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Worst Jobs Ever

I’m learning that farming or homesteading or whatever we’re doing over here in our blissful little bluff-covered corner, is often a series of “worst jobs ever”. After Michael and I relocated the pigs and newly birthed piglets, I thought, “Glad that’s done; that sucked,” after chasing down runaway piglets. It was déjà vu as I remembered saying the same thing to my sweaty self after cleaning a winter’s worth of poop and pee-laden bedding out of the goat pen. As I inhaled ammonia, broke a pitchfork, and sweat through my shirt, I thought, “This must be the worst job ever.”

Since the pig pen relocation, I have also given the goats their CDT vaccines in their neck fat, of which there is hardly any, and held piglets upside down as the vet castrated them. Michael cleaned up dead chicken parts in the aftermath of a predator invasion. In addition to all that fun, I spend nights worrying if we’re feeding the animals enough or maybe too much or probably the entirely wrong ratio of feed and pasture. Hobby farming… what joy!

While other people scroll through funny TikToks at bedtime, I’m reading forums about the best loose mineral for goats or studying what to do when kids (goat babies) are being birthed in a bad position. The answer is that you get your hands in there and fix it. As I write this on July 10th, our arguably favorite goat, Pickles, is due to have her kid(s) tomorrow. For a generally calm person, I’m quite nervous.

Since I didn’t intend for this blog post to be about my sweet preggo goats, I’ll move on from the idea that I may have to stick my hands in their vagina very soon. Instead, let’s talk about pigs.

One year ago and a couple extra months, we bought three Mangalitsa pigs. It started with an old coworker of mine posting about her cute little piglets for sale. Since we had lived on water for the previous 7 years of our lives, you could say that Michael and I were eager to put this newly acquired green space to practical use.

Pigs? Why not! Two males? Sure! Potential for pasture-raised pork from the only remaining wooly breed to exist, yes please!

With two males (Finn and Sawyer) in the works, I perused Craigslist for an unrelated female. As always, Craigslist delivered and Rosie was acquired.

I have a major soft spot for Rosie and not just because she has the same colored hair as one of my favorite human beings- Arran Davis. Rosie is both gentle and fierce, also a bit like Arran.

To make what could be a lengthy series of stories short- Sawyer died and Rosie nearly died once- thank goodness for Arlette and my mom who nursed her back to health while we were out of town.

Finn, who was initially much smaller than Rosie, attempted to breed her for 6 months straight before his size allowed for success, and on May 4th of 2023, our hog herd went from two to eleven!

Michael and I tend to jump into things eagerly with minimal preparedness. In other words, what we lack in experience or expertise, we make up for in spirit. While Michael will binge handfuls of Youtube videos for some quick knowledge, I have subscribed to upwards of a dozen homesteading/pig/goat/gardening podcasts that keep me company to and from work.

While Michael had not interacted much with oinkers before, I do have some familial background with piggies. I remember playing with Grandpa Johnson’s piglets in the hog barn here. That same barn exists today and got a new updo last summer when Michael rebuilt the fallen roof.

Unfortunately, Grandpa J did not include us in the pig chores as much as we were included in evenings of milking his Brown Swiss cows. I now understand why as I have seen our pigs bite through a pumpkin in one chomp and would not want the same kind of chomp delivered to a child’s arm or leg. We also keep our kids out of the pig pen. Retrieving a severed appendage would actually be the worst job ever.

Sometime in early spring, with no background as to when consummation occurred, we decided that Rosie was definitely pregnant. As rural folk say so eloquently, she was “bagging up”. We had the hunch we should separate Rosie and Finn prior to the birth but had zero clue as to when the birth should occur.

On May 1st, after a weekend of Rosie showing increased aggression towards Finn (not so casually ramming him into the side of their shelter) and being incredibly “bagged up”, we separated mama and papa.

On the morning of May 4th, I went out to do the chores and came across a site that nearly brought me to tears. Mama Rosie had just finished birthing her 9th piglet. She was still laying down and panting, but she appeared calm and comfortable. The last two piglets were trying to maneuver their way to any available teat. They were tiny, squeaky and incredibly adorable.

I watched the scene from afar as I had made the goal to steer clear of the natural birthing process. Mangalitsa pigs are known for being able to handle their births independently. We did not use a farrowing crate. Instead, we provided plenty of hay for Rosie to make her own nesting area. We didn’t touch the piglets for a full week. When we did, we picked them up only out of necessity and to get one good picture.

Rosie did great. She was a first time mom, and she bonded quickly and equally with all of her babies. I loved watching this and easily related to her as she grunted at them to go back in their shelter at night and as she layed down to feed them whenever they squealed at her feet.

One of the sweetest things to see was when the piglets were done nursing, they would go up to Rosie’s face and rub their noses on hers as if to say “thank you mama”.

Our first farrowing experience was a success. Rosie had nine piglets and still has nine. We got four males and five females and a nice mix of ones that look like Finn and others even redder than Rosie.

We did have one injured piglet, cause unknown. It was one of our largest males who showed back leg weakness that was worse in the evenings. He also demonstrated balance issues. It looked like an incomplete spinal cord injury. He ate and drank well; time was all he needed. After a month, he appeared fully healed.

The next looming “worst job ever” was castration. Should we or shouldn’t we? If we did, should we do it ourselves, include a vet, or recruit someone wiser than us? My mom and aunt were able to recount what Grandpa J and Uncle Ray did. Michael’s dad had another rendition. It seemed that the holding of the pig was the biggest variable with the rest of it being consistently dreadful- cut a hole, grab the testicle, yank, repeat. The holding part varied from draping over a fence, cradling on the farmer’s lap, or positioned in a five gallon pail.

As a nurse who’s grossed out by nothing, I knew I could handle the gory details of the job. But, as a nurse who appreciates evidence-based practice and proper training, I called the veterinarian.

The animal doctors were great. Shout out to Karen and Aliyyah. We were happy to have them here. We were hoping to establish ourselves as patients should we need an emergency visit during off hours or prescribed medications. As of June 11, there was also a change by the FDA that all animal antibiotics will need to be prescribed rather than available over the counter. I’m sure this is controversial in some spheres as it creates another step for farmers who are already doing so much, but it makes sense to me. Overuse and misuse of antibiotics have been prevalent in the human medical field as well and this has led to antibiotic resistance and hard or impossible to treat bacterial illness. I’m sure the same problem is happening in veterinary medicine.

Back to the testicle tugging. It was almost as displeasing as the stories told. Michael and I did the holding while the docs did the cutting. We held them upside down, sanitized their region, and used a razor to cut a slit. The testicle was found and pulled.

If you came to this blog for tips and tricks on castration, look no further (or if you’re wise, you might want to). We learned not castrate on a very hot day. The additional stress could be detrimental.

It is definitely a two or three person job. One person holds the pig upside down by the legs. Another person can hold the head and front legs more comfortably. The lucky third person cuts and pulls. If you have a friend who agrees to help you with this event, keep them forever; that person is a treasure because once again, it is a “worst job ever” kind of thing.

