family

Greetings From the North Pole, Part VI

/ J. Thorp / 5 Comments

Blogger’s Note: Over Christmas 2003, we became annual pen-pals with an elf named Siberius Quill, and he has again delivered this year! Transcriptions of the 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006 and 2007 letters from Quill can be seen here.

My dearest Children!

My, but the World is snowy where you live—White Christmas indeed! This is the weather Father Christmas likes: the sleigh runners slick with frost, and thick powder to soften and silence the landing. Kris Kringle should make good time tonight!

You are Good Children, one and all—obedient, respectful, joy-filled, and loving. Good Eggs, your Father might say; we say Good Apples, and you stand in sharp contrast to the Bad Apples, who “spoil the whole bunch,” as they say. Oh, you have your naughty moments, as all Young People do, but these moments of mischief and misbehavior are Lessons, one and all. Your Conscience speaks the Truth—it tells you Right from Wrong—and should you fail to hear It, your parents correct you, all as it Should Be. In that, you are Very Lucky.

Young Master Trevor, your laughter and shouts while opening your Christmas Eve gifts resound clear to the Auroras! Bless my soul, but you make a Joyous Noise! And as we are not bound by Time at the Pole (our nature being magical and the Earth’s rotation here being rather instantaneous), I am able to report that your happiness rang in the ears of Santa’s reindeer and was much-loved. It sparks them the fly high and pull hard! And your singing has caught the ear of our elfin Songmaster, Jovial Moralus, who ensures we elves have Proper Music to work by. Old Jove said your voice would raise the spirits of the most frostbit soul—some elves sing for centuries and never earn such high praise as that!

And Miss Emma—you grow lovelier each winter, and have become Quite The Help around the house. We could use such a hand as you in Santa’s Workshop—the tools get in such disarray during the busy days before Christmas Eve. The Tool-Mistress and Chief Shop-Keep, Methody Straitner, has been hard at work for years organizing the tools and benches and bins to ensure Peak Efficiency. She has seen your handiwork in the kitchen cupboard, and deems you a Natural!

Master Gabriel: I must compliment your question about the existence of frost dragons. Father Christmas and I are both honoured that you would entrust such a question—regarding the Very Existence of a Great Something you’ve never seen—to us, when we know your friends and neighbors have questioned our own Very Existence! I fear, however, that I cannot give you certainty. There is one among My People, a most adventuresome elf called Articus Chippenhammer, who left the Nail Corps when so many toys shifted from wood to plastic. His great-grandfather was a paleomythologist of some reknown, and Chippenhammer has since put his hammer to work exploring the Polar Wastes for signs of such Legends as Abominable Snowcreatures, Sasquatches, Frost Dragons, and the like. It is slow work, chipping away at millenia of rock and ice looking for Mere Fragments of white bone, hair or scales, and after decades of digging he’s found Nothing Conclusive yet.

And finally, B. You are strong, smart and responsible, and have done a remarkable job in your First Year helping your Family bring Christmas to fruition. Well done! A generous heart and a willingness to serve others will serve you well in life, Eldest Brother. Remember the Bishop of Myra, St. Nicholas, and Christ Himself, as your examples, and you will Have Love and Be Loved.

Happy Christmas to you and your family, and Safe Travels to your Busia and Dziadzi. God Bless You and your Family. I wish you All the Best in the New Year—and Always!

Yours truly,

Siberius Quill

Fear of Death

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

Blogger’s Note: Have you ever, in the urgency and heat of a conversation, been pushed to consolidate and analyze a pattern of thinking you’ve been victim to for some time and share your findings before you’re certain they are fully baked? Well, I had that experience today. A dear friend was alarmed, in the midst of great blessings, to be suddenly afraid of death. As an emotional, navel-gazing kind of guy, I’ve been down this path more than once, so I worked to put my own cycle into words. And now it seems a part of a larger conversation, involving this post of mine and this post from our friend Deacon Tyler. Forgive the rambling and lofty sentence structures; I’ve been listening to St. Augustine during my commute these past few days. Now, onto the limb — here’s what I replied …

Yes, I do know somewhat of what you speak, I think. And sometimes these feelings are worse in moments of clarity and great joy, when you can see so vividly all you’ve been given (however unworthily!) and all you have to lose. At least, that’s been my case …

For me, the fear oscillates between that of an early death (before I’ve managed to complete what I view in that moment as my earthly duties) and the sudden loss of all that I have (namely, my wife and children) while I yet live. Both fears are more vivid in times of abundant blessing — a dark temptation to take no joy in joy: in one case, out of a natural but short-sighted tendency to cling to what we have without reference to (or reverence for) greater goods to come, and in the other case, to a natural but ill-conceived effort to steel ourselves against possible tragedy (however improbable) which, if taken too far, may lead us to view our blessings as curses (i.e., “Why am I burdened with such wonderful things I can only hope to lose?”).

