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Boathouse Build (Month One)

We wake to our alarms signaling our impending 4:30am departure. I struggle with this but am eventually invigorated by Michael’s joy in a project weekend. We make our typical Kwik Trip stop right outside of the city for a large dose of caffeine.

The air is thick with humidity & it’s reminiscent of time in another more tropical slice of the world. This comparison fills me with excitement as I remember all the early morning departures we’ve had in lands far away- getting the van going in New Zealand before sunrise so we wouldn’t get in trouble with where we parked, rising before the heat in Thailand to get our morning run in, and packing our bags in the dark to catch a train in Europe. My bones are alive; my spirit is ready.

The sun rises over the dense clouds along the Mississippi River as we drive south on highway 61- my favorite drive in the world. It’s soon battered by rain, and the sound of rain makes my eyelids heavy. I lay my head on Michael’s lap as he drives. I wake as we park next to the river. My mom and dad have the boat ready. We are off.

The rest of the morning goes something like this:

1. Tie the boat to the half demolished boathouse & release it from its anchored points on the island.

2.Realize the boat has no control to actually turn the boathouse upstream. This is the first moment that I question our sanity.

3. I wonder, “How did we not plan for a rescue boat… or at least an extra anchor?”

4. We correct our course by pushing the boathouse off the boat and maneuvering it many times this way until pointed upstream toward our destination.

5. We soon approach three bridges. We narrowly miss one, bump the side of the other, and pass through seamlessly on the last.

6. Our rope begins to fray. We reinforce with a second rope.

7. Jeff approaches us on his fishing boat. I feel relief that we’ve stumbled upon a very capable and willing rescue boat.

8. We are going slowly but surely. In other words, it’s going very well.


9. I’m pretty sure the dudes get bored with our efforts moving along so flawlessly. They decide to get Jeff involved. Surely two boats will be better than one…


10. Strategizing happens. Should the boats be staggered? Where should they anchor? Mom and I, the poor souls on the boathouse at the mercy of their decisions, wonder why we’re changing what’s working here. Well Ma, let’s sit back and watch this; it’s gonna get good.

11. We pick up speed and right as Mom says, “This is actually working pretty good”, the entire right side of the boathouse gets tugged off; we’ve lost a valuable anchor point. Michael yells out, “Maybe we should just go with one boat!”… ahh, yeah dudes.

12.Scott joins the forces right as we approach our destination. We now have three boats involved; one to tug and two to rescue, watch, advise, etc. If you know river people, you know they can’t sit out on a good adventure.

13. Our ropes break just before pulling in and somehow, someway the boathouse floats perfectly in to place on shore. We’ve made it.


Our buddies show up in the afternoon and everyone is quickly put to work. We have demo to do and new frames and barrels to acquire from the farm and assemble for float. As we drive to the farm, my dad says to Michael and me, “Are you running out of friends yet?” My family has this running joke that Michael and I are bound to lose our friends as whenever we invite them somewhere, Michael is notorious for quickly putting a shovel, saw, or paintbrush in their hands. The good thing is that they know us well enough now… they’ve all arrived in their work clothes.


Have I updated you on the weather yet? Well, it’s still miserably humid and hot- a heat index of over 100. I sweat so much that I don’t pee all day. The nurse in me says a quick prayer for the well-being of my kidneys.
The demo of the old boathouse is the suckiest part. It’s full of moldy insulation, some disgusting carpet under the floor, and multiple mouse dens. My dad works crazy hard from dawn to dusk and he’s the one on the crowbar really giving her hell. He falls in the water twice. I wonder, “Is this how most people honor their dads on Father’s Day? Here Pa, lets destroy some shit together and take zero breaks in the asphyxiating heat.” He’s the best.


The treasures we find in demo include a tarot card and a rat carcass. Our friend Sam suggests we frame both. I consider framing the tarot card but I’m pretty sure it floated in to the raging bonfire… that can’t be good luck.

As if you didn’t consider the aforementioned activities super-duper fun, here comes the most exciting event- transporting the new platform (frames + barrels) in to place where the old boathouse formerly existed.

Like everything else, Michael and I spend the twenty minute drive from the farm discussing the best way to make this happen- where do we put them in the water, how many frames do we float down at once, how do we attach them, what do we use to transport, how many people are needed and where. If you imagined that it would be hard to agree on all these different variables, you are correct. We agreed on none of them at first and then compromised until we were left with one main disagreement- how many frames do we float down at once. I was adamant about one while Michael was advocating hard for three. We settled on two.


With Dan and Ang at the helm of the kayak (our tug boat) and Michael, Beth, Garner, and I aboard the barreled frames with paddles, we way too easily and quickly navigated 2/3 of our new boathouse platform in to place. We were not without a rescue boat in the distance; Ma and Pa observed in the channel with country music on blast.

If you read through this whole thing without knowing what the heck we are even up to, I’m going to rewind for a minute. In the fall of 2016, Michael and I purchased a boathouse- a floating cabin on Latsch Island in Winona, Minnesota. The boathouse had been housing bats and rats for some time now and was beyond decent repair. We’ve since made new boathouse plans and this summer is our summer to execute them.


Prior to this weekend, we got our city building permit, boathouse association approval, and various supplies. One weekend was spent acquiring 100 blue barrels (which pack the platform to our boathouse allowing it to float), prepping them with dry ice (to keep them expanded), and sealing them with silicone. Thanks to Chris and Ben for that weekend! I hear it was full of really good smells since the barrels came from Watkins and held flavors like bubble gum and caramel.

The next weekend was spent picking up LOTS of wood from Menards and building the nine 30 foot frames. Thank you Sam Henninger and Kelly Brandon for assistance there along with help from cousins Chaniah and Zoe. Big thanks to Grams and Gramps for letting us use their shed for construction and storage.

The third weekend and one I could not be there for (thank goodness because this one made me the most nervous) was dedicated to cutting down part of a dead, overhanging tree that reached high in the sky over our boathouse site. The Sams (Sam Larson and Sam Henninger) were in on this one. Some demo and oversized bonfires happened then too. I can imagine that Sam H. (or “Neighbor Sam” as we endearingly differentiate him) was very involved in the tree climbing portion and Sam L. (or “Sam Sam”) in the fire tending portion as these are their bread and butters; that weekend certainly had the right humans for the jobs.

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This weekend brought Dan, Ang, Beth, Garner, and Rachel to the river for a perfect Mark Twain-esque adventure story.

Jeff and Sara Brandon and Scott Yess, three neighborhood river gurus, also helped to streamline the disgusting and difficult demo process.


After weekends like this, Michael and I wonder what we could ever accomplish without our village- our family and friends who are willing to fall in the water, climb uncomfortably tall trees, inhale bubble gum scented air all day, navigate a kayak with 30 feet of timber attached to it, and take evening swims in the river in lieu of a real shower. I wouldn’t be surprised if our friends visit for the free food- brunch at Grandma’s house or dinner by Mom, but whatever keeps them coming, we are thankful.