Another tidbit, castrate early. It’s easier, and they heal faster. With hot spells and scheduling conflicts delaying our appointment, we did not castrate until the piglets were 7 weeks old. Within 8 weeks is okay, within two weeks is best.

Lastly, it wasn’t quite as intense as I had expected. The piglets were immediately moving around like normal, and they healed quickly. The long-lasting benefit is that they can now live together in harmony for the remainder of their lives.

I finally understand the cliché of eating like pigs. Pigs really do eat. We feed ours grass clippings, weeds, garden waste, food scraps, and finally- dealer’s choice of a corn, oats, and sunflower seeds. This year, thanks to my dad’s help, we planted a field of oats that we plan to turn to hay for winter feed.

While pigs are generally raised for pork, we have found a few bonus benefits. After throwing them scraps of squash, pumpkins, and gourds last fall, we now have a magnificent surprise garden of the aforementioned produce.

I’m not sure if the seeds made a trip through the pig and out their rear ends or if they settled in directly from the produce, but they have certainly established themselves! I’m sure the soil was very fertile from all the excrement.

I would like to utilize the pigs as tillers this fall by putting them in the space that we use for a garden next spring. Not only would this enrich the soil with some good old manure fertilizer, but pigs are experts at rooting up all the weeds. We have seen how quickly they can create a blank space of rich soil.

Another unexpected benefit of our pigs was predator prevention. Before moving the pigs early this summer, we had them next to the goats and chickens. The chickens free-ranged without consequence; the goats too.

This summer, after moving the pigs to their own area, we went from 15 chickens to just three.

I can’t help but believe our big wooly grunting beasts were a reliable deterrent to the raccoons and minks of our world. In their absence, our live trap has been busy. Deciding what to do with a returning predator… another worst job ever.

I’m being dramatic with the “worst job ever” complaints. The worst jobs ever are always done in balance with all the beautiful/wonderful/pinch me parts. It’s a little like everything else- eating a salad with a brownie for dessert or giving birth to then holding the little person of your dreams.

My job as a nurse knows this well- some days really break your heart and others are all the more life-giving because of those worst days. When it’s all thrown into the big bucket of life, it might be filled with a lot of shit, but it’s going to be growing the best damn surprise squash garden you never expected.

* pictures (in order from top to bottom) 1, 2, 17, 23, 24, 29, 35, 38, and the cover photo were taken by Brooke Rihn Photography, you can find her on IG or Facebook by the same name 🙂

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Itty Bitties

My passion for reading began with my mom reading me nursery rhymes and myself reading me Shel Silverstein books. My first writings were poems written for my family members’ birthdays. My maid of honor speech at my sister’s wedding entirely rhymed. As you can see, I like a good rhyme time, homes for my poems. So, when I titled this “Itty Bitties” for reasons you’ll discover later, I couldn’t stop myself at “Bitty”…

Itty Bitty Witty Titty Shitty Pity City Kitty. I think that covers all the words that rhyme with Bitty. I could’ve included “nitty” but no one wants to hear about that time I had lice or the summer I was a camp nurse and picked nits for two weeks straight.

So, anyway, itty bitty witty titty shitty pity city kitty. This blog post will include details of each of the above. I’ll spare you some and not spare you most. I’ll start from the latter and work my way to the former. Here goes.

Kitty. Should we get one? My childhood at Grandma J’s house (the house we now live in) was synonymous with kitties. We dressed them in doll clothes and made them houses out of sticks. We cuddled them and snuck them treats. I think this kitty love might surprise some of my friends as I have never had interest in having a house pet… except for Turts, the little hard shelled love of my life.

This is the thing- our childhood pets were always outside. I’ve realized that some people believe this to be cruel as the elements in Minnesota can feel borderline unbearable. However, shelter, some hay, and even cozy companions make all the difference. I remember having envy for the cats that got to cuddle in the barn’s haystacks while my caregivers wrangled my cousins and me to come inside for food, sleep and the dreaded shower. Lucky kitties.

Anyway, no one tried to sell us on dogs or cats when we lived on the boathouse. Somehow, having any sort of acreage makes you a prime candidate for pet ownership. After all, our little farm has a lot of bunnies and some mice too. “A cat would help with that,” they say. “The kids would love a cat,” they say.

Unfortunately, we love our wild bunnies. They make us smile as they run around at dusk, and they leave our cabbage alone. What more could we ask for? For now, no farm kitty… maybe next year.

City. Or as we call it, “going to town”. It is an event these days. It’s a mere ten minute drive but we plan for it like we’re going cross country… “Can you change Hutch’s shirt? Did I grab the diapers? Winnie hasn’t pooped today… I’ll pack a spare outfit. Where should we stop first? Will you bring Hutch there while I go here? We should probably be back by nap time. Winnie might sleep in the car. I’ll bring her pacifier. What if the weather changes? Should we stop at the riv? I’ll bring snowsuits and also lifejackets… just in case.” Let me clarify- this is all my dialog. Michael will forget his own shoes. He likes when things are forgotten… makes him adapt, keeps him sharp.

And then I remember the days we traveled out of a backpack. Gosh, being a mom has made me weird.

Pity. Specifically self-pity. Something Michael has never known. This makes him an excellent hobby farm companion. He will wake before the sun with his son, do all the dishes, build a treehouse with his nephews, clear out all our poison ivy plants, shovel a trench for our woodstove water pipes that’s 18 inches deep and 80 feet long, and chase Rosie, our escapee pig, back to her pen. This might all happen in one day, and Michael loves it.

I could move right on to Shitty, but I just cannot let the runaway Rosie story go untold, so here it goes.

We started the summer season with three pigs- Rosie, Finn, and Sawyer, all mangalitsas- a wooly and fairly docile foraging breed. Rosie is our big 250 pound sweetheart and more mild-mannered than the little guys- Finn and Sawyer. However, on this particular summer evening, Rosie was anything but sweet and certainly not mild. 

Finn and Sawyer, the “Itty Bitties” as Hutch immediately named them, are smart little piglets who mastered the art of escape. We had all three pigs contained with three lines of electric fence. The Itty Bitties figured out how to root up the ground near the fence and pile the rooted up soil onto the lowest line. This maneuver pulled the lowest line down enough to ground it out so they could escape between that low line and the middle line… stinkers.

Well, this was perhaps the third time Finn and Sawyer escaped, so when my aunt Arlette came to our door to let us know, we weren’t too alarmed. I stayed back with the kids and worked on dinner and bedtime while Arlette and Michael went to round up the Itty Bitties.

The Itty Bitties are smart, but like me, their love for food outweighs their intelligence, and they were easily coerced back to their pen with strategically placed oats.

This would have been a quick chore except when Michael opened the electric fencing to allow the Itty Bitties back in, Rosie made her unexpected big move- she bolted.

The setting is dusk. Unlike the Itty Bitties, Rosie is a good student of the fence so she’s typically an easy keeper. Also unlike the Itty Bitties, Rosie is not easily manipulated with oats… or any other tactic that Arlette and Michael employed in the two hours to follow.