When fearing an early death, I often want to abandon my livelihood and take my family to a mountaintop (as you’ve heard me say before!) where I can spend all my time eking out an existence, loving my wife, and teaching my children exactly what they need to survive and live uprightly — never mind the fact that Jodi would not regard such a retreat as an act of love, and I scarcely know how to survive and live uprightly myself, let alone how to teach such things. By living we learn — not by retiring.

When fearing the untimely loss of my family, I begin to imagine how I would react. It’s invariably heroic in its first draft — I soldier on, sorrowful and stoic — but with even a second’s worth of consideration, the smallest pinch of realism, I see my emotionally charged self falling utterly apart, at least for a time. How long? Who can tell? — I quickly conclude (true or not) that I’ve never been tested by want or direct and personal tragedy, and may well curl up in a ball and die myself. How unmanly! And I see my wife: so strong in faith, rock-solid, unyielding, and quickly conclude (true or not) that, were the tables turned, she would, in fact, soldier on, sorrowful and stoic. Why, if I were to die suddenly …

… and thus we return to the fear of an early death.

Life and death, that great unknown, is a deep, deep rabbit hole, into which some descend and never emerge. Better, perhaps, to stand at the edge and drop pebbles down, as we did as children, listening to see if and when they struck bottom, than to dig too deeply and collapse the whole thing upon us. A favorite (and to my knowledge, an original) saying on these subjects: We seek to explain the hell out of everything and explain the heaven out of it in the process. Or something like that.

Faith and doubt can both be gifts in moments like these — faith that, independent of what we do (or don’t do), the world and those we love move toward their proper end and all is (or will be) right in the world; and doubt that the proper end can ever be reached without our hand at the till or the oar, which may make us rethink our priorities and love each other more and better.

But the fear never leaves me entirely — and I feel everyday that I can never accomplish what I want, or what I should, or (some days) even what I must. I can only accomplish what I can, and thus far, it’s been just enough.

On Contentment

/ J. Thorp / 8 Comments

Even if you sleep in a room
with a thousand mats,
you can only sleep on one.
— Japanese proverb

A little while back, our friend T at Holy Guacamole ended her post with the question, “Will I be content?” I can’t answer for her, but as for me — probably not.

It’s not that I don’t recognize and appreciate how good I’ve got it. A strong marriage, four bright and healthy kids, a great job doing something I’m good at and (often) enjoy … any one of these blessings is remarkable these days. My kids’ grandparents — both sets — are still alive and happily married, and I get along well with my in-laws. Our ancient Airedale, Boomer, continues to happily nap and munch his way through years and seasons, and our mini Schnauzer, Puck, forgives me for writing in the evening while his tennis ball sits motionless at my feet.

And still it’s there, lurking at the outskirts of thought, the creeping dissatisfaction, the nagging doubts, the hollow ache that, if I rest comfortably in these joys, I’ll miss new opportunities and perhaps greater joys. This fear is quickly accompanied by another, and dull but urgent thumping suggesting that if I do not celebrate what I have, I risk losing it.

Contentment is a blessing — but in those rare moments when I feel at peace with my life as it is, the peace is fleeting because I second-guess it. It seems a fine line between contentment and complacency, between being grateful for, and settling for, what you have.

Discontentment is a curse — but is it worse? At least at my age, when I feel I can do more — not just for me, but for my wife and kids and the world, even — I think perhaps this discontentment is what gets me up in the morning and makes me press forward. If I were content, would I be attempting a book right now? Would I have left Hanley-Wood for the U and now, the best job I’ve ever had? We’d probably still be in Michigan. So much would be different — or rather, exactly the same.

So this discontentment might seem to be the result of the idealistic inspirations (relatively) young husband and father who wants the best world he can make for his family — and who wants his children to see that it is possible to live as you wish and do what you love. It’s a blessing in itself, right? Except …

I spent three years or so working for a daily newspaper in Big Rapids, Michigan. The hours and pay, however, weren’t conducive to raising a family, so I went to work for Ferris State University, first as a multi-purpose writer, then as media relations manager. After three years or so, I started feeling fenced in — like I was out of options at Ferris and in Michigan. Jodi and I decided to move to Minnesota, and I took a job with corporate marketing firm.

But after three years or so, I felt like I needed something more — more creativity in my work, maybe a graduate degree. So I went to work for the University of Minnesota.

I’m in my third year at the U now. The skies are grey, and the wind is cold. Now is the winter of my discontent — where will I seek sunlight this time?

Feel the Burn

/ J. Thorp / 3 Comments

I had kind of an involved, downer of a post for tonight, about the lengths we’ll go to as a nation to avoid sacrifice or discomfort. There is virtue to be found in a some self-sacrifice, a little pain, and I may yet write that post — but as a light-hearted lead-in perhaps, tonight I share these:

There is a chance tonight (however slight) for frost, and a chance tomorrow (however slight) that I may do some fall cleaning around the yard, deck and shed. So I went out to the pepper pots tonight and plucked countless ripe (pictured) and ripening chiles.

