10! Yes indeed, this mystery sweater-wearer was overwhelmingly chosen to have the ugliest sweater, which was designed especially by her dear mom-in-law and included the addition of a fake, sewn-on bird. This pink fowl perched on the shoulder of said sweater-wearer the whole night, making certain actions in the Bunko playing particularly difficult, but nevertheless, the two became fast friends by night's end.

And the grand prize? This lovely...wooden-girl-holding-a-light thingamajig, which the host and her daughter improved even further (if such a thing is possible) by painting on it their version of the perfect ugly sweater -- pink with purple stripes and pandas. How delighted her family must have been as she arrived home with the winning piece. And to think the host paid a mere dollar for it at the thrift store. (It really is lovely, though, don't you think?)

As for this next photo, don't even ASK how the wearer of the squirrel sweater came to be holding an armadillo while mutlitasking with her cell phone and Bunko dice. That would merit another page at least.

And so comes the conclusion of the Ugly Sweater Party followup. If ever you have an inkling to host your own such party, I hope this post will be an inspiration.

Who was it who said there's nothing to do in the dead of winter in North Dakota? I think my group of crazy pals just proved them wrong!

ugly sweater party

Last night, I attended my first-ever Ugly Sweater Party. The invitation instructed we come dressed in our ugliest sweater, bring an appetizer to share and arrive ready to play Bunko. Believe it or not, I had a hard time coming up with something I thought would fit the bill. It's certainly a switch of mindset when you go to your closet intent on finding something ugly as opposed to something flattering. Not having had time to flock to the thrift stores like some of the participants, and in a moment of "it's almost time for the party" panic, I threw up my hands and searched my husband's side of the closet. And yes, I did find something there. It's really not THAT ugly. In fact, I've always liked this sweater on him. But...I probably wouldn't grab it for me if I were looking to flatter myself. However (and I think Troy will be glad to know this) I did NOT win the Ugly Sweater Contest. I didn't even win second prize, or third. But I did take photos of the other gals in their ugly sweaters and thought it might be fun to give you a chance to vote for your fav. Later, I'll reveal the real "winner" (as well as your pick) and tell you about my first-ever chance to play Bunko and the cool prize I won for my 6-1 victory. (By the way, Mom, I just read your email saying you had a great Bunko night, too. I finally know what you're talking about...guess we both were on a Bunko roll the same night!)

A few quick related stories to share. When one of the gals walked into the party, one of the other partygoers said, "Hey, I used to own that sweater!" Apparently she'd brought it to a local thrift store a while ago and, well, seems it found its way back to her in a roundabout way. It was a happy, knee-slapping "reunion."

Another participant reported that when she brought her ugly-sweater purchase up to the counter at the thrift shop, the cashier remarked, quite seriously, "What a lovely sweater." To which she thought to herself: "Gee, that wasn't the reaction I was looking for. Guess I don't have much of a chance of winning grand prize!" Which just goes to show that whether something is ugly or not is strictly a matter of opinion. Beauty is, indeed, in the eye of the beholder, or sweater-wearer.

Above is a rather fuzzy photo of me wearing the hot-pink, fuzzy Bunko "winners' dice" around my neck, and below, the contestants (minus me) in the ugly sweater lineup. NOTE: In order to protect the identity and reputations of the women caught sneaking out of their homes wearing their horridly ugly sweaters, I have cropped out their faces. Leave comments with your choices if you wish!

#1: #2:

#3: #4:

#5: #6:

#7: #8:

#9: #10:

#11:

my husband and eddie van halen

Now that he's safely back on North Dakota ground, I feel comfortable sharing more details regarding the mystery gathering I hinted at last week. Yes, this really IS my DH (dear hubby) with one of the most revered guitarists in rock history, Edward van Halen. And even though Troy says he (meaning himself) looks goofy in the photo because the photog caught him midsentence, I think it's adorable. His face is absolutely lit up as he converses with someone he truly has admired from the earliest days of his own musicianhood. What a thrill. Who wouldn't be excited upon meeting their hero?