Like I said, Rosie bolted, and what I would give to observe the following two hours of chaos… Arlette and Michael are like good cop, bad cop when it comes to the animals. Arlette gives them the treats and all the TLC. Michael plays hardball. I’m sure they were both staying true to these roles. In this scenario, Arlette had food and sweet talk. Michael eventually utilized the skid-steer and booty slaps.

I will preface with the fact that the skid-steer and booty slaps were last resort moves. Before these were implemented, Rosie bolted for the cornfield, was steered away from there, tempted with treats to no avail, and then ran toward the creek that separates our land from the state land.

Before reaching the creek, there is a cliff, and yes, Rosie ran straight for it. While Arlette and Michael did their darndest to steer her away, Rosie had no regard for their wishes. It was Rosie’s wild night out and she went full bore in that direction. The next thing Michael heard was a crash, tumble, and silence. Rosie had fallen off the cliff.

As Michael peered over the edge, he saw nothing but brush for a handful of seconds and then observed Rosie clumsily rise to her feet, slightly disheveled but uninjured, just caught in the brush. Whew… kinda. Now she was trapped on three sides by fallen trees and one side by water. This is where the skid-steer comes into play.

To get Rosie out of that space, Michael had to move one of the trees surrounding her. He had fear that Rosie’s next move would be toward the water, and if she got free on the state land… the DNR would eat us for lunch.

Michael got the skid steer down the hill and moved one of the fallen trees. The sun was now set and only a glimmer of daylight remained. Time was ticking. Michael got off the skid steer, positioned himself behind our wild Rosie, and from a place of pure desperation and adrenaline, Michael ran at Rosie full steam ahead slapping her ass over and over as he chased her up the hill. “Git Rosie, git! (slap) Git Rosie, GIT!! (slap) GIT ROSIE!!!”

Once up the hill, Rosie had one of two ways to go- back to her pen or straight for the cornfield. Lord knows she wanted that corn, but Michael was dedicated to the cause and slapped her left cheek to make her go right and her right cheek to make her go left.

I can only imagine that all parties involved were stunned. Arlette watching as they barreled up the hill with all the shouting, spanking, and running. Rosie having never experienced this side of her usually mild mannered caretaker. And Michael himself, wondering how in the world his life had come to this- slapping pig butts in the moonlight. The process was not pretty, but Rosie was home, safe and sound to rest her cheeks.

Shitty. There’s not much to say here except that a big chunk of my days revolve around shit.

The constant diapers of a three month old and the two year old who wants me to hold his knees so he doesn’t fall in the toilet. In return, my two year old insists that he hold my knees as I take my turn on the pot. Michael gets the same undesired assistance from our little helper.

Lucky for me, the poop fun doesn’t stop when I step outside the home. I have the pleasure of addressing many bowel needs in my workplace. My patients either desperately need to poop, desperately need to stop pooping, or need some level of cleanup assist. Basically, there’s a lot of shit happening.

We can’t forget about the farm poo. Hutch’s favorite is the chicken variety. Quite unfortunately, he likes to pick it up. He also simultaneously calls the chicken coop and the chicken poop, “the chicken oop”. So, when Hutch says that he wants to check the chicken oop, it’s up for debate what his actual plan is.

Titty. They have milk in them. It’s a real hit with the three month old.

Witty. My favorite kind of banter. One of my favorite nights this summer was when our little family ventured out to Prairie Island Campground for some live music. The artist was Ben Weaver and his lyrics aligned with our souls.


On top of the lovely musical experience and perfect evening weather, our boathouse neighbor Gerty and friend Paul were there to chat with, which is another soul-fulfilling happenstance.

Anyway, what I meant to get to is a little joke that Paul told us that night as we discussed the bounty of our garden. It went something like, “This is the only time of year I keep my car locked.” In compliance with being a good joke recipient, I ask, “And why is that?” Paul responds, “Because it’s zucchini season!”

I think a person would only understand this joke if they had just pulled out six zucchini that they needed to pawn off on somebody. Lucky for Paul, I had done just that. And two days following this joke, we left our largest zucchini on the hood of Gerty’s locked car.

Gerty and Gina made for beautiful zucchini parents. 

Itty Bitties. I’m not sure why I left the saddest story for last. This feels like poor planning but here we are.

You now know that the Itty Bitties are Finn and Sawyer, the name chosen by Hutch for our two piglets who were indeed itty bitty upon their arrival at 8 weeks old. We planned to raise Finn or Sawyer to breed with Rosie and eventually, at the end of a beautiful free ranging life, we would turn them into pork.

Michael and I both have a deep respect for the lives of animals and for the meat that we consume knowing it comes from a living being. We were able to consume primarily venison this past year from three deer hunted and processed by Michael. We rarely purchased meat from the store; we didn’t need to. It felt fair to know that the animals we consumed had lived a good and healthy life that was local to us. It felt like we lived within the natural food chain, not mindlessly above it.

As described before, the Itty Bitties mastered the art of escaping their pen. After that third time with Runaway Rosie, Michael and I knew we had to make some changes. On a beautiful sunny day during nap time, we deconstructed the pig pen, reconfigured it so that it included fresh forage (maybe this would be incentive for them to stay), moved the lowest electric line higher, and installed a stronger energizer. We were so proud of ourselves for getting this all done within the naptime window allotted us.

While we worked on the fence, we had the Itty Bitties in a smaller pen adjacent to this one. After our task was complete, we were excited to put the piggies in their new pasture.

Now, this is when the story turns sad. Michael picked up Finn around the abdomen just like you would pick up a puppy and lifted him over the fence. From a three foot height, he dropped squirmy Finn into his new pen. Finn quickly scampered away to explore the new digs. Michael then grabbed Sawyer in the same way and dropped him over the other side of the fence. This time, Sawyer did not scamper away. Sawyer had squirmed in such a way that he fell right onto his backside immediately paralyzing his hind legs.

Michael and I watched in horror as Sawyer dragged his legs behind him. “No, no, no,” I remember saying. “Shit, shit, shit!” exclaimed Michael. We were heartbroken. It was evident that Sawyer couldn’t feel his legs, so at least there wasn’t pain. We debated our next move. I argued that we should see if he could recover, and Michael wanted to put him out of his misery immediately. Michael’s plan was probably the kindest, but jeez, it is so hard to know. We ended up keeping him around for one more night in an enclosed pen to protect from predators. The next day came but Sawyer’s impairments remained the same. We decided to put him down.

I knew this day would come. The day when the line between pet and livestock becomes too blurred to distinguish. When it came down to it, we didn’t turn Sawyer into pork. We simply buried him. Sawyer wasn’t the deer we never met. He was an animal that we knew and loved. The part about allowing him a full free ranging life was only half true. He was just a piglet.

If this happened all over again, we would probably use the meat. It didn’t feel right at the time but it also doesn’t feel right not to.
The death of an animal has always gotten to me. It is the reason my seven year old self elected to be a vegetarian for two years. It is the reason I wanted to be a veterinarian and took an animal first aid class at the same young age. It is the reason I have avoided having pets. Now, here we are, trying to be hobby farmers… what in the world.