Smoky yellow habaneros, plump green jalapenos, cayennes like lean red flames and serranos like green firecrackers, some turning red. Beautiful aren’t they?

I’ve done a little digging online to find a way, better than freezing and short of canning, to preserve them more or less intact. I’ve seen some interesting ideas involving vinegar and olive oil — but if you have suggestions, do share! (I also have a recipe for jalapeno chili vodka that I may have to try.)

The kids were amazed that the jalapenos are the mildest of the bunch — and that the habs are as much as 60 times hotter, chemically speaking. Why grow ’em? The sweet, smoky taste they impart is critical to a good batch of Old Lamplighter.*

See what I mean? Good things come from a little pain and suffering.

* * * * *

*Old Lamplighter is my best hot chili recipe. Permission to brag: It actually won a chili contest at my old job: took Best Overall and tied for Best Heat. (Of course, there was some controversy because the contest was my idea — but the ballots were cast secretly and verified independently.) I make thick, mild stuff for the little kids — Good Dog Chili-Dog Chili. Bren and Jodi mix ’em to get the temp just right for them …

Chance Encounters

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

Used to be a standing joke with Jodi and I any time we visited a city of any size that she would meet someone she knew. Her home state, South Dakota, isn’t big, population-wise — but the combination of relatively few people and genuine need (in the rural parts of the state, especially) to get on well with your neighbors seem to add up to everyone in South Dakota knowing every else. Plus, the county-specific license plate numbering helps. So wherever we were, Jodi would pick up on some faint South Dakota signal, track at to a particular person, and immediate begin chatting like long-lost cousins.

I’m from Michigan. This doesn’t happen to me. However, one of the unexpected joys of visiting New Haven with Bren and Gabe last week was a series of three unexpected encounters, one of which brought back fond memories of a fourth.

First: I had stopped by the Yale School of Music offices to say hello to a friend and former colleague, S, from my college days. She was not in. The next day, while visiting the souvenir vendors outside the Yale Bowl ahead of the football game, I ran into her — almost literally. This isn’t hugely unexpected — Yale’s not that big of a university — but she and her husband were seated at the opposite end of the stadium. So that was cool.

Second: We sitting in the stands when a vendor stops nearby and chides the man in front of us for wearing a Philadelphia Eagles hat. I look up, and see that the vendor is a black man wearing a Minnesota Vikings cap. As he passes, I tell him we’re visiting from Minnesota. He says his family’s originally from South Dakota, “so you know they were Vikings fans, too!” Then he says he needs to get back to the Twin Cities, especially for the Winter Carnival in St. Paul. Now, the strangeness of seeing a Vikings fan in Connecticut could only be rivaled two things: finding a black man from South Dakota in Connecticut (the African-American population of the entire state of South Dakota is less than 1 percent, out of a total population of less than 800,000) and finding anyone outside of Minnesota who wants to visit during the winter. (My native Minnesota friends all want to leave that time of year!)

Finally: After the game, we went to Mass at Church of St. Mary on Hillhouse Avenue — the church I used to visit sometimes when I was in college and Jodi was attempting to convert me. The homily was given by a guest speaker, Deacon George of the St. Cloud, Minnesota, Diocese — just up the road from us. As we left the church, I told him where we from — Albertville/St. Michael area. “Ah, yes,” he said. “I know just where that is — just to the north of St. Cloud.”

Well, he tried.

The latter two encounters, at the time, seemed like significant hints of home after a week away. The first — running into S outside the stadium — called to mind the queen mother of chance encounters from the last time I was in New Haven. I was working for a marketing agency and was sent to Connecticut to visit a client. I stayed an extra night with a friend to visit Yale — but that night, he had agreed to stay with S’s grandmother while S and her husband went out. “It’s fine,” he said. “We’ll have dinner with Babci.”

My ears perked up: babci (BOB-chee) is Polish for grandmother.

I arrived at the house, and there was Babci — and immaculate, tiny little Polish woman in her late 80s, who introduced herself as Stella. “Dzien dobry!” I said. “My late busia’s name was Stella, too.” Busia (BOO-sha) is how my family learned to say it — “like a small child would say,” this new Stella explained.

We talked about all sorts of stuff — in particular, about my family. She asked me about my busia’s golubki, or stuffed cabbage, and told me that the trick was to use Savoy cabbage, because the leaves hold up better for stuffing and your guests are less gassy. She asked me about my kids, and offered to knit them mittens and stockings. She was instantly dear to me, like a my own busia’s warm, paper-light kiss, and I think of her often.

She’s in her 90s now, no longer living with S, though she visits multiple times times a week. Na dzrowie, Babci! Sto lat, niech zyje nam! To your health, Babci — may you live 100 years for us all!