So what gives? How did Troy get so lucky to have been in Eddie's presence? As business owner of a guitar shop here in Fargo, Troy ventures off to L.A. annually this time of year to take part in the National Association of Music Merchants convention. And every year, the vendors do their best to woo merchants their way to encourage them to sign contracts with them for the coming year. EVH was one of the show's highlights this year, but not everyone was able to participate in the "meet and greet." Because Troy's store offers the EVH line, he was among those who had the chance to gather with Eddie the first evening of NAMM. Mostly, it was a chance for Eddie to thank the merchants for their support in selling his product. So, there you have it.

I should mention that Troy's not the only person in our family who has gone gaga over EVH. Yes, yours truly once had a "thing" for him. In fact, in my childhood bedroom, back in high school, I had a poster of Eddie adorning my wall. I loved his smile, especially, and how confident and happy he seemed to be while playing his guitar. It was very alluring to a girl at age 15. I mean, who could resist this smile?

This was the David Lee Roth era, of course, and though I no longer have the poster, in it, he was wearing this same outfit and playing this guitar.

But wait a minute, this is a parenting blog, right? So what does this posting have to do with parenting? Well, there are several angles, but among my favorites is this:

A while back, one of our little boys wanted to talk to his Daddy, who was in his music/exercise corner playing his guitar, probably a Van Halen song. The conversation went something like this:

"Dad, whatcha doing?"

"Just playing a little music. Do you recognize this song? I'll give you a hint: it's played by Eddie van Halen."

"Oh..." (pause) "Well, I don't wike Eddie van Hawen."

(Daddy's eyes grow large in mock shock.)

"What??! You don't like Eddie van Halen??!!"

"No, I don't wike..."

(Daddy puts down his guitar.)

"Alright, that's it, young man, I'll have none of that," he says. A chase commences, ending in the nearby bedroom, where Daddy playfully grabs his youngest and tosses him onto the bed.

"Now, what was that you were saying? You said you don't like who?" (In his face now, mock threatening.)

(Child belly-laughing now, a gleam in his eye.)

"Eddie van Hawen! I don't wike Eddie van Hawen!"

"Alright, Mister, you're asking for it this time!"

(Daddy picks him up and throws him onto the bed a second time.)

By now, older brother (by just a few years), having followed the commotion and taken inventory, wants to be part of the fun.

"Hey," he says, "I don't like Eddie van Halen, either!" (Now he gets thrown and bounced on the bed, too, and it continues until everyone is out of breath and exhausted from giggling so hard.)

And there you have it: The "I Don't Like Eddie Van Halen Game," created by Nick, Adam and Troy Salonen, 2008.

So, my teenage dreams didn't come true; I didn't end up with Eddie van Halen, after all. But I did end up with a guy who got to hang with him for a while, and I have been blessed on countless evenings by the squeals emanating from the downstairs bedroom as my husband steps out of his guitar-playing, trance-like state to wrestle with our little boys; kids who haven't a clue who Eddie van Halen really is, but who know well that whenever they mention his name in a negative light, they're sure to get Daddy's prompt attention.

forum column (january 09): snow mountain

My January column for The Forum...enjoy!

Snow Mountain must be scaled
By: Roxane Salonen , INFORUM

I am surveying the piles in my laundry room when I hear the dreaded words.

“Mo-ommmm! Can we play outside?”

Dreaded words, but anticipated, too, ever since the snowplows began circling our neighborhood this morning.

I freeze. A hard knot forms in my stomach. A sigh erupts.

I have little power over the Snow Mountain that appears every so often midwinter in the center of our cul-de-sac. It is a fleeting visitor. By tomorrow, it could be gone, and the kids know it.

Only 15 minutes ago, I reined in all five of them, their backpacks and the oodles of accompanying winter gear. School papers, boots, mittens and scarves flew wildly through the entryway as they marched upstairs and into the kitchen for an after-school snack.

I’d just completed a quick sweep of the pileup when the question hit me upside the head.

Here we go again.

“Sure,” I holler weakly.

What good mother would deny her children the pleasures of childhood?

“As long as you ...”

I don’t finish. All but the youngest have flown back downstairs to sift through baskets and the coat closet in a mad search for the proper apparel. It’s the Snow Mountain, after all. He requires layers.

“Hey, where’s my other glove?”

“It’s right here, Dufus!”

“Mom ... where are my snow pants?!!!”

Ten stressful minutes later, they bound outside and toward the mountain. The youngest has been in a television trance until now, but the abrupt quiet rouses him.

Finding me, he hugs my knees while I pour a capful of blue detergent into the washing machine.