And finally, Michael and I talk incessantly about the blessings we have in each of our parents- the backbone to our village. On Sunday (Father’s Day), I woke up to my dad cutting up wood from the demo the day before. He had been up since 4am working on this project. He goes and goes until sunset. He doesn’t say much and at one point I turned to Michael and said, “Has Dad said anything yet today?” Michael says, “I don’t think so.” Shortly after, I hear Dad unintentionally mutter, “I’m exhausted”. As much as I ask him to rest, he never does. He also never drinks water which I find absurd. In every project or dream we come up with, he’s right in the trenches with us- always doing the dirty work, the heavy lifting, the early morning jobs, and the late night grind; he smiles at the end of an incredibly long day and I know he loves this as much as we do.

Mom is there too, every time. She’s keeping us fed, keeping our spirits high, contributing logical insight during stressful moments, and getting her hands as dirty as the rest of us. Within this process, Michael’s parents are cheering us on from out of town. They’d be right here with us if they could- before sunrise or after sunset; they know hard work and love a good project. I see them in Michael throughout all of this.


As we drive home on Monday morning, we’re exhausted but happy. Michael points out the tan lines on my shoulders and for the first time all weekend, I look in the mirror. My hair is all over the place, and I can’t believe I didn’t pack more than one headband to tame this mess. I have dirt stained legs from work this morning and sore shoulders and scattered bruises from the days before. I’m happy to carry these pieces of the weekend home with me. I look over at Michael who is coping with the idea of a work week indoors. “Make it fun,” I tell him as he drives away to work. “I will”, he yells back.

Tonight, I read Michael all of this and he tells me that he remembers what the tarot card was- the one we found in the boathouse wall. It was the “Ten of Wands”. We google this and find the following on www.tarot.com: “The Ten of this suit represents an all-out effort, an obsessive commitment to a task which demands everything you’ve got. The person shown in decks with pictures is in no position to rest until he makes it inside the stout walls of the well-defended castle in the distance. If he fails, he will become prey for the highway robbers after dark. It doesn’t matter that he’s overloaded and underfed. With this card, you have to do whatever it takes to get to completion — nothing can be allowed to interfere.”

This page goes on to say, “The Ten of Wands in this position advises you to remember the true, simple heart of your youth and all the idealism it held. Now may be the time to reach deep into yourself and identify your purest, most wholesome impulses. As you do this, allow your optimistic and honorable side to see what’s good about the world.”

“Make it fun,” I tell him as he drives away to work. “I will”, he yells back.

 

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Not Too Little, Not Too Much

Lagom. It’s a Swedish word meaning “not too little, not too much, “in moderation”, or “enough”.

My birthday is on New Year’s Eve. There are certainly perks to this. For example, I pretend the whole world is partying in my honor- the ball drop, the dressing up, the good food, the midnight kissing, the whole thing- my elaborate birthday party. Because NYE is a holiday and I’m a nurse, I’m destined to every other birthday with my patients; this year was one of those years. I still pretend that the world is partying for me; I just don’t attend the party, and you know what- it’s awesome. I get to wear scrubs, I don’t eat or drink too much, I laugh a lot, there are no expectations, and most importantly, I get to celebrate life in the rawest form.

As a nurse, you know a patient’s whole story. You know what they like to eat, their bedtime routine, who their favorite family member is (and their least favorite), what gets them through the hardest of days, and what their shit (figuratively and literally) looks like. I know… TMI. Welcome to nurse life. In every patient, I see a bit of myself, my family, or a friend- in the homeless guy who got hit by a bus, the woman my age who is now a paraplegic, the grandpa who had a debilitating stroke, and the mechanic who suffered extensive burn injuries, these people are my people. My patients remind me that life is incredibly precious; quite simply- today is all you get; so, on my birthday, I am ecstatic to be with these dynamic individuals who have faced tragedy prematurely and face this day, my day of birth, with such grace, strength, and inevitably true joy because for all of us, today is a blessing.

To be honest, I got distracted back there. I was going to talk about lagom which made me think of the book that Michael bought me on my birthday, which made me think of my birthday, and then made me realize, “damn, that was a good birthday”. Okay, back to lagom.

The book I read is titled “Lagom: The Swedish Art of Living a Balanced, Happy Life” by Niki Brantmark. The book touches on de-cluttering, the art of listening, eco-friendly living, the morgondopp (morning dip), work-life balance, fika (a break with coffee and a treat), sauna, and even foraging. As I often do with books I love, I read it aloud to Michael during our morning fika. We come to realize that lagom is really life as we know it. It is perfectly enough… except we need a sauna.

You guessed it. He built a sauna. Alright, you probably didn’t guess it, but it’s true. In the days leading up to a big project like this, Michael is a much quieter presence in our little boat. His mind is working on the logistics, notes are being scribbled, Youtube videos are being watched, and Craigslist is being scoured through for discounted materials. Michael is truly a student of the process. I adore him for this. Michael is thinking of measurements, materials and timelines while I’m like “can’t we just get a day pass at the YMCA sauna?”… not the same.

It’s two days of obtaining materials, two trips to Hutchinson where Michael has his dad as a mentor and his shed as tool heaven, six hours of constructing the perfect jig for dovetail joints, twenty minutes per cedar board dedicated for dovetail carpentry, and multiple nights of staying up until midnight with the coolest and kindest welder at work who helps complete the homemade wood stove. With only wood, stainless steel, a small amount of stone, and lots of gained knowledge, a sauna is made.

What is next on our lagom to do list… the morgondopp (a morning dip in the local swimming hole)? I step outside the boat and shiver at the thought of falling off the dock in to the thick dark mass of nearly frozen river water. While a good chunk of my winter neighbors have experienced this fateful event and come out looking like scared, wet cats, I’ve walked carefully along the dock to avoid such disaster. My heartbeat quickens, I tighten my scarf and decide that on the scale of “not too little to not too much”, the morgondopp is simply too much. I’ll just fika instead.

So, how to live a life of lagom? Live a life of “enough”. It’s living for what matters and not indulging in what doesn’t. I possess eight pairs of pants and twelve shirts but enough books to sink our through hulls. I love work but spend more time not at work. The process is what makes you; a sauna does not build itself; the food you eat does not grow itself; a maple tree will not tap itself; the process matters more than the outcome so enjoy every moment of every process you can be a part of.

Be a contributor, a listener, and a lifelong learner. Dedicate time to activities that enrich you, not distract you. Be outside; remember that you are a part of this world and this world is a part of you. You are not superior to the trees that give you air.

Spend your birthday doing small things with great intent; in fact, spend every day that way. Give, give, and give. Please, stop taking so much. You will be happier with just enough. Finally, be yourself wherever you are; understand that you are not too little and you are not too much; you, just as you are, are exactly enough.

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Like Berries On Ice Cream

I am finding that life is far more fascinating than I ever imagined. It is not the dramatics that amuse me but the simplicities. It is one good conversation with a stranger. It is the cool breeze rolling off the river and slipping right through my open window as I fall asleep. It is a good meal with a neighbor.

Meet Bob.

Bob and his husband Yader joined our quirky community when they docked their 1976 Carver Mariner across from ours one year ago. In this quick but full year, I hold memories of Yader and I dipping our feet in the waves with Bob at the helm; this quickly turned in to us getting soaked and laughing heartily at our fortunate misfortune. Warning: waves may be larger than they appear. I fondly recall salsa dancing with Bob on the dock on Cinco de Mayo and Yader later leading an impromptu Zumba class; looking back, dance class on the dock seems like a hilarious accident waiting to happen.