For the record, when handling a piglet, you should pick them up by a hind leg and then support under the neck as you move them. When you set them down, set them on their front legs first. Arlette shared this tidbit of wisdom after we lost Sawyer. She would know as my grandparents raised pigs on this very farm. She grew up around them. I even remember them in my earliest memories. I remember them as funny and lively animals. They stunk too but that never bothered me. This tolerance of smell has served me well (as evidenced in the “Shitty” section).


Our first summer season come and gone,
Spent too much time mowing lawn.
Live and learn,
Pickles, Lillian, and our Fern.
The three sweet goats,
They sure love oats.
Almost forgot to trim their hooves,
Having a newborn makes you aloof.
Got it done,
Was kinda fun.
Thank you Kristy and Arlette,
My hooved animal mentors who got me prepped.
The goats love walks,
And Hutch loves rocks.
The chickens free range all over the place,
The pigs root up all their space.
The creek keeps flowing,
And we keep mowing.
The kids need naps and so do we,
So much to do and so much to see.
The shed rebuilt,
Plants that wilt.
Oops, gotta water the garden too,
Learning about pasture is something new.
Ryegrass, bluegrass, alfalfa, clover,
Hoping to help the soil start over.
And just like that, fall is here,
Time to plan for the next big year.

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Fridays Suck: Where’s My Margarita

My last blog post was three months ago. I could write a whole book about our life in the three months since. It has been full and meaningful and slightly hard and very beautiful. The book would be a little all over the place which sounds… fun. I’ll give it a go.

Chapter 1: Goats, Pigs, Chickens, Oh My

Michael and I don’t do much planning but when life brings you 20 acres and people with animals for sale, you follow the aligned stars and start a hobby farm.

Of course, the purchase of the farm came first. We bought my grandparents’ farm on March 30th. One month later, we bought three adorable and loving Nigerian Dwarf goats. This purchase stemmed from a work conversation. I said, “We’d like to get some goats.” A wonderful woman named Laurie said, “I got goats.” The rest is history. Lillian, Pickles, and Fern became our first farm animals. Fern joined us by happenstance. We were supposed to get Scout but when the guy who wrangled up the goats for us did his thing, he mistook Fern for Scout. When Laurie saw Fern instead, she and I both decided it was meant to be. Fern was ours. Scout would stay.

The piggies came when I did what most modern human beings waste their lives away doing- scrolling through Instagram. Taira, a former coworker, posted her adorable Mangalitsa piglets for sale. The breed appealed to me instantly- a rare wooly breed that foraged much of its diet and had a docile and friendly demeanor; they also make for fine tasting pork. Interestingly, Mangalitsa pigs were first introduced to the United States in 2007. They are indigenous to Hungary. We purchased two 8 week old male piglets from Taira and named them Finn and Sawyer.

On that same day, we picked up another Mangalitsa pig, this one a female, from another farm found on Craigslist. She was a 10 month old gilt named Rosie. With only eight months of age between Rosie and the male piglets, we planned to eventually breed them to expand our herd. It was comical to see the size difference when we got them all home. Rosie was huge. Any sort of natural mating tactic would be physically impossible for quite some time. Rosie could crush Finn and Sawyer with one hoof.

The chickens arrived to our farm with no help from us. My aunt Arlette raised them from chicks. She purchased a wide variety of “heavy layers” and kept them in her garage under heat lamps until they were ready to join the party. Arlette continues to raise them while Michael and I are their proud aunt and uncle who built them their nesting boxes in anticipation of this heavy laying phase. Hutch is their pesky cousin who is always trying to hold them or throw wood chips at them like its food.

The goats, pigs, and chickens live fairly communally. The chickens wander into the goat pen and sleep under the same roof. The pigs are still separated for fear of Rosie’s hoof finding its way on top of little Sawyer. While separated, Rosie’s fencing is shared with the “itty bitty piggies” as Hutch calls them, and the itty bitties are sandwiched between the goat pen and Rosie’s fence.

We love these animals. It is a welcomed ritual to visit them upon waking and again at bedtime and somewhere in between.

The goats are so friendly and sweet. Rosie is equally so. The itty bitties are a little more rambunctious, and the chickens are always up to something. Hutch might be the wildest animal of them all, but we love him too.

Chapter 2: Grandma Johnson

We lost my Grandma Johnson to the heavens on May 21st. I held her hand as she passed. Seeing her to the other side, along with my mom and my aunt, was one of the most important moments of my life. We all whispered love, thank you, and permission to leave and be with Grandpa. I know she was listening.

It has been a great honor to live in Grandma’s home in the wake of her passing. She is present here in so many of my favorite memories.

Her piano stayed and I smile to think of her fingers moving seamlessly across the keys. I laugh to think of her tolerating the pounding of keys performed by my cousins and me, the same kind of joyful tolerating I do when Hutch helps himself to the trial and error of musical artistry.

I look at my childhood climbing tree and remember Grandma’s gentle reminders to “Be careful sweetie!” Michael already has plans for a treehouse in that very spot.

Sometimes, there are parts of the house that smell like my memories. If I cook something in the kitchen, I might get a whiff of all of the cousins huddled around the table passing corn and mashed potatoes around and around.

The laundry room smells like Grandpa Johnson when he came in from the barn. The basement still has his pool table- the one that my mom grew up to be a pool shark on. (She’ll appreciate that acknowledgement.) Hutch loves to “go play pool balls” now, so watch out Mom, there’s a new shark in town.

I could go on and on about my memories with Grandma and Grandpa Johnson in the place we now call home. Memories of them are embedded into our daily lives. I get to pass those on to Hutch and Winnie by explaining Grandma’s garden or where the Brown Swiss cows roamed. I can talk about Grandma’s elaborate cake making and where Grandpa stored his encyclopedias that he read front to back and then over again.

Losing our earthly version of Grandma was hard but so full of love, just like every day with her gentle soul and beautiful smile. I see her still- in the garden, in the red pines she planted on the hill, and in the nooks and crannies of our home. She is with us- felt, honored, and loved.

Chapter 3: The Garden We Almost Never Had

Being 38 weeks pregnant does not lend itself to skillful gardening. The bending feature on my body was temporarily out of service. I could maybe lay down as I plant the seedlings, but passerbys might be compelled to issue a well check or the hawks might think I’m rotund looking roadkill. So, I avoided planting a garden. We actually tried once in May but broke the tiller immediately which led to a three week wait time until a new drive belt could be delivered. Meanwhile, we were out of our house for 10 days while our wood floors got refinished and also fell ill with something fierce. There were many excuses to put off the garden.

Then, on June 4th, a beautiful sunny day, we came home to two of the youngest old folks I know digging their hands in our garden with plants they purchased for us. My seedlings were past their prime now so these small plants and some seeds were exactly what we needed, along with ambition and gardening expertise.

It was Grandma Larson and Papa, my other grandparents that live on a farm a few miles away. They always have a knack for knowing what is needed and when, and they go above and beyond for everyone they love.