“I wanna go outside, too!”

It takes another 10 minutes to find the right pair of Spider-Man socks and boots. By the time he’s bundled, only round eyes peeking out from his face mask, the other kids have reappeared at the doorstep, out of breath and giggling.

“It’s fun, but it’s too cold!” one says.

An onslaught of tears follows.

“Oh sweetie,” says his sister, “let me warm up a little, then I’ll go out again with you, ’K?”

And they do – for five whole minutes.

The dryer buzzes. I go downstairs to pull the load and hear jostling in the kitchen upstairs.

I know what they’re up to.

Emerging from the bowels of our bottom level, I weave through the scattering of clothes and boots, inadvertently soaking my sock in a puddle of now-melted dirty snow.

Tonight’s predicted flurries have come early – straight into my house in the form of a winter-clothing ground blizzard.

Making my way into the kitchen, I see cupboard doors open and a bottle of chocolate syrup tipped onto its side, dripping onto the countertop.

I hear laughter in the dining room, and the slurping of cocoa. It’s been poured into the fine china cups as usual, I’m sure.

When I enter their space, they’re all smiles.

“Mom, this is great, but next time could you buy some fresh marshmallows? These ones are all clumpy and hard.”

No doubt. They were for last summer’s S’mores.

Wintertime: What’s not to love?

Roxane B. Salonen works as a freelance writer and children’s author in Fargo, where she and husband Troy are parents to five children. She also has a blog, www.areavoices.com/peacegarden

if martin luther king jr. were st. paul

Most of us have heard at least some of the words of Martin Luther King Jr., who is being honored today throughout our nation (which means, to many of our children, no school, but hopefully much more than that). But some of his words have been less widely circulated than others. After a friend shared this with me recently, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to post it here as well, especially on this day. It is an excerpt from King 's 1956 imaginary letter from St. Paul to American Christians, which I first read here. In it, King is imagining what St. Paul might have to say to us in modern times. Although King is best known for his civil-rights work, I think we sometimes forget he was a Christian before all else and that his Christian philosophy guided his life's passion. And what better time to highlight this aspect of his life than on my son's Baptism anniversary:

…America, as I look at you from afar, I wonder whether your moral and spiritual progress has been commensurate with your scientific progress. It seems to me that your moral progress lags behind your scientific progress. Your poet Thoreau used to talk about “improved means to an unimproved end.” How often this is true. You have allowed the material means by which you live to outdistance the spiritual ends for which you live. You have allowed your mentality to outrun your morality. You have allowed your civilization to outdistance your culture. Through your scientific genius you have made of the world a neighborhood, but through your moral and spiritual genius you have failed to make of it a brotherhood. So America, I would urge you to keep your moral advances abreast with your scientific advances.

I am impelled to write you concerning the responsibilities laid upon you to live as Christians in the midst of an unChristian world. That is what I had to do. That is what every Christian has to do. But I understand that there are many Christians in America who give their ultimate allegiance to man-made systems and customs. They are afraid to be different. Their great concern is to be accepted socially...

But American Christians, I must say to you as I said to the Roman Christians years ago, “Be not conformed to this world, but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind.” Or, as I said to the Phillipian Christians, “Ye are a colony of heaven.” This means that although you live in the colony of time, your ultimate allegiance is to the empire of eternity. You have a dual citizenry. You live both in time and eternity; both in heaven and earth. Therefore, your ultimate allegiance is not to the government, not to the state, not to nation, not to any man-made institution. The Christian owes his ultimate allegiance to God, and if any earthly institution conflicts with God’s will it is your Christian duty to take a stand against it. You must never allow the transitory evanescent demands of man-made institutions to take precedence over the eternal demands of the Almighty God. …

in anticipation of french silk pie

My 6-year-old has been contemplating all week what kind of pie he will choose. After some serious weighing of options, he's finally settled on chocolate; French silk to be exact. Though I wish I could say I'm the kind of mother who bakes homemade pies, I'm afraid that isn't true. Not in this phase of my life, anyway. Though, if asked, my father would tell you his youngest daughter is a "helluva pie maker." I started making pies in high school because my mother didn't have time for it, and now I know what she was up against. So, for now, the local Village Inn does the honors.