Bob loves his boat as obsessively as the rest of us, and I’ve observed many nights of Bob diligently working on one boat project or another. Bob’s favorite form of exercise has become kayaking at dusk- a favorite and often shared activity among the whole dock; this is almost always followed by the nightly ritual of beaver, deer, and bald eagle or blue heron stories as observed whilst at paddle. Sometimes our dock is fortunate enough to hear Bob playing the fiddle as the sun slowly falls behind the trees. As evidenced by these previous paragraphs of goodness, Bob and Yader fit perfectly in to our strange little floating society.

I get this question often- how do you cook on your boat? Our mainstay is the cast iron skillet. We specialize in stir fries, curries, and egg scrambles. We do not have an oven although some boats do; and for the record, no boat actually uses them. We do have a grill but rarely use it; other boat neighbors use the grill religiously. One guy uses his pizza oven for everything. Our friends on a sailboat actually have an outdoor solar oven since they anchor out at all times. My husband makes weird green smoothies comprised of kale, garlic, and beets; it tastes like someone smothered your face in the dirt. Our neighbor Sam makes a similar looking smoothie that I once mistook for the water he rinses his paintbrushes in.

Back to Bob.

Bob is the kind of guy that warms the soul of each person he meets. He tells good stories, plays good music, and listens with an honest intent to learn about another. Bob loves people. He loves his boat, and he loves food. It’s no wonder he would want to combine all his loves in one place- a cookbook for boat people.

I go to Bob’s boat this morning as he prepares “a basic breakfast hash with cowboy caviar”. This is not the first time Bob has cooked for me. He often grabs a neighbor to share a meal with. I love this about him. He has Appalachian music playing lightly as I come aboard.

Bob is coming to his boat a few times a week now to cook a meal in preparation for his upcoming cookbook. Bob has a vision. He wants to appeal to those who want to cook on a boat or in small spaces and do so creating good food with a fresh flavor. Bob plans to complete his vision by next summer, and his neighbors’ bellies are all benefitting in the meantime.

So what about Bob?

Bob works as the Regional Marketing Director for Bon Appetit Management Company; he has worked there for some time now, but he wasn’t always in the food business. Bob first received a degree in Social Work; he did this for seven years but found himself unfulfilled on this path. Bob described going on home visits at a reservation in New Mexico where he would find himself cooking with the kids in the kitchen. He realized his passion lived here- with good people congregated around good food.

As a child, Bob looked up to his mother who cooked from scratch and has fond memories of cooking with Patty, a family friend who threw “amazing dinner parties”. Patty remains an important influence to Bob; she even sang at his and Yader’s wedding. At the age of 30, Bob went back to school- to culinary school in St. Louis. He worked closely with a great chef during this time and soon found himself writing a food column called “Dinner and a Movie”. He later managed a restaurant and helped this restaurant grow to seven restaurants; this evolution pushed him toward marketing. Now, here we are. Bob is preparing the best breakfast hash of my life while I sip espresso on the stern of his boat soaking up the morning sun. Thank you Patty!

Bob’s cookbook will include a pantry list of supplies for the reader to always keep on hand. Each meal will combine what the reader already has with a few additional fresh and local ingredients to make the meal flavorful and unique. He will also have a basic bar section because what is boating without the occasional cocktail?

In finding his calling to food, Bob remembers his first “ah-ha” moment. In this moment, Bob is a child at his grandparents’ house. Little boy Bob has a handful of freshly picked, warm raspberries; he brings them in the house and puts them on ice cream- the raspberries melt the cool ice cream surrounding them. Bob tells me that this taste is “that moment that you’re always chasing”.

“That moment you’re always chasing”… I like this. I reflect on “ah-ha” moments- the simplicities that make life fascinating… the good conversation with a stranger, the cool breeze as you fall asleep, or the warm raspberries on your ice cream. Perhaps we should all chase our “ah-ha” moments. If we live a life or work a career full of “ah-has”, I think we’re on the right path. I think about my career “ah-has”- seeing my patient walk again after many weeks of therapy, being asked by a family to pray with them before their mother goes to surgery, a burn patient singing to Mariah Carey as we do his full body wound cares, and discussing life goals with a woman exactly my age who has just become paralyzed. These “ah-has” are not always wonderful but they show me life; they have confirmed that I am walking the path I was meant for. Of course, I have personal “ah-has” as well. As a child- dancing in the milk barn or swimming in the cold creek with my cousins. More recently- anchoring our boat out for the first time or sleeping on the plywood floor next to candlelight in our half built cabin.

“Ah-has” are simple moments with big impact; we must recognize them as such and use them as a compass. Like warm raspberries on ice cream, it is the simplicities of this life that are utterly fascinating, delicious, and small signs toward a life well lived. Cheers!

 

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Getting Along Well Enough

Last week was one year of marriage for Michael and me. We celebrate it doing one of our favorite things- an unplanned road trip. We aim west and soon find ourselves in Colorado.

As we hike The Colorado Trail, I think about being married, a critiqued choice these days (and rightfully so given the failure rate). As I sweat my buns off and see that cutie hiking ahead of me, I realize that hiking is something like marriage. You start strong- excited, optimistic, with big ideas. You start together. You prepare for this. Some prepare more than others but in the end, I wonder if preparation matters more than innovation and intent… I lean towards the latter. Some hikes face challenges early, some later. Some hikes turn out harder than expected. You might think you’re totally ready for this hike but then find yourself surprised by the altitude or the incline or your own physical and mental capacity to handle this. Sometimes, one cannot keep up to the other; one might need to slow things down for a minute so you can stick together.

At some point, you come to a fork in the trail. Michael wants to go one way, but I want to go the other. I think my way is better and try to convince Michael of this but he’s stubborn too; he thinks his way is better. We could go separately on our chosen paths, but we don’t. We picked each other for this journey; we go together.

Our packs start to get heavy. Michael’s is heavier though; he always chooses to carry the heavy one. I recognize this and offer to switch for a bit; I want to share the load. I don’t want this marriage, I mean this hike, to be one-sided. We find that this hike is challenging- lots of ups and downs; the best hikes often are. It’s so rewarding to get through that together, to share the valleys and the views, to high five at the summit.

Sometimes, when people do a long hike, they think they’re better off going alone, and some people are. I think about doing this hike alone… I know I’d be weaker without him. I’d have less fun too. I think about the campfire; I like it best when it reflects off Michael’s blue eyes. I like to talk about the stars together and theorize on what exists beyond us. I’d appear crazy if I talked to myself about this. Also, who would I laugh at? I’m not that funny on my own.

I may not have as much for myself when I hike with Michael. We’re almost out of water, and we overestimated the size of this blanket. I wake up 20 times during the night to fight for my half of this inadequate covering. We laugh at this in the morning until we realize we’re out of coffee; now that’s no joke. Maybe preparation does trump innovation; at least when it comes to coffee.

Michael points out things on the trail that I wouldn’t have noticed alone- a big black slug, a tree we couldn’t identify, and a beautiful prairie on top of a distant ridgeline. I find that we frequently ask how the other is doing- if the other needs a rest or a drink of water. Thunder rolls in the distance as we enter camp.

We made it back just in time. I look at Michael and love him more now than at the start of this hike, more than yesterday, more than one year ago. You guys, I think I said something wrong at the start of this. I described hiking as being strongest at the start; I went on to compare hiking to marriage.

My dad, a man of few words, wrote this in our anniversary card: “Just keep lovin life and each other and it will be a Good Life”.