Michael and I joined Grandma and Papa in the dirt and asked all the questions that garden novices should ask- questions about spacing, thinning, watering, etc. Grandma passed me the knowledge from her own mom, the woman I remembered to love gardening, the Minnesota Twins, and an occasional cigarette. Grandma Millie was diligent about straight rows in her garden marked by strings that spanned from one end to the other. We followed suit.

I will always remember this summer day that concluded with planting our first garden here. It was special in many ways. First, Michael’s mom was visiting us at the time. We had such a good day of going to the park, making rhubarb dessert, and going for a long walk up the hill behind our house.  Rennae, or as Hutch calls her “Gigi”, was now getting Hutch ready for bed, bath time and all. Hutch adores his Gigi.

Now, our garden would exist in the same place my late Grandma Johnson gardened for the span of my lifetime and even decades before- where I ran by and picked beans to eat as I climbed the trees, ran in the corn fields, and splashed in the creek.

It was special for the kindness of Grandma Larson and Papa to instigate a garden that almost never happened, absorbing their lifetime of gardening wisdom, and getting our hands dirty together on a perfect summer night. Thank you Grandma and Papa for this and the million other ways you love.

To continue the theme of wonderful grandparents who whip up a mean garden, I want to give a shout out to Grandma Ellen who turned 90 years old this year on July 8th.

Grandma Ellen is the sweetest soul you would ever meet. That sweetness got passed down to Michael’s mom and then to… Michael’s sister and brothers. The other trait that Michael did not inherit from Grandma Ellen is her pellet gun skills. We once found a pellet gun sitting on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. Turns out, Grandma Ellen wasn’t a stranger to taking out the bully birds by her feeders, even if it happens to occur in the middle of washing dishes.

Michael took a turn at the pellet gun that day. He missed his target, and when he turned to me, he had blood dripping from his eyebrow. I guess he didn’t expect such a kickback. Perhaps, he should stick to bow and arrow… or get some lessons from Grandma Ellen.

Chapter 4: Welcoming Winnie & Riley Too

I have a knack for moving residence at the most inconvenient of times, mainly when super pregnant. This happened with Hutch at the boathouse and again now. The inconvenient part is being unable to participate in construction and renovating activities that come with a new home- staining, lifting heavy objects, climbing into precarious places. Some may say this is well planned as Michael shoulders the bulk of the work, but that’s only cool for a day or two.

Waiting for Winnie was tough. Again, I was very round in the midsection which made for an interesting time at work where bending and lifting full grown humans was part of the hourly routine.

I always got a kick out of the things my patients would say. They included, “You look like a house on wheels.” One woman just said, “holy shit!” when I walked in the room. Another sweet and slightly confused man who I took care of for five days straight would rub my belly and say “six days left” then “five days left” as each day was a countdown to my due date. From some, the rubbing of my belly would be quite weird or intrusive but this man was so sweet down to his soul that it was nothing but precious. Plus, it was better than “holy shit” or “you look like a house on wheels.” I’ll take my wins where I can get them.

I expected Winona (the name we had already chosen for our baby girl) to be late. Hutch was two weeks late even with an induction. I wanted so badly to have Winnie arrive on her own time. We set an induction date for June 20th. I was bound and determined for her to arrive before this.

My attempts at initiating labor naturally were borderline comical. Starting at 38 weeks pregnant, I did it all- lunges, curb walking, eating pineapple, using my breast pump, raspberry leaf tea, swaying around on an exercise ball, walking up hills, and sex. Sex is probably the number one way to get labor going or so said my midwife when I asked her what to do at my 39 week appointment. She said, “sex, walking, then more sex and more walking.”

On June 18th, I performed all of the above, some of them twice. Yes, two pineapples. Yes, two sexes.

It worked! On 5am on Juneteenth and Father’s Day, I started to feel true labor pains. Hallelujah!

Winona would be born 13 hours later at 5:59 pm. It was a perfect birth experience with Michael and my sister Jessi at my side. The birth team I had at Gundersen Hospital was exceptional and helped make the whole experience incredibly fun.

Winnie came out crying at full volume for 10 minutes or more. Michael and I looked at each other like, “Eeks, we forgot about this part.”

I loved her immediately. I had already loved her but something about her coming into this world loud and proud as a robust 8lb 6oz female with a full head of hair and lots of strength made me so excited to be her mom and watch her take on life full steam ahead. Watch out world, Winnie is here.

Exactly two months before Winnie was born, we welcomed our niece Riley into the world. Just as I was with her two sons, I got to be with my sister during the birth of their beautiful daughter.

My sister is my best friend; she always has been. We are only a year apart in age. Jess and I are so excited to raise daughters together and have them be close in a similar way that we were… or maybe they’ll fight and hate each other. I guess one never knows!

Chapter 5: Neighbor John

For the last three years, Neighbor John has been a prominent person in our daily life. He is our downstream neighbor at the boathouse. John died on July 6th. After he died, I spent some time writing about his dynamic life. I will share some disjointed tidbits from those writings here.

John was 87 years young at the time of his death on July 6, 2022, or as John said at his recent birthday party-  “29 for the third time” as he wore one dangly earring because “that’s something a 29 year old would do”.

The boathouse community at Latsch has a vibrant and tenacious history. It is a place where outliers, independents, creatives, rebels, heartbroken and soulful individuals have landed and often stayed. John was one of those. His controversial life led him away from mainstream society and straight to the river. John was gay and lived in a community of Christian Brothers until his early forties. In 1978, John left the Christian Brothers community, came out of the closet, and found the river. John later writes this as the last line in his own obituary, “The love experienced by the gay people God creates is God’s loving gift to them, a gift to be appreciated, enjoyed, and celebrated.”

John would stay as a resident on Latsch Island and more specifically Wolf Spider Island (the lower portion of Latsch and the part of the island that remains off the grid) until his death. John documented life on the river thoroughly. He was observant and thoughtful. He marked down water levels and knew what ducks were mates. He loved the birds. He protected swallow nests at all costs and fed the ducks while providing them areas to reside by tying floating logs off his boathouse.

He was a man of independence and routine. John was an advocate and a thinker. He often wrote controversial but important letters in the Winona Post about how harmful religious hypocrisy can be and how the current teachings of Catholicism are dangerous to the development of gay kids. John attended protests to stand up for his strong beliefs. At the age of 86, John counter-protested at an anti-abortion protest. At the end of the day, he was the only counter-protester remaining.

John always made Christmas cards that had a picture of the river or an eagle or ducks or some other form of river wildlife on them. He would go to the library to print these off and then would fold them into a card and write on them. He also gave Hutch a homemade birthday card made in the same way for his first and second birthdays. He had a special place in his heart for Hutch, and Hutch loved to wave out the window to John or yell to him from our dock.

John was dynamic and true to himself. He was a simple living man with complex thoughts. He loved the river, the wildlife, and the small circle of people he lent his time and wisdom to. I am so honored we were a part of knowing and loving him. Our family of four went to visit him the day before his death on July 6th. The last words I said to him were, “I love you John.” His to me, “I love you too.”