This is a roundabout way of sharing with you a tradition we've instituted in our home to commemorate the anniversary of our kids' Baptisms. When the date rolls around, the child whose turn is up next decides on his or her pie of choice. They also get to request a favorite main entree, and we light the same candle that was lit on their Baptism day and say a special prayer for the child of honor. We keep it simple, but it's a tradition the kids have come to enjoy. And while that probably has a lot to do with the pie, I think they also know, in their own age appropriate way, that we are recalling an event of initiation every bit as special as their birthday.

In my own family of origin, Baptism anniversaries were not celebrated. I didn't even know until Confirmation in high school who my Godparents were. They weren't in attendance at my actual Baptism because it was too far a drive from North Dakota to our home in Wyoming. Another relative was there in their stead, acting in absentia for them. I don't blame my parents, though. In the case of my father, he grew up in a large family and they barely paid mind to birthdays, not to mention something like a Baptism anniversary. We borrow some traditions from our family of origin. Others, we start on our own.

So, tomorrow's the day. I look at this photo, taken January 19, 2003, and it warms my heart.


Though I probably was a nervous wreck on the actual day, you can't really see that here. Instead, you see a chubby baby being immersed by his mother in warm water, a priest preparing to bless him, and his older siblings looking on excitedly. I think that's my favorite part of the photo: brother running around to get a better look, and sister (with painted fingernails) gazing in on her newest sibling with love. (Daddy's in there, too, in the back, probably trying to keep the 3-year-older sister at bay.)

After Mass that day, we had a gathering at our home for friends and family. Our little lamb slept the whole duration while his Godparents and others took turns holding him. Children ran up and down the stairs of our home chasing and laughing; a spread of breakfast bake, orange juice punch and cake was laid out and enjoyed; lively discussions with the priest, Fr. Laliberte, ensued. But perhaps the most excitement took place towards the end of party when our oldest screamed from the lower level that he'd lost his first tooth. It was a "first" for more than one of our children that day.

Even though Adam has absolutely no memory of his Bapstism, that day marked the beginning of something that will affect him the rest of his life; something we view as eternally significant. A seed of faith was planted. We and his Godparents have taken on the challenge to add sunshine and water so that that faith can grow as he does. We might not do this perfectly, but this yearly anniversary event helps remind us of its importance, bringing us back to that day when the spiritual life of our son was set in motion.

Adam, tomorrow's almost here. Soon, you'll be enjoying your fried chicken and pie, and yes, I promise to let YOU blow out the candle this time.

a cupful (or two) of creativity

My friend Lenore sent me this link today, and I couldn't help but chuckle at the creativity of these women. (Above is a preview of what you'll find when you click on the link. If you are modest to a fault, feel free to pass on this one.) Local artist Karen Bakke was featured in The Forum several months back for her similarly creative piece:

It's all for a good cause -- breast cancer awareness -- an initiative that's close to my heart in more ways than the literal sense. My mother-in-law, a dear lady I truly consider my second mother, is a breast cancer survivor. If not for an experimental drug that came out during the time this disease threatened her life, I never would have met her. I would have been denied the gift of one very special lady and kindred spirit; my kids would have missed out on a huge, wonderful piece of their heritage; and my husband could have lost his mother at a very tender age. I read recently that breast cancer is the number one killer of women, and that means a lot of sisters, friends, aunts, grandmothers and mothers have left us too early because of breast cancer. So, let this link bring a smile to your face for the sheer creativity of it, as well as for those who are still living because of advancements in treatment, and those who didn't beat it but still enriched our lives in profound ways.

Lenore didn't know this back story when she thought to send me the link. I'm fairly certain she thought of me because of another "back story" (or should I say "front story"?) that I posted here and here in September. If you didn't catch it then, learn more about how I spent my 40th birthday (and get a sense of my whacky friends' antics) by going back a few months in time.

And with all that, I wish you the very breast day possible!

Peace Garden Mama

something for freelance writers

Just this evening, a friend I met through an online writers' group pointed out an article, which she just discovered and I'd never seen, either, until now. It was written by our lovely writers' group "moderator," Maria, for the October 2008 edition of The Catholic Journalist, and though it addresses freelancers who write for the Catholic press, it seems to me the advice here could be helpful to anyone pursuing work in the field of freelance writing. I was especially tickled to see this blog mentioned! You'll find the article here. Click over to page 5.

balloons from my heart to emilie's

Dear Emilie, I hope your first birthday in heaven proves to be a celebration beyond imagining. I heard that your Minnesota friends will be gathering today in your honor, and I am so glad. I know you will be with them. These balloons are for you. I will be thinking of you all day...