My mom and dad had their 30th wedding anniversary this year. He has loved my mom and life every day that I have watched him live. I cannot recall an instance in which he complained about either of those; I only know my dad as happy. Ever since I can remember, my dad would say “life is good” and his daily actions never led me to believe otherwise. My parents have shown me that if treated right, marriage gets stronger and better with time.

And how to treat it right? This is what I’ve learned: love each other shamelessly. Don’t let sadness, pride, hardship, or anything else take that away. The world challenges your love, and for some reason, people might to.

Michael, when talking about living on a small boat, someone recently asked me if we actually like that lifestyle and if we “get along well enough”. “Get along well enough”… what a strange phrase. Does this mean we are supposed to say excuse me when we move around each other? Should we politely take turns filling the water tank? Should I come home from work quietly and leave the lights off so as not to wake you? Do we divide our tiny, tiny fridge so you have half the space and I have the other half? What about our “closet” which happens to be a five foot long space below our bed, should that be 50/50 too?

Do we “get along well enough”? While not totally understanding this innocent but bizarre question, I shrugged in response and said “well, yeah”. That probably didn’t sound convincing. Michael, I talked about you fondly the other day. It must have been too fondly because the recipient of my conversation followed up by saying “well you’re still in the honeymoon phase”. I laughed and said “I suppose”. Michael, sometimes I wish I wasn’t cursed with this Minnesota Nice thing; maybe then I would have told her that “the honeymoon phase” is a stupid catch phrase someone invented to make up for their diminishing behavior toward the one they promised forever to. Hmm… that sounds a bit intense. I’ll stick with my first response- “I suppose”.

So Michael, do we “get along well enough”? Is spanking your butt when I’m trying to move around you polite enough? Should I fill the water tank the next five times to even out the score? Do I need to ditch my books so they don’t overflow in to our 50/50 “closet” space? My Love, I only turn on the lights and kiss your face when I get home because… well, I don’t know… I missed you.

Michael, it is certainly a small space aboard. I tell people that all the time. I say “for one person, it’d be perfect but for two it gets a little tight”. Why do I say that? The truth is this- the boat feels too big without you, too empty, too quiet. Today on this hike or when I’m home on the boat while you’re away, I am reminded of this- my life was not made to live without you. You are not just the person I found to “get along well enough” with. Michael, we certainly argue, disagree, or get frustrated with the other. Our world is not perfect, but you are my soul; my bold, hard-headed, stinky-farting, perfect soulmate. So Mr. Get Along Well Enough and Ms. Honeymoon Phase, I politely ask you to shove it, for this love is my favorite part of me.

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Jimmy & The Bees

Ever since I’ve known Michael, I’ve known Jimmy. They were the basement boys; I met them as my neighbors six years ago. I married Michael last year, and by marrying Michael, I’ve committed myself to a lifetime of Jimmy. After all, Michael and Jimmy do have matching tattoos. While some may have run the other way knowing the stipulation, I braved the challenge- a lifetime of Jim.

Alright, since sarcasm doesn’t always translate through writing, I should probably let you know I’m only kidding. I love Jimmy like a brother and adore his eccentricities. He has always been one to think and do outside of the box; in this case, the bee box. So, let’s talk about bees.

This year is the first year in the history of the continental U.S. that a bee required federal protection when the rusty patched bumblebee, a once prominent pollinator, was placed on the endangered species list. According to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, this bumblebee has declined nearly 90 percent since the late 1990s / early 2000s (not that long ago!). While the cause is multifactorial, disease, pesticides, climate change, and habitat loss are big players. The hard part of this news- these are human driven causes. It’s time that we take notice, educate ourselves, and take care of our environment and as a result, our small but important pollinators. Without these pollinators, we would be without more than one third of our food crops which contribute billions of dollars to the economy and put real food in our tummies. Sure, it’s easiest not to care; to believe that one type of bee is insignificant in this world of 20,000 bee species and 3,600 in our own country. But hey, it’s more important than ever. We, the human species, have more impact on this world than we are responsible with. It is evident in where we place value- on things, on money, and on the individual rather than the collective. The bees are a model for the values that we, as a species, lack. It is time to slow down and take notes from some productive, hard-working, selfless citizens of our world- the bees.

Jimmy returned from Kuwait and Afghanistan after a year of service in the military. He says that he spent plenty of time reading and thinking while away. I heard him conjure up many ideas of what he would do when he got home. He talked about borrowing my husband and sailing the world but the wild idea that stuck was buying bees. He cultivated this, and I got to keep my husband… for now.

Jimmy got his knowledge from youtube videos and Beekeeping for Dummies. While you can buy a beekeeping beginner’s kit, Jimmy made much of his own equipment and saved money doing so. That’s right ladies… he’s handy and single! After two years of learning about bees, this is Jimmy’s first season as their caretaker, and today, I follow him around as this novice beekeeper explains what he’s learned.

He starts with prepping the smoker. Jimmy says that the smoke he creates prevents a sting as the bees sense a forest fire and with this response to danger, they fill themselves with honey should they need to evacuate. With bellies full of honey, they don’t want to sting as this would lead to their death and a waste of the honey the hold.

Jimmy then gowns up to approach the colony. I laugh as Michael puts on the upper body garb too but disregards the fact that he is wearing shorts and sandals. As Jimmy pulls out the frames, I say “Jimmy, you seem like a pro”. He responds “Just wait until one lands on me” and describes the time one landed on his hand and he dropped the frame. He worried after this that if the queen was on that screen, he could have potentially hurt her which would have meant destruction for the whole colony. Although the hive is full of females, she is the only one that can reproduce. As he pulls out the screens, he watches for the queen. “If you know what you’re doing, you find her. I just look for eggs. They look like grains of salt. If I find fresh eggs, I know she’s alive.” He also checks for mites or for a bad smell; mites could attack the colony while a bad smell could indicate disease.

Soon, bees are flying everywhere. I sit in the grass as they hover around me. I always thought this experience would be chaotic or frightening, but now, it’s peaceful. I say this from a distance as Michael says “this is definitely the most bees I’ve ever been in” as he stands with his head in the hive in his cut off shorts. I guess he’s not that scared either.

Jimmy explains that 99% of the worker are female and adds “so this is what it’s like when women are in charge… they get shit done”. Jimmy still has not met his queen, and no, I’m not diverting back to the single Jimmy thing although that would also be applicable. Michael and Jimmy inspect closely until Jimmy exclaims “There she is! Holy shit, she’s huge!”. I can’t help but make my way down in to the swarm to see the queen; she is certainly distinguished. Jimmy tells us that she only leaves to mate with the goal of getting a variance of genetics; “survival of the fittest kind of stuff”. Jimmy does this hive check weekly. He inspects his ten frames for overall health. At the end, he smokes the bees so they duck away from the top of the box; he doesn’t want to crush them.

(Queen Bee pictured below… can you tell which one?)

We discuss the complexities of bees, and as a novice beekeeper, I can tell Jimmy has already developed a respect for these intelligent and hardworking creatures. He admires them in saying:

They’re so smart. Like they make these perfect hexagon shaped honey combs, and they can’t even talk to each other. For example, the three of us could get together, talk about it, go to Home Depot, and still not make something as good.