Also, and this is something I am so thankful for, my upstream neighbor Gina has spent the previous couple of years talking with John to document his life and the history he carries within the boathouse community. She will have a podcast coming out this fall to share this meaningful work. You can follow along with this in the following spaces: www.patreon.com/ginafavano or on Instagram @backchannelradio

Chapter 6: Fridays, Buzz Off

Everyone is out there yelling “TGIF” and glorifying Fridays like it brings nothing but sunshine and rainbows and delicious margaritas with salted rims. Fridays got a little weird for us though. If you work in healthcare or have any superstitious bones in your body, you know that unfortunate things happen in threes. I work in healthcare and have a tiny pinky toe bone that harbors superstition, so of course, the power of threes reared its mighty head for us.

On Friday, June 17, Hutch awoke from a nap and was unable to walk. He tried and limped with both legs and cried and stopped… for multiple hours. This is very outside of his personality. When I prodded around to feel for pain in his legs, he withdrew them both as if they were sore. As you may remember, he recently broke his right leg. This pain was different- generalized and in both legs. My nurse experiences led me to think of all the bad things- Guillian Barre Syndrome and Lymes Disease being at the top of the list. We took him to Urgent Care. They did all the necessary tests- all negative. Whew! He was walking normally by the next day. Perhaps a case of growing pains? Apparently, this is a real diagnosis. I found it on Mother Mayo’s website, so it must be true.

By the next Friday, Winnie was five days old. I was living in a headspace short on sleep and in the land of the baby blues. That night, Winnie began to grunt with her breathing- each exhale a grunt. I counted her respirations- over 70 breathes a minute. My intuition told me something was up, but my sleep deprived noggin made me question myself. At 2:30am, we decided to take her to the ER. She spiked a fever there of 102. At only five days old, a fever that high means they have to run every test in the book. They did just that.

She eventually needed some oxygen, antibiotics, and fluids. Her diagnosis was never definitive as all the tests came back negative. The important thing was that she improved. By Monday, we were back home with our baby girl.

Are you ready for Friday #3? I’m not. Friday #3 involves another Urgent Care visit for a baseball sized blood clot emerging from the lady parts of yours truly. Yes, baseball sized. Being a woman sucks sometimes. The Supreme Court has exacerbated that sentiment exponentially.

And on Friday #4, we decided Michael should stay in bed. The End.

Chapter 7: Grateful

Thanks for hanging in there. I hope I didn’t lose too many people at Supreme Court or baseball sized blood clot because this is the part where I acknowledge all the good stuff.

The last three months have involved life and death and illness and baby blues and lots of change and new responsibilities. It has also included laughter, fulfillment, milestones, and inescapable joy. The people in our lives have a lot to do with the latter.

When Winnie was in the hospital, I went two floors down to see my coworkers. I didn’t expect this but seeing them made me cry instantly. All of the tears I carried from that day of constant tests, pokes, and interventions fell on the shoulder of my coworker Elizabeth as she held me in a hug.

I felt so safe with these people, like I knew they could carry my stress and sadness. We do it every day at work, and these coworkers and dear friends of mine do it with such honesty and love. They were my safe place.

Later that night, my coworker Karly brought me all the snacks, Tylenol, and Ibuprofen a mama could need. My other coworker Elizabeth and her husband Andy brought us their own clothes so we didn’t have to be dirtballs for three days. Their delivery also included snacks. Our needs and wants were more than met.

When we got home from the hospital, we were greeted with a fridge, freezer, and cupboard full of food. My friend Katy did this and she did it big- ice cream, chips, guacamole, fruit, all the fixings for s’mores, and the list goes on. This friend of mine since high school knows me deeply… as evidenced by the cotton candy ice cream.

The gratitude list goes on. Grandma and Papa brought us dinner on our first night home from Winnie’s birth. Our upstream neighbor Marla made me an herbal bath mix to use postpartum. My aunt Arlette tended to the animals while we were gone. My parents checked on the animals too and took Hutch for multiple days at a time… twice. My parents have also helped with nearly every project going on at our new place- roofing the shed, cleaning up scrap metal, cleaning up brush, etc. I often think we’d be lost without them.

My friend Kelly checked in frequently just to remind me she was there to talk when I needed it most. 

Good people have been our greatest blessing. To all of you, thank you.

Epilogue

So, that’s my book! The titles I am playing with include Fridays Suck: Where’s My Margarita, Life as a House on Wheels, Sex Works & Other Induction Wisdom, When John and Arlas Meet in Heaven, and Having the Best Grandparents and Other Gardening Hacks. I guess it depends on what section of the library I’m going for… TBD.

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Board But Not Bored

In times like these, a person does one of two things to stay sane. You keep your mind busy or you keep your hands busy, and often, these coincide. My husband has the busy hands. I have the busy mind. Mine feels a lot less productive. Since the busy mind is a bit of a weird place, we’ll stick to the topic of Michael’s busy hands.

The first thing I have to say about Michael’s hands is that, thanks to my relentless but warranted nagging backed by CDC guidelines, they are usually well washed. He tends to leave the sink prior to the 20 second mark, but I’m sure to remind him.

In the last four months, a lot has happened. We finished out our boathouse. We had winter. We birthed a baby. We had a flood in the winter (strange). We finished our bathroom and finally have a working shower. The snow melted, and spring came (kinda). We fell in love with being parents. We finished out our kitchen. The pandemic came. I started work again. We had the spring floods and have to boat everywhere, a lovely or treacherous portion of my commute depending on the day. The snow came again (classic Minnesota). And most recently, we (Michael) built our deck and established entry by means of a spiral staircase. Michael’s hands have been busy. Mine help intermittently when my boobs aren’t busy but breastfeeding is truly a full time job.

I bet you wonder why I talk about floods so often. Well, we base our activity around the rise and fall of these waters. We adjust the ropes that hold our home to shore accordingly. We plan if we can walk our asses to the parking lot. If we can walk there, we debate wearing knee high boots or waders. If it’s a job for waders, perhaps we just go by boat. We park the boat in different spaces according to the river level.

We like to park at “LIPS”- Latsch Island Phone Service, where the one phone for the whole island once existed. It was the island’s central station for socializing. It still is as Neighbor Ernie greets us with a smile and stories whenever we dock, and on sunny days, multiple boathouse dwellers cross paths as we navigate our boats around each other (six feet apart of course).

The water is high enough now that we boat through “Bathtub Slough”, a cut through a cluster of boathouses tucked behind the ones that line the channel. We duck under a communication line at the entrance and greet Pirate Pat on the way. We have to raise the motor in the shallows and navigate around the cement bases that used to hold up the railroad bridge. As Neighbor Polly explained this route to us, she said, “It’s actually pretty fun.” It really is… except in the sleeting rain at midnight.

Back to the busy hands that built our deck. Knowing the flood was coming, a few days were spent schlepping boards for our top deck: 146 to be exact, some as long as 26 feet.