For you, readers, if you'd like to learn the latest update on the Madson twins, you can find it here.

Be well and stay warm...

not to dwell on this, but...

I don't usually post twice in one day, but since my earlier entry was mainly photos, here are some words to share. It's the story Molly wrote for The St. Paul Pioneer Press. You'll find me quoted (and Fargo represented ever so briefly) towards the bottom. Thanks for keeping the momentum going, Molly. We've got to be famous for something, and it might as well be this.

what 30 below looks like...

...in case you were wondering.

living in the tundra

A little while ago I received a call from Molly, who writes remotely for The St. Paul Pioneer Press. She wanted to know my thoughts about the weather, especially since I live in Fargo, ND, "Cold Weather Capital of the Upper Midwest." (That's my own title...I realize there are places that are colder on average, but we seem to be a symbol for harsh weather and people who enjoy torturing themselves through living here.) I'll look forward to reading her story when it comes out.

In the meantime, yesterday a friend from Indiana told me about a certain song I should know about. I found a link to it and will post it here. It's worth a listen. Am I the only Fargoan who has never heard this song until now? Where have I been? In a snow cave?

Well, yes, I have.

It's really interesting what goes on in Fargo in the wee hours of winter. Monday night I was out late doing my night-out writing "date with myself," and, as I often do, I stopped by the grocery store on the way home. It was 1 a.m., and the snowplows were in the parking lot, buzzing around like little kids in bumper cars. Honestly, they looked like they were having a total blast. The temperature was double negatives, and yet they were in their T-shirts in the snowplow cabs like it was playtime on the beach. It seemed so surreal. They had the parking lot as smooth as an ice-skating rink.

But on the way home from that grocery run, as I weaved through the narrow streets (due to the four-foot-high snow walls on either side), I couldn't help but think: Was this climate, this environment, really meant to be inhabited by people?

I've often looked at those who flee from this part of the country for warmer, "easier" climates as a little soft. But lately, I've honestly been wondering, why the self-torture?

I think the answer came during my interview with Molly. It's a thought I've often had when contemplating winter. Winters might be tough here, but there is no springtime like those we have in this region. Seriously. When we lived out in Washington state, spring was nice. Here, it's a total party, a SPRING FEST EXTRAVAGANZA.

Unless, of course, there's a flood. (sigh)

Well, we take our luck as it comes. I'm hoping for the spring party. It all depends on how quickly (or slowly) the snow walls melt.

So, you tell me. Are we hardy, or just nuts?

only once

If I haven't made it obvious yet, I am a lover of quotes. And while I savor the sweet utterances of my youngest children especially, that isn't the kind of quote I'm talking about here. A phrase well thought out and expressed can be transformative. When I happen upon such a sentence or paragraph, some small part of me is permanently altered. A good quote can lift a burdened spirit, cause a turn in direction or simply offer a needed change in perspective.

Over the past couple years I began collecting some of my favorite quotes. The best of the best deserve to be read over and over again, after all. A good quote is timeless; what it means to someone during one sequence of life can change as that life changes. We fit the best quotes to our own lives, to our own experiences, and thereby amplify their initial impact.

The power of words never fails to astound me. Words can build up or tear down. I'd like to make mine the building kind whenever possible. Sometimes, I will use my own words to do that, and sometimes, only those of another will do.

When I read the following quote, I think of: each member of my family, my own inner child, and all of you. And I delight in the fact that we are all here together in this particular time.

At bottom every man knows well enough that he is a unique human being; only once on this earth, and by no extraordinary chance, will such a marvelously picturesque piece of diversity in unity as he is ever be put together a second time. -- Nietzche

'nickisms' (kids quotes) and more

The time has come to share the names of my children. After a year of blogging, though I still feel much like a protective mother tiger, I have become comfortable enough with this world to let you readers in on the names we've chosen for the five little people who've knocked our world upside down over the past 14 years (I'm counting the first pregnancy in that year count, since it really began then). I'm choosing today to start the name revelation, since the post I wanted to share cannot happen while at least a couple of those names remain hushed. With that, I introduce to you (in order of appearance in our lives): Christian (13), Olivia (11), Elizabeth (8), Adam (6) and Nicholas (3). Here we all are on the 40th birthday celebration of their father and my husband of 17 years, Troy, owner of Red Star Guitar in Fargo:

If any of you know Troy, you'll have to give him a call and ask him who he's having dinner with later this month. I'll give you a hint: the dinner will be in L.A., and the guest of honor was featured in the movie, "Back to the Future" (the first one).