It’s true. Bees are amazing. In writing this, I spent two mornings reading all I could about bees. On a rainy afternoon, I encourage you to take time to do the same. I can tell you that the level of intelligence they possess is surprising. The way they work together for the good of the hive is admirable. They are systematic and adaptable. While adaptable, like us, they still need their basic needs to be met. They need a good habitat. They need us, the humans, to stop messing with it and to restore it where we can. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife website listed these simple ways to help the habitat. It stated to “provide a mix of flowers”, “plant flowers in early spring”, “don’t mow or rake”, and “be pesticide free”. Let’s take care of the bees, honeybees and bumblebees alike, so that they can in turn, continue to take care of us.

As for Jimmy, he’s still single… with bees. You’re welcome Jim for morphing this in to a dating ad. Also, he bought a sailboat. I’m a bit worried Jimmy might take my husband and sail the deep blue. Perhaps, this is why I somehow turned this into a dating ad. Any ladies out there want to go sailing? If you have first mate experience, please apply.

 

 

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Dreamers At Work

I got home from work at 2:30am last night. Working as a nurse in downtown Minneapolis is anything but monotonous; it can be a little chaotic and a lot of crazy; it is challenging and fast moving. I love it, but by the time my shift is over, this is where I want to be. At this time of night, the docks are quiet, the water surrounding them is still, and my neighbors are tucked away in their floating homes. As I enter the wooded marina, I breathe easier and move slower. While the sound of call lights continues to ring in my head, my lone footsteps on the dock finally quiet them.

At 2:30am, I am surprised to see another soul awake. It is John. He works late on his trimaran preparing it for June 8 at 5am when he and four others plan to race this not-yet-ready boat in the R2AK. It is a 750 mile race from Port Townsend, WA to Ketchikan, AK. You must sail with no motor and no support boats. With the race nearly one week away and the boat currently afloat 1,760 miles from the starting line, I’m a little nervous for them. I spend a few moments with John, and as he shows me his project successes from the night with a smile that not many people can hold up so well at 2:30am, I believe in him.

Today, May 31st, we have a perfect afternoon. It’s sunny and still. It’s a project day in the marina. With the holiday weekend and spotty storms behind us for a couple of days, every captain in this place has big eyes and working hands.

Bob across the dock is refurnishing his wood trim. Rick, one dock over, is trying to fix leaks around his windows; he says this is a problem every Chris Craft of that era has; we yell across the water as we talk about this. On our boat, we added plywood to our top deck floor to stabilize and level it. It was two day project finished today with fiberglass, paint, and parquet flooring that Michael bought on Craigslist.

As the evening moves on, I visit the trimaran and find Juan. No, I’m not just calling John “John” in Spanish… that’d be confusing. Juan is John’s friend and a fellow sailor ready to take on the R2AK. Tonight, while John is at an open house for the Lake Calhoun Sailing Club (he’s an Associate Director there), it is Juan’s turn to get this trimaran race-ready.

John and Juan are roommates. They met in college when they both went to the University of Minnesota. They met on the water of course. Like all boat people, they got to talking about how to fix one or the other’s boat problem, and before they can do anything about it, they’re buddies forever. They are both Wisconsin boys; John from Milwaukee and Juan from Wisconsin Rapids. I lived in Wisconsin once and still had to ask where this was; Juan tells me its right in the middle of the state. Juan was born in Mexico; his family moved here when he was one year old. As Juan tells me more about who he is, I feel akin to him. His outlook is familiar.

Juan sailed for the first time when he was 10 years old. Then, like me and so many others, the teenage years brought distraction. He was in to sports, hunting, and girls. In college, Juan got a degree in chemistry. When I ask what he originally went to school for, Juan says “for knowledge mostly”. I don’t know why but the choice to get a degree in chemistry surprised me a bit… maybe because we just spent the last ten minutes talking about travelling and for some reason, being in a lab and being out in the world seem like two different animals. Juan told me about taking a few semesters off to backpack in national parks, play music, and spend time WWOOFing on a vegan permaculture farm in California. I related to him on these experiences, except on the music thing; in this, I lamented to him about my ongoing failed harmonica attempts. Juan plays harmonica, drums, guitar, and some ukulele. I’m jealous.

Juan told me that at one point he wanted to be a farmer. This, I understood. Michael and I talk of this often- having our own small farm. I watch my dad and my grandparents find ultimate peace and joy in this work. I ask Juan why he got a degree in chemistry. He tells me that his initial idea was to get educated in environmental water chemistry. Aahhhh… this makes sense to me now. Juan is smart and ambitious. I’m sure you’ve gathered this by now. He spends time with our waters and doesn’t want to just use the resource, he wants to preserve it too. I understand this. In this small revelation, I am proud. During a time when much of the world would rather look away from the environmental problems at hand, I find others my age that care. Juan is one of them. I see this same inspiration in my marina neighbors who gather garbage from the waters when they go out kayaking. I see it in my parents who love their land, my dad out “cleaning the woods” to make it the best habitat for what lives and grows there. I see it in my husband who adores the small details of what we have in our waters and woods; who lights up when he sees a new plant, tree, or animal.

Juan tells me that studying environmental water chemistry was “actually kind of depressing”. I don’t even ask why; I know the answer. I think back to yesterday when I walked in to work behind a lady who threw a half cigarette to the ground right before she entered the building. I wasn’t sure why this set me off. I see cigarettes on the ground all the time and of course, there are bigger problems than one cigarette on the ground, but observing her total disregard for her surroundings must have done it for me. There was a garbage can right next to where she threw it; she didn’t even look at it. I picked up the cigarette, put it out, and threw it away. I continued to feel pissed off for the next hour. As I sat in work reviewing my patients’ charts, I wondered “why is this still bugging me… let it go Chels”. Now, in talking to Juan, I am reminded that it matters. To have an environmentally conscious chemist out there, I am thankful. To be an environmentally conscious nurse, this matters. To maybe someday be environmentally conscious farmers, this is huge.

At this point, I ask Juan how old he is. He’s my age- 28 years old. I only met Juan today; brought together by the water. It is how I’ve met so many people that inspire me; people that care about our world, how we treat it, and how we treat each other. My neighbors on this water are creative, smart, bold, and unafraid. They live in the environment because they care about it.

I once had a friend throw a piece of garbage out of her car. I said something and picked it up. She responded “oh yeah, I suppose you live in the environment”. This was over a year ago now and it has stuck with me. We all live in the environment. What is going on that not everyone feels this way? How do people not see the impact our habits have? How do we fix actions that are so commonplace, so dismissed; like throwing your cigarette to the ground with a bunch of people watching? I still don’t know the answers to all of these questions but I think about them every day. I hope this is the first step to something.

I help Juan hold the electrical panel as he cuts around it to fit the wall. We drink beer as we talk. Todd throws us two more Hamms from the dock. Juan works at Rahr Malting where he is a QC Project Manager, Micro-Maltster, and Assistant Brewer. He’s a bit of an expert in beer so I’m surprised in his gratitude for the Hamms. I invite Juan over for dinner. Michael made steak and asparagus. Juan says he ate already today and when I ask him if he’s on a one meal per day diet, Juan says that lately he is. With the time crunch of getting this boat ready while still working full time, Juan has been getting five hours of sleep and one meal per day. I am thankful that Juan finally agrees to eat after we put the food in his hands.