The twelve posts sticking out of our roof were scaled, cut level, and long boards spanned the whole way to connect them. More boards were attached to connect those boards. Finally, the top deck boards were applied. (Insert “bored” during quarantine joke here.)

As we wondered how to best access the deck, Michael consulted his trusted friend Craig. Craig has this list that Michael is very fond of. On Craig’s list is where we bought a boat, perused for fire towers, found this very boathouse (well, the former one that lived here), purchased our land up north, found the van that we outfitted into a moving apartment, and now, we found the answer to our deck access dilemma- a steel spiral staircase. Craig, you slick son of a gun, you’ve done it again.

As does everything in this lovely flood season, the staircase needed to travel by water. To make this happen, we would use our boat as a pusher and our neighbor Polly’s dock as a platform to carry the stairs. Michael strategically attached a few boards to the front of our boat to protect it and keep everything straight when pushing the 8ft x 20ft platform. Michael connected the platform with rachet straps that spanned from the boat’s two front cleats to the platform’s back two cleats.


Michael navigated this 40ft caravan through Bathtub Slough and up to shore where the spiral staircase was waiting on a flatbed trailer.

Before the 1000lb staircase was tied down to the trailer, Michael laid sheets of plywood underneath so when the dock met the trailer, he could use more rachet straps as winches to more easily slide the staircase onto the platform.

As he pushed the platform downstream toward our end of the island, Michael’s floating spiral staircase was a site to behold.

Erecting the staircase was the sketchiest part, and like many sketchy endeavors, the most fun.

 On the deck, we (Michael) used a 15 to 1 pulley system with a rock climbing belay device as brake. With the dock butted up to the downstream corner of the boathouse, we (Michael) tied the pulley system to the far end of the staircase and started pulling.

When the staircase was at 45 degrees, we were able to funnel the base in place with some strategically affixed scrap boards. After plenty of pulling and lots of lines tied off in every direction to keep the 1000lb mass from swinging side to side, the staircase was finally home.

Boathouse living is certainly made for busy hands and for busy minds too. There are always ropes to retie, barrels to replace, unexpected weather conditions to navigate, floating trees or other surprises to dislodge, off grid ideas to bring to life, or creative solutions to maximize small spaces. This 24ft x 24ft space is no barrier to busyness or joy or fulfillment or intrigue; it provokes and nurtures all of these.

At the end of the day, it is time to put busy hands and busy minds to rest. This little floating home is especially good for this. It’s 7pm as I write this. Michael is making a ruckus on the deck as he works on the railings. He’s been at it all day. A boat zoomed by and left a wake that makes me feel slightly tipsy. I admire the bold and distinguished colors that fill the feathers of the neighborhood mallards. The ducks fly west from John’s house; they make a splash as they settle on the water in front of me. The water rhythmically flows in the other direction as if to bleed off the colors of the setting sun. I let my busy mind settle down on these simple things.

Alright, it’s time to get Michael off the damn roof. Stay busy if you must but stay rested too. This is a weird time. At the end of the day, settle down on the simple things. (If you say this final paragraph twice, you’ve washed your hands for 20 seconds.)

 

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The Warm Glow

We build a fire from the scraps that built our home. We smile in it’s warm glow… If that’s not the metaphor I need right now, I don’t know what is.

We are in the midst of wild times. Trust me, my maternity leave ended in the thick of a global pandemic. I had to trade in the comforts of my mom robe and slippers for evening shifts donned in scrubs and uncertainty. But tonight, I don’t work, and tonight, my husband built a fire for our little family of three: a fire fueled by the unusable scraps, the broken pieces, and the unnecessary slices of a former whole. In less metaphorical language- he was burning up the leftover trim.

I do this thing sometimes where I try to capture moments with mental snapshots. I focus on the present and all the tangible pieces it provides- the warm glow on Michael’s face, the still but crisp air when I step away from the fire, the variety of colors that the flames provide- darker at the base and lighter as it rises, how Michael set up the chairs on pieces of wood so they won’t sink into the mud, our boot imprints in that mud, the outline of our boathouse over the still water, the way the lights of Winona glare through the cottonwood trees, the secure feeling of holding Hutch close to me as he sleeps so peacefully in my arms.

I started this practice of capturing mental snapshots years ago when Michael and I were traveling around the world. We didn’t have cellphones to capture every second, and I didn’t want to forget how good some of those moments felt or smelled or looked or sounded. It’s now become a form of meditation, a source of calm in wild times.

I am a nurse. I talk to a patient about his upcoming surgery as he coughs on my face. He later has a fever. After this shift, I go home to sleep next to my husband and baby. A nearly debilitating amount of fear accompanies that experience.

Did I mention that this is a crazy time? I’m sure you’ve noticed. It’s uncertain and scary. It’s also many other things. Let us not forget that we are still very much alive. I still sit in front of a warm fire. I cuddle my smiling baby. I watch the birds migrate right outside my front windows. I read books unrelated to the chaos. I drive my boat under the moonlight on my way home from work. Sometimes, less preferably, I drive my boat in the freezing rain on my way home from work. This is a crazy time but there’s beauty too. Believe it or not, sorrow and joy are not mutually exclusive.

We build a fire of the scraps that built our home. We smile in it’s warm glow. The pandemic will pass. It will not pass without some loss. We have been forced to strip down- to only buy the basics, to eliminate our social calendar, to limit our interactions to only our household (and if you’re not doing this one yet, you must; it’s critical), to go nowhere or do nothing with our extra time, to just sit by the fire or watch the birds migrate.

We will be changed. Things that seemed to matter before may not so much matter again; they may become mere scraps of our newly built selves. This pandemic will pass. We will sit by a fire again with all the ones that we love. We will burn the parts of a former self  that no longer serve the foundation of a good and meaningful life. We will smile in it’s glow.

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It Takes A Village

Belonging. Love. Acceptance. No matter what human you come across, that human desires each of these things. We all do. The crabby coworker, the drunk uncle, the friend who never returns your calls, the introvert, the extrovert, that guy in The White House who tweets nonsensical criticisms, and everyone you love or despise, they all want these: belonging, love, and acceptance. I will refer to these three desires as “a village”.

In 2018 until the spring of 2019, over 300 tents accumulated in a small area alongside Highway 55 in Minneapolis. These tents became a village of homeless people who now made a place they could call home. I drove past this community on my way to work and often pondered the good and the bad of a place like this. Of course, living in a tent in winter was unsafe, drug use was prevalent, and sanitation was challenging. However, people who once felt alone and vulnerable to dangers on the street now had a village- people nearby that would support them, check in on them, or simply accept them. I get it.

After passing the hundreds of tents and pondering a life experience outside of my own, I get to work. I’ve been a nurse for eight years now and four of them have been in the area of rehabilitation- rehab of trauma, stroke, burns, amputations, spinal cord injury, etc. I have found that the two factors that most contribute to quick progress and good outcomes are these: the patient’s health prior to injury (the healthier then, the better they heal now) and their village or the amount of support and involvement that surrounds them now. Do they have a horde of family or friends or at least one or two tried and trues that check in daily, bring food, decorate their room in photos and cards, make them laugh or let them cry in company? Without doubt, that patient will heal better and faster.


Belonging. Love. Acceptance. Having a village and contributing to one too. These are human necessities. Forget our modern society’s idea of necessities- a big house, new car, or big paycheck. I’ll take my little floating home, rusty old truck, and part time schedule any day. It’s the village I can’t live without. I need my family, my friends, and my neighbors to stay sane, healthy, and quite literally afloat. My baby boy needs them too.

I gave birth to Hutch on January 9. On the evening of January 11, it was time to go home. I fed him at the hospital as Michael packed up our stuff and brought in the carseat. After Hutch was fed and bundled up, I put him in the carseat. Eager to get on the road, Michael quickly fastened the carseat latch at Hutch’s chest, and the plastic latch broke. Michael tried to repair it to no avail. He showed the nurses. After they asked why the latch looked melted (part of Michael’s repair attempt), they told us we would need to get a new one. Michael drove to WalMart (a store we recently vowed to boycott which is a whole other story) to get a new carseat. An hour later, Michael was back. We opened the “new” carseat and put Hutch in it. It wreaked of cigarette smoke… WTF. We ruefully continued with our departure, hurrying home to get Hutch out of this cigarette basin as soon as possible.


What Michael and I did not know is that the river level had risen two feet in that single day. Our life on the water revolves around the attitude of the river and for the last five days, our focus was diverted to meeting and loving our little boy. We forgot to check in with Ol’ Man River. The river height was 10.8 feet this day when it usually sits around 7 feet.

Ice dams had caused the rise. As we carried Hutch across the island in the dark in 12 degree weather, we came upon the flooded center portion of the island. One of our neighbors had left a canoe for himself and the other islanders to traverse this section. Hutch very quickly had his first canoe ride. We came upon another flooded portion. We didn’t have our headlamps but the moon was full. We thought we could walk this part. I had my knee high boots on; Michael did not but felt fine getting his shoes and pants wet. We went separate ways, each believing one way would be better than the other. We both got soaked. The water went past our knees, into my boots, and after this, we could not wait to get into our warm little home.

Another unexpected circumstance greeted us as we opened the door to our boathouse. The batteries had drained down to nothing, and the usually cozy boathouse was sitting at 32 degrees Fahrenheit. I wanted to cry. I was exhausted and holding my bundled and hungry baby while feeling like the worst mom to ever walk the planet. First, he had to ride in that disgusting carseat. Now, we didn’t even have a warm home for him.


It was 7pm when we got to our cold boathouse. It would take the rest of the night to charge the batteries and reheat our home. In that moment, we were wet and without warm shelter, but we were not without our village. We could have traversed the island again to stay with our land-dwelling relatives or we could walk the 30 feet to our neighbor John’s house.

We called John. As always, he was there for us. He happily put us up for the night- a night that involved many instances of baby cries, lots of breastfeeding- something I was still getting used to and was quite the process, and a full takeover of his main room with a bassinet set up, diaper supplies, etc. We were welcomed and warmed.

I recently read a book by Sebastian Junger titled “Tribe”. It discussed the value of a village and the detrimental effects of not having one. As always with books read, I wrote down some of my favorite quotes.

The following two quotes ring true to me as I recall comfortably sitting on Neighbor John’s couch feeding Hutch as he watches the Tennessee Titans upset the Ravens in the divisional playoff game:

“Some people are generous. What made him different was he had taken responsibility for me.”

“Robert Frost famously wrote that home is the place where when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”


In an increasingly individualistic society, I choose to rebel in small ways. I choose to be vulnerable and allow others to do the same, to keep my door open and lack hesitation in entering the open door of another, to live minimally and buck the culture of consumption, and to share experiences, stories, and life with a village of people both similar to and different than myself.

I choose to raise a son in this ever-growing village of love, belonging, and acceptance. I hope to allow him the priviledge of knowing a plethora of human experiences outside of his own. It takes a village. It always has.

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Instrumental Jazz Construction Zone

As I write this, I am newly 31 years old… on December 31st, 2019- the last day of a decade and my golden birthday. As I write this, I sit at the butcher block counter top of our new boathouse, the one that we have spent the last 1.5 years demolishing, designing anew, and building from the riverbed up. I sit at the butcher block counter that we lathered last night with lubricant laxative “for occasional constipation”… mineral oil from the pharmacy section that is. Apparently, this is the equivalent to the mineral oil used for “butcher block treatment” only incredibly cheaper. At 31, I’m still learning these very important things.

I think back to a decade ago. It was my 21st birthday. A wonderful group of friends and family gathered together for dinner and music. We then went to all the bars in Winona.. yeah I said it: all of them. I rang in the 2010 year by puking into a toilet for multiple hours while my sister’s dog licked my leg. It was lovely… It actually was quite lovely until the puking part, but again, we’re always learning. The birthdays ahead in the 2010 decade included nights spent at work, out and about in Minneapolis, in Hudson, WI, in New Zealand watching fireworks over the Pacific Ocean, in our small northwoods cabin with a dozen best friends, and at the marina last year when we had a bonfire and mule rides in -5 degree weather.

So, as I was saying, I started this decade by hanging my head in a toilet and getting slobbered on by a bulldog. I end it now drinking raspberry leaf tea listening to “Relaxing Instrumental Jazz Cafe” on Spotify while my child, who is still in utero despite his due date three days ago, kicks me in the guts. My husband is using a drill in the other room doing god knows what. I guess you could say that my vibe right now is “Instrumental Jazz Construction Zone”. It’s perfect.

To go back in time one decade is quite daunting. I’m happy to report I’ve maintained a village of family and friends that could never be replaced. I found a husband who is equal parts mischief and equal parts love and entirely my perfect match. I have fallen in love with humanity in multiple ways: in my work as a nurse, in taking time to travel slowly and purposefully inside and outside of the country that raised me, in living with with friends in college and in the middle of uptown Minneapolis where I met “Neighbor Boy”- that equal parts mischief/equal parts love I didn’t know I needed, with my cousin in a cabin on a lake in WI, with my sister and brother-in-law and husband before any of us were married or sure about much, and in a boat in a marina with other liveaboards who demonstrated inexhaustible interest in the world around them.

Michael and I built a cabin in the northwoods of MN, traveled the world for six months of time, took many road trips in the van that Michael converted into a camper van, lived in a houseboat for four years in the middle of the Twin Cities, got married on my grandparents’ farm where my parents and sister had also done so, and bought a boathouse to renovate into our current floating home on a river that we love in a place that feels so peacefully a part of my soul; and now, I sit here cramping across my pelvis because this is the time of the night when Baby Hutch likes to kick like a madman against all of my insides. I am making a human- one that doesn’t want to arrive on time apparently… like mother, like son. To think about all that a decade has done for me is beautifully, overwhelmingly, and magically daunting.

I acknowledged “all that a decade has done for me”. After I wrote that part, I leaned back