Now, then, I can continue with the latest kid quote.

We were in the van (again) the other day when Adam started in:

"Mom, I don't think I'll ever be able to become a saint."

Hmm, I'm thinking this is going to be followed by the revelation that he did something naughty at school.

"Why's that, hon?"

"Well, St. Adam, now that just doesn't sound very good. St. Adam? Come on! But my brother, St. Nicholas, he's already a saint."

Ah, if only it were that easy!

I also have a few "Nickisms" to share -- words uttered frequently by our youngest that always make us smile.

"Mom, can we get a movie at Blackbuster's?" (his version of a national movie rental chain)

"But I don't like Slappy Joe's!" (his version of a round sandwich some people call barbecues...probably a mixup with regional pizza chain Happy Joe's)

"Can you log me on to Cartook Neckwork?" (his version of a kids' television website where he can play Ben 10)

Honestly, I don't have the heart to correct him at this point. These little "Nickisms" are too precious. I love the workings of a young mind and how it "sees" words pre-reading.

While I'm on a quote and word roll, I thought I'd share one that a friend sent in an email that brought another smile to my face recently:

“People don't notice whether it's winter or summer when they're happy.” -- Anton Chekhov

I love that. Although...I don't know if the yard crane I mentioned yesterday would agree.

Speaking of that yard crane, I received a couple early-morning e-mails from readers concerned that the crane might be real. It made me pause and realize all over again how we sometimes miss sharing the most obvious details in our communication. Oops! (I guess I'd assumed using the word "yard" would have been the decisive hint.)

One of the readers in particular just wanted to make sure because she'd recently read something about how birds are struggling to survive this harsh winter, though some of them have special coping mechanisms, as she pointed out:

"Sharptail grouse...have ways to survive. One is that they will sometimes bury themselves in the snow, making themselves a cozy little shelter, while they wait out a storm. So, that’s why I’m confused. Is there a crane that remains in ND in the winter and buries himself in the snow to keep warm….or is this a lawn ornament that is slowly being covered?"

You never know what you're going to learn on any given morning. I definitely learned something new today, thanks to this observant (and very compassionate) reader; someone who, I'll admit, is very dear to my heart. The other concerned reader hinted that if the crane is real, she would make immediate plans to come over and rescue it.

I got a kick out of all of this, and hope you did, too. I promise, I will never post anything here that shows a suffering animal without mentioning a call to those who might be equipped to care for it!

Finally, I made a special point to look for the crane again this morning, because we had a bit of a ground blizzard today and some snow accumulation last night, but said crane is still peeking out from the snow mound, and all seems to be well in the neighborhood. Whew! We can all rest easier tonight.

photos explained

Earlier today I posted a photo of a yard crane I'd noticed peeking out of a snowdrift in our neighbor's yard yesterday. He just looked so persistent, so eager to hold on to his view of the world, that I couldn't keep myself from running back outside later with my camera. Let's hope he won't be completely buried in a few weeks' time.

And here's another one I love, a favorite from this past summer taken at my friend's lake home. I especially cherish the expression on the face of my youngest as he's getting blasted by the sprinkler (thanks to the older kids who were all too happy to do the honor). But beyond that, look at those clenched fists -- the muscle-tightening anticipation of the cold water invading his hot little body. And then there's his brother, dashing away from the water wall, and his sister, trying to avoid a face splash of her own. That was a wonderful day that I will always cherish; a gathering of friends and some of our children at a quiet little spot a few hours from town. We enjoyed delicious food, a splash in the lake, watching the older kids float away from us on a huge intertube until they were almost invisible and we nearly called 911 (they were fine; simply enjoying their time away from the moms, is all), and an invigorating discussion about faith (part of our regular weekly faith-sharing group meeting that we transported to the new setting).

So, now you know the rest of the story! I hope this visual will bring you back to your own summertime memories, and remind you that the wintertime plunge does not last forever.

Peace...

peek-a-boo!

bittersweet blessing

I remember the day I first learned my friend, Roxanne (yes, same name but with two n's), was pregnant. It was last spring. We were sitting at the school playground keeping a collective eye on our little ones, enjoying the sun. She seemed in a contemplative mood, and soon enough the reason emerged. "By the way, we just found out we're pregnant with our fifth," she said, smiling. She was obviously happy, but admitted she was struggling with morning sickness. "Oh, that's great news!" I said. "You are joining the 'Club of Five.' Welcome!" What are the chances of two women with the same name, near the same age, living in the same city, having the same number of children? Well, maybe not that odd...unless your name is Roxane, or Roxanne, as the case may be, and the number of children is five.

During the summer I thought often about Roxanne and her pregnancy, and then one day in the fall during our faith mothers' group meeting, I casually asked her how things were going. "Oh, you haven't heard yet, have you?" she asked, trying to read my face. I'd missed the previous group meeting, as well as her bittersweet announcement that they'd discovered two heartbeats, but also a condition in one of the babies called anencephaly that likely would cause premature death, either before or shortly after birth. "So, basically, we're preparing for a birth and a funeral," she said, her eyes revealing a mix of both happiness and sorrow.

About a month ago, I was privileged to experience my first "prayer shower," thrown by Roxanne's sister for family and friends to gather and pray for the two little babies preparing to come into the world in February, if not sooner. It was a meaningful event that included a Powerpoint presentation reflecting on many thoughts of motherhood, life and loss, and ended with a prayer and a gathering with refreshments (and lots of lively kids pumped full of sugar). It was such a privilege for me to be part of this event to honor the Madson babies, who have been named Julia Hope and Maria Faith.

I've also been on an email list of people being notified of updates to the Caringbridge website set aside to inform family and friends of Roxanne's pregnancy progress. It includes pictures and notes on ultrasounds and other updates. Roxanne graciously has agreed to let me post that website address here (below) so that you, too, might stay informed if you wish.

Reading about the twins' activity in the womb, especially how the ultrasound camera has captured them playing and cuddling, has brought me to tears. I've always believed the life of a child does not start at birth, that we begin living our lives within the interior of our mothers, but reading about these babies and their "in utero" bonding solidified my convictions. It proved to me all the more that love and life really do transcend the boundaries we are inclined to place on them. And I can't even begin to put into adequate words what I feel about Roxanne and Brian and family and the love they have for these little girls already. It is yet another testament to how blessing and suffering so often merge, and how our responses to that makes all the difference.

If you're inclined toward prayer, I'm sure the Madsons would love any additional petitions that might be offered up. More than anything, they need an abundance of the grace that is possible through prayer as they move into the final phase of pregnancy, with all of their accompanying excitement and anxiety.

[Note: I had the link wrong earlier. This should work now...]

Click here for more of the Madson twins story...

the snowy day

I promise this post will not be all about the weather and the loads of white stuff that keep falling like overzealous popcorn out of the sky. Surely, you've gotten enough of that from other sources. Instead, it's about my son's insistence that I take a look at the newest creation he made in kindergarten today. Nevermind that I was driving, and he was pulling it out of his backpack at an inconvenient time. "Can you wait until we get home?" I asked. I've tried to encourage the kids to hold off on sharing their day's work until I can actually take time to look at it and not risk getting into an accident. But sometimes, waiting seems just too hard, especially when you're 6 and school is still new and wonderful. I've also come to realize some of the best end-of-school-day energy swirls about in the van immediately after school, and it's the kind of energy that is fleeting. Oftentimes, by the time we step foot in the door, the school day has been all but forgotten as after-school snacks become the urgent focus. "But Mom, remember that book you used to read me? I made a picture of it." We came to a red light. I looked back to see, and my heart melted just like the snow on a warm winter's day. "Oh, yes, it's Peter from 'The Snowy Day.' I recognized it right away! I love it!"

Here's Ezra Jack Keats' award-winning version (small because otherwise the resolution is horrible):

Here's my 6-year-old's version (larger because, well, I'm a proud mama):

I love this part of parenting. I love how my kids refresh my own memories of childhood, and keep the world interesting to me, and remind me again and again the wonder of creating something new -- even if the idea for it has been borrowed from someone who's had a few more years to perfect the technique. There's nothing like seeing the beginning of something wonderful -- the potential of something big within the heart of a child.

on living

I'm keeping it short today, but hoping you'll not skip quickly over this thought-provoking quote:

"May you live all the days of your life." -- Jonathan Swift

Here are three ways I try to find vitality in my life:

1) I try to absorb as much energy as I'm releasing. Today, I moved through several afternoon temper tantrums with as much patience as I could muster, but by day's end, I had to collapse on the bed for a while to get back what had been taken. Tomorrow, I'm going to enjoy every moment of my swim at the Y to replenish my emotional reserves.

2) Spend as much time listening and observing as talking and sharing. Okay, I'll admit, sometimes I fall short on this one, but when I'm off, I can feel it. I've also recommitted myself to listening to my kids more intently, and not just doing the "uh-huh" and "ahh" while I'm immersed in something else "more important."

3) Glass half full. The easiest way to fail at this one is to look at others and wish we had what they have. We might look at other parents and believe they've got it all figured out (looks are deceiving) or compare our kids to those of others who seem more together. When I resist the temptation to focus on what I don't have, and instead look to every little blessing I've been offered, I am at my happiest and most vibrant.

Your turn!

words from a new widower

I just found the online version of the article The Catholic Spirit did for January 8 as a followup to an earlier one announcing Emilie's passing. I am really glad they were able to interview her husband, Stephen. His words comforted me. My part in this was small, but that is as it should be, since my part in her life was small, too. Still, the honor I feel for having been included is large. For those who have followed my many thoughts over the past couple weeks regarding Emilie, I hope this article will leave you with a peaceful feeling as it did me.

Sinister Sarcoma

"You know, that's the same kind of cancer Laura died from."

My heart stopped momentarily. All during the dying of my friend Laura in 2000, I never thought much about what kind of cancer was consuming her lovely body. All that mattered to me at the time was that she was leaving me, and that the cancer that had settled in her was rare and aggressive and...cruel.

But yesterday, my world started swirling backward and forward when a mutual friend of Laura's and mine revealed this to me during our biweekly walk: Laura had died of sarcoma, the very same cancer that took Emilie on Christmas Eve.

So often while processing Emilie's life and death, I have thought of Laura. Both were mothers, both vibrant individuals who were not satisfied with pat answers. They were naturally inquisitive women who had a lot of questions and, sometimes, few answers for the toughest of them, but they asked anyway. They had beautiful spirits and were guided by their faith. They loved their families and fought hard to stay with us longer because they could not bear the thought of leaving their children motherless.

At the end of her life, Laura said death was exhilarating. Emilie never used those words, but in her final column for the Catholic Spirit, we see that same sense of awe over the letting-go.

I wrote about Laura not long after her death. That reflection is still moving around in cyberspace. If you have some time today, you can find it here.

During some online probing of my own just now, I pulled up these facts about sarcoma: "Soft tissue sarcomas are rare. About 9,500 new cases were diagnosed in the United States in 2006, which is less than 1 percent of all new cancer cases."

In my life so far, I have experienced the deaths of two fellow mothers close to my age and dear to my heart. Both were ravaged by the same "rare" cancer. Sarcoma might only occur in 1 percent of all new cancer cases, but it has occurred in 100 percent of the cases of people special to me near my age who have died from cancer.

Suddenly, sarcoma doesn't seem so rare after all.

And suddenly, I feel even more of an urging to contribute to the cause of finding a cure. I know some things "just happen," but many more things happen for a reason. It is obvious to me that mere coincidence isn't at play here. My crossings with Laura and Emilie have been intentional, and I'm going to keep searching for what I'm to do with these new thoughts and feelings over this sinister disease.

As Emilie pointed out in a blog entry from this past summer, sunflowers have become the symbol for sarcoma healing. She asked readers to think of her whenever they see sunflowers. Sunflowers also grace the cover of my children's book, P is for Peace Garden, thanks to illustrator Joanna Yardley. My editor, Amy, will attest to how hard I worked to get those sunflowers in the book and on the cover. Perhaps there was more reason for my enthusiasm over sunflowers than I realized at the time. Maybe part of the answer lies here.

I still think of you, Laura, whenever I see an eagle (you know what I mean), and Emilie, I will never again gaze upon a field of sunflowers without calling you to mind. You will not be forgotten!