 

It’s Wednesday; the trimaran gets hauled out on Friday; I know he has a lot to do so I appreciate how present Juan is when we talk. His looming projects include getting the electrical situation squared away, mounting the solar panels, setting up the rigging, and attaching steering platforms. Juan tells me that at this point, the boat is not seaworthy and the five of them have yet to sail together as a team. Whether or not they are ready and able to do the race eight days from now, they will still sail to Alaska, get to know the terrain, and be more than ready for the race next year. I ask Juan about his future. Water will always be a part of his life; he loves sailing. He’ll probably stay around here for a while. He’s ready to set some roots. I realize I feel akin to him because of where he’s at in his life. He has stretched his legs out, carried a backpack around the country, and ponders on what he can do to be good for the world. In all of his exploration, he has found that making a difference where he stands makes the most difference.

As the sun sets, the dock gathers together to unwind from the project day. We finish dinner, drink beer, and talk about what was accomplished. Somehow, conversation turns to plumb bobs and we discuss these for what feels like an hour. It’s surprising how many jokes sprout from this conversation on plumb bobs. I am educated on the variety of plumb bobs that exist. It’s soon 10:30pm, and I retreat to the boat with plumb bobs on the mind. Alright, I’ll let you go before I babble on. It’s time for me to go to bed and time for you to google what a plumb bob is. Also, Michael wants you to google “plumb barbara”; do so at your own risk. Goodnight now.

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The Spring Feels

With the spring season, I am overwhelmed with nostalgia. I’m not sure why. Spring is not my favorite season, not by a long shot. Sorry spring, don’t take it personally. I reminisce on this nostalgic feeling, looking for a cause. I’m not sure I found it, but I will ramble here anyway. After all, it’s stormy outside and I’m aboard and alone without my distractingly handsome mate.

This is the beauty of Minnesota. Just when you get to know yourself in a certain space at a certain time, your environment flips the switch. You are reminded that time is not a statue. It is not something concrete that you can go back to and touch or relive. Time is fleeting.

Spring reminds me of tilled fields, running in the rain, and of more recent nostalgia, coming home. Three years ago in April, Michael and I came home from nearly six months of travel. We loved every moment of these months, but we missed something tangible. We missed the seasons. We completely skipped winter and all that comes with winter – reading extra books, snowstorms, bundling up to go outside, movie nights in, the holidays with our families, etc. We had Christmas at a McDonalds for gosh sakes. They had free Wifi. You take what you can get. We didn’t notice until we returned how valuable these seasons are. They balance your innards (like your soul and stuff).

The change of season is a faithful reminder that you better get to living now because now is all you’ve got.

So back to the spring feels. It seems crazy to say that this is our third year of living aboard. It seems like just yesterday we were spending full days grinding down our boat, repainting it, and living in our van all the while. Time flies.

Thanks spring for the in your face reminder that you are here; for startling us with thunder and showering us with oversized hail this week; you play dirty. I write this as tornado watches and warnings beep all over the state. Spring is beauty and pain at its finest.

We bought the boat prior to our travels, not knowing how the world would change us and if we would even like each other when we got back. Spoiler alert: We came back not in dislike or like, we came back nearly obsessed with one another and filled with a love for genuine souls and joy in any strange experience that would come our way. You could say that this marina fit into our lives perfectly for the strange and genuine souls we would meet in those weeks are like our family now. Roger knows our schedules down to the hour and is a constant on the dock, looking out for us all and always there when we need a hand. You know summer is well underway when John has his flags out and his music is heard from down the dock. Diane is the one you go to for a good conversation; she listens intently and has the best insight. Wally starts the bonfires and tries to share his blue mixed drink with you. I won’t dare share his secret cocktail recipe but I’ll let you know it contains three different kinds of alcohol and nothing else; I’ve had it once and never again. I won’t go on and on about these people although I could. I hope that someday, these people I love will let me share them through story but that’s for another time. Anyway, this is all a part of the nostalgia thing.

I have a feeling that spring will always remind me of those May days three years ago. From sun up to sun down, we were working on that boat. Michael had a grinder for a hand while I, who finds painting to be very therapeutic, had had enough therapy to cure the craziest of minds and then make them crazy all over again. We were in a constant state of sweat and van life certainly didn’t help our hygiene. Our future neighbors would stop by to meet us and bear wisdom or ideas for this or that adding to our to-do list and allowing us to quickly fall in love with this quirky place.

Wow spring, you are actually raining so hard right now that I can no longer hear myself think. What are you trying to say, that you’re not all flowers and Mother’s Day!? I get it. Okay guys, Mother Earth wants me to tell you that spring brings the feels, but they’re not always good. You might meet a spring that makes you miss someone or like I’ve noticed, a spring that reminds you that time is not a statue; you can’t go back to it. Spring might make you feel old or like you’ve left something behind.

Spring brings storms. They’re scary sometimes… especially now when Michael is at the cabin and here I am stuffing towels into crevices to remedy unexpected leaks and refreshing my weather app to see if there’s a tornado in my midst. Hmm… I hope our bilge pump works…

Okay, she chilled out now. That was intense. I’ll check the boat for hail damage later. It’s the funniest thing to watch the river’s response to hail; jumping all around, a perfect representation of my nerves at the time. It’s crazy how your mood syncs with the weather. Spring, you are a powerhouse…you make us feel oh so alive. You shower us (quite literally today) with all sorts of sensations. You remind us that time is fleeting while surprising us with new life. You startle us with thunder and then bring a rainbow. Spring, you’re a bit bipolar but I like you. Ya know, after writing this, I just might call you my favorite season… don’t tell summer I said that.

 

 

 

 

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From The Birthing Room

Dear Mom, I am who I am because you were my mom, always my backbone.

Dear Grandmas, you show me strength and love that persists through all things, my inspiration.

Dear Michael’s Mom, you are so naturally a part of my heart, my incredible blessing.

To all moms today… thank you. You are truly amazing.

This Mother’s Day is a little extra special for me for two reasons. First, I gained the best mother-in-law a girl could ever ask for. Second, my sister became a mom for the first time. With this, I had the honor of being a part of the birthing process, and man oh man, after what I saw in there… props to you ladies, this was certainly a hard earned holiday.

In honor of a mother’s strength and with my sister’s blessing, I share my nephew’s birth story below.

 

Hank’s birth story

I was at work and just got on my dinner break. I called Michael to see how he was doing and after hearing that one of my patients died unexpectedly earlier in the day, I was kind of in a funk. Right after getting on the phone with Michael, I got a text from Jess. It came in at 19:46 and read “Good chance we’re going in tonight… contractions are picking up. I’ll let you know if/when we head to the hospital. You should be able to finish your shift”.  The tears came right away as I was on the phone with Michael; I was so excited. At 22:44, near the end of my shift, I got the text that said “Leaving in the next half hr”. I was late out of work due to another busy night and didn’t hit the road until 00:40; I rushed (probably too much so) to the boat to pick up Michael and we were at the hospital in Stillwater at 01:30; that’s got to be some sort of record. I was highly anxious on the way there (more so than I’ve probably ever been) thinking I could potentially miss it.  Boy, was I wrong. It wasn’t until fourteen hours and one minute later that Hank was born.

 While the cheering squad (Mom, Dad, Kent, Becky, and Michael) slept on the floor and in the chairs in the waiting room, Jess and Sean stayed awake in room #222 dealing with contractions every couple of minutes.  I could already tell that Jess was tough as nails.  When the pain got intense, she closed her eyes and went inward. I’ve seen this as strength before. While some people make noise to express pain, look outside of themselves for a way to fix it, or need distraction to stay calm, I find that the strongest people turn inward and find peace and strength there, within themselves. Jessi wanted no distractions, no TV or music; she never once complained or even asked questions… okay she did ask two questions over that next fourteen hours and they were right at the end. She asked “Did I just shit myself?” (she did not by the way) and “Is he ever going to come out?” (a question we were all thinking).

When the sun started rising, we all had a fresh energy (despite Jess and Sean getting no sleep). Along with this fresh energy, the contractions got stronger and more frequent. While the cheering squad went out to breakfast, we met Michelle Rice, the midwife, a woman we would later learn had a lot of patience and respect for the natural process of birthing. Jess also learned what worked best for her contraction pains; the weird peanut shaped ball was good to straddle, and if Sean pushed in on her hips from both sides, she found the most relief. Jessi continued to be a total badass on no sleep and no food.

Eventually it was time to transfer to the tub room. This was exciting and just what Jessi wanted to help relieve some of the pain. She was in the tub for an hour or two, and Michelle began to worry that her cervix was not dilated enough to stay there until Hank joined the world; Jessi had to get out of the tub so Michelle could get a good check; she was at 9cm; this was good; she was only at 7-8cm on her most recent check before. Michelle encouraged Jessi to stay out of the tub for a bit and try multiple positions to wiggle Hank down. Jessi was in a lot of pain now with frequent and strong contractions. It hurt to move at all but she did it anyway and even when she did not want to, it only took a time or two to remind her that if you move this or that way, we might have progress. Jessi cooperated with everything and again, made no complaints. At this time, her eyes were almost constantly closed but she still heard our suggestions; if we asked her to breathe slower, she worked hard to make it happen. During her time out of the tub around 13:30, she used the bathroom, sat on the weird peanut thing again, sat on her knees in the bed, and stood up rocking back and forth.

After all of Jessi’s hard work and Sean being constantly at her side and clearly in touch with every feeling Jessi had, Jessi was now dilated to 9.5cm with only a very thin area remaining. It was now tub time again; time to push. The water had to be between 95 and 100 degrees for baby to transition well to the life outside. Holy hot. Not only was Jessi in a room full of people working harder than I’ve ever seen anyone work in their whole life, she was now in a hot tub. We had the fan blowing on her, cool cloths that Sean diligently switched out to keep her comfortable between contractions, and sips of water, but she still had drops of sweat falling down her face. There were multiple times during this phase that I got full of tears just watching my sister fight so hard, over and over and over with what felt like (but certainly was not) no progress. Her eyes were closed, she had no sleep, no nutrition, was sweating in this hot tub, and never once did she cry, tell us she couldn’t do it, complain, or even raise her voice. I certainly would have felt defeated by now, potentially asked for pain meds, and most certainly would be crying or yelling as an outlet. I am a nurse and have seen a lot of pain but this was the most. This was relentless; like an enemy coming back at you stronger and harder with every hit. It takes strength you don’t believe you have any more to keep going.

For these four hours of pushing, I felt like I was at war with Jessi, Sean, Michelle, and the nurses as our soldiers. The only hard part was that Jessi had to do all of the fighting. This is what brought tears to my eyes and sometimes when I would tell her “push, push, keep going” or “we’re almost there, be strong”, I lost faith myself and my lip would quiver in saying these things. Sometimes all the soldiers would be quiet but Jessi wouldn’t let up; she was still pushing, with her eyes closed, and her courage greater than anyone in the room.  Although she never did, if Jessi had tried to quit, I could see that Sean would be right there to instill some sort of reminder that their love for this little man she was working so hard to get out was stronger than any force that could try to fight against them. I was seeing that the strength she carried came from a place deeper than just her; it came from her love for Sean, for Hank, and knowing Sean’s love for the both of them. Jessi was pushing for all of them; she never forgot that.

I become teary again as I write this because I think about Mom and Dad, Kent and Becky, and Michael; they were soldiers too. And after 12pm, they began to wonder what was taking so long; they began to worry. Michael later tells me that an announcement was made over the intercom; something about an emergency or a code and that all available staff had to report to room #2; Jessi’s first room was #222. Michael told me that Mom’s hands started shaking as she held her phone and for a minute everyone was very scared. Becky was our messenger and was able to tell them that everything was okay and provided updates throughout.  Besides breakfast, the cheering squad never left the hospital. Michael described it as feeling like “a lock-in”; he said it was really pretty fun; they took over the waiting room and apparently watched a lot of TV shows about diesel engines (at least that’s what Kent said). Good grandparent bonding plus Michael. During the last four hours, they were on pins and needles just like we were in that room. Becky said she was praying constantly; I said a few prayers too, and Grandma and Grandpa Larson tell me later that they were praying all day. We were all keeping God very busy.

Jessi pushed in that tub for what felt like forever. This is also were I saw what looked like the makings of a tiny black mohawk; long black hair floating; this was amazing and I felt so much love for this little boy already. We told Jessi “he has hair! he has hair! long black hair!”.  Jessi was exhausted and likely overheated and after two hours of pushing in the tub, Michelle made the call that she should get out and try pushing in the bed. This is where it gets a bit blurry in my mind already because there were so many times when I thought he was coming out that I had no concept of time. I saw the top of his head poke out what seemed like a million times and then after the contraction, his head would go back in; he wouldn’t stay put enough for Jessi to push his body through the pelvic canal. She had to of pushed for two more hours in that bed.

After so much patience and Jessi working incredibly hard, Michelle slightly hesitantly offered Pitocin; she recognized that Jessi was doing all of the pushing work and her body was too exhausted to help her; she needed her uterus to contract and help her get Hank just a bit further. This was a good call.

After 20-30 minutes of IV Pitocin, Hank’s head was progressing and Jessi was now experiencing the worst part; the neonatal team was called to be on standby in case the baby needed anything and after 22 hours of labor pains, we were finally at the end. Jessi never let up; she gave it everything she had and all at once, he was out. Jessi was still in the zone and Michelle had to say “Jessi, open your eyes and look at your baby”. Hank was put in her hands and I could tell that Jessi and Sean could hardly believe he was theirs. He cried lightly and briefly and seemed to be right at home in Jessi’s arms.  Sean was full of love for this little man and was immensely proud and in love with both Jessi and Hank. Becky relayed the news to the cheering squad; Hank was here! 5:31 PM on March 4th, 2017. 7lbs 2oz and 21 inches long.

Michael said that Mom and Dad started crying; every one of those grandparents and Uncle Michael were so proud and so happy and so in love with Hank. They would not have wanted to be anywhere else that whole day.  After Jessi and Sean got some time with Hank, and Hank practiced latching onto Mama for some milk, we all went in to meet him. Hank is perfect. His long black hair, long fingers and toes, and adorable little face. He was so content; no cries, just a cute little yawn we caught on camera.

He is an incredible little dude with two amazing, strong parents. I felt so honored to have gone through that process with Sean and Jessi.  Although it was way more intense than I could have imagined, I was left in awe of the power and strength of true love. Jessi and Sean have an incredible love for each other and for Hank. Not everyone can go through war like that together without becoming divided or weakened. I knew my sister was tough but holy cats. With Sean by her side, she can take on this whole world.  Hank, you got some pretty kickass parents. They’d go to hell and back for you.

After the cheering squad left the Roadhouse family for the night, we went to Joseph’s Bar & Restaurant and all had a drink with a big cheers to Jessi, Sean, and Hank and to the power and love of family.

 

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From Tree To Table

Maple Syrup. Nature’s sweet, sweet nectar. While looking to buy land, Michael and I looked for two things – water and woods (are you seeing a theme here?). Fortunately, we found both in The Northern Post, our 40 acre slice of heaven in Two Harbors, MN. In the spirit of syrup, let’s talk woods. Minnesota’s most northern woods is unique in that it is primarily coniferous (cone-bearing). The spruces, pines, and cedars maintain their green and hold mounds of snow through the winter; a welcome contrast to the deciduous (sheds it’s leaves annually) North American woods to the south of us. Nestled at the south stoop of the Superior National Forest, our Northern Post grows a blend of coniferous and deciduous trees leaving us wanting for nothing. While we honor the green conifers through the long winter, it is the maples that rule the spring. With sweet sap coursing through her veins as the frozen days thaw, Mother Maple is gracious in sharing her yield.

In late January, we began the tapping. With 30 inches of snow accumulated and no leaves on the trees to assist with identification, Michael and his younger brothers battled the elements to find what they believed to be 70 qualified maples. With the taps in, we looked forward to the spring thaw and really had no idea what to expect.

The thaw comes fast and unexpectedly and while I am home on the boat waiting for my sister to birth our first nephew, Michael was left to the land to conquer the sap of 70 trees all by his lonesome. At this point, since Michael, along with the help of his brothers, Christian and Cameron, did 96% of the work (my 4 percent comes from moral support and hauling in the over 70 pails that week before), I will transcribe his tale of tapping and sapping…

Preparation

First, Michael purchased 75 stainless steel taps online. Next, we needed a maple syrup evaporator. I’m sure these things are for sale somewhere but in true Michael fashion, he found his own way. He started where all dreamers start: Craigslist. This is where he came across a four drawer filing cabinet for $5. The next step in following a dream: find a friend that’s crazy enough to go there with you. In this venture, Michael found Sam. To begin the transformation, the drawers were removed from the cabinet and the cabinet was laid on its back. Catering pans were needed to fit the openings that once held the drawers. Sam and Michael took a road trip around the city to find these. They found that no place would sell them to you unless you owned a restaurant. No problem, they’ll just play the part of restaurant owners… they thought this seemed easy enough and to the restaurant supply store they went. After getting stopped at the front for a “restaurant ID”, they were caught in a pickle. They were booted out the door without the desired catering pans. While this would deter most, Sam and Michael quickly found an unlocked back door. Michael reports that this worked out great until he got to the cash register and was again asked for this “restaurant ID”. With the catering pans in tow, it was not the time to give up and go home. Michael explained to them that he was new to the restaurant business and did not yet have an ID; he added that he did not want to disappoint his boss and asked that they please let him make this purchase. They let him through on a guest account, and they escaped with the prize! At Home Depot, they uneventfully purchased the hinges for a door on one end and a chimney for the other end. After two hours of labor and a cup of sheet metal screws, they had created the Frankenstein evaporator.

Tapping

With the taps purchased and the Frankenstein evaporator ready for its debut, it was time to tap the trees. Michael reports that it is a simple process provided you have identified your trees whilst the leaves are on. This is something that slipped through the cracks of his early fall to do list. After a couple hours of hiking through waist deep snow with a “Trees of Minnesota” book and a pdf download of “making maple syrup”, Michael felt he had done enough research. He ditched the books and got out the drill. To tap the tree, he drilled a two inch hole at an upward angle to allow the sap to flow down and out and gently tapped in the “spile” (another name for the tap if you really want to sound cool). You then fit a tube around the spile and put down a bucket with a secure cover that has a hole drilled in it for the tube to run through. We used five gallon buckets; another Craigslist purchase for 80 cents a bucket.

Waiting

Now, we wait for Mother Nature to do her thing. The sap starts to flow when day temperatures are above freezing but night temps stay below. While we initially knew nothing about what trees to tap, we found out that you can tap any maple (although it is the sugar maple that has the highest sugar content) that is at least 10 inches in diameter three feet above the ground.

Collection

While everything we read about sap collection advised to collect sap daily or as frequently as possible, we could only collect weekly at times and found no change in taste with this timeframe. With 70 trees to gather from, the best advice we can give is to bring a friend.

Evaporate     

Something you may not know is that the sap to syrup ratio is 40:1; for 40 gallons of sap, we get one gallon of syrup. This translates to the ultimate test of patience, and evaporating is where it all goes down (or up if I’m being literal). The evaporation phase is when Frankenstein gets to really show his stuff. Make sure you have stacks of dry wood; you’re going to need it.

The ceremonial evaporation begins with the lighting… maybe a cup of lighter fluid on some small branches; whatever feels right. It’s nice to have a long evaporator like ours because we spent little time cutting our wood to length.

Once the fire gets rolling, on go those pans that Michael and Sam almost became criminal over. Fill the pans with about 4 inches of sap to start and monitor closely to prevent a boil over. You can control the temp by adding cold sap or by opening and closing the end door to control the oxygen flow.

On average, we were able to boil down three gallons of sap per hour. Our longest evaporation of 110 gallons took just over 30 hours. And yes, this means taking shifts through the night to go out and stoke the fire. Unless you saw a very scary looking wolf on your trail cam the night before, then it’s logical to insist on “maybe we should just do it together”… that was Michael as much as me by the way.

When the sap gets close to that 40:1 ratio and appears brown in color, it has been over a full of day of feeding the Frankenstein. At this point, we combine the pans and finish the cook on our propane camp stove; it’s a bit more controlled this way. As it cooks on the proprane, we keep checking it to see how much it has thickened until the desired viscosity is reached. I’m sure the real deal syrup makers would tell you to check its sugar content, or “Brix” (unit for measuring sugar density). They say that a Brix of 66° is ideal. With my Norwegian heritage carrying down a strong gene for sweets, I like to think my taste test for Brix is on point. So as soon as it looks delicious, I take the liberties and consume a spoonful. If it makes me want to whip up some pancakes now, then 66° Brix it must be. I hold off on making pancakes because I know we must pour the steaming sap through a fine weave strainer and this takes optimal concentration. Our fine weave strainer of choice is a clean t-shirt.

After the strain, we want to cool the syrup as quickly as possible. Michael’s preferred cooling method is placing the hot pan in a shallow part of our 30 degree stream as the thermal conductivity of water is 30 times than that of air. I’m on edge the whole time as I imagine the hard earned, finished syrup getting washed away with the waters and finding its way to Gooseberry Falls by late afternoon. Michael assures me that it’s secure and I don’t have to sit at the shore and stare for 30 minutes.

After the syrup is cool and safely out of the stream, it’s time to hit the bottle.

Enjoy

This is the best part. Enjoy! Some of my favorite uses so far: slathered over homemade buckwheat pancakes, used to caramelize cashews, and added to plain yogurt or kefir. We have ambitions to make a batch of kombucha with it, so stay tuned. But the most enjoyable part is spreading the love! Everything is sweetest when shared… ain’t that the truth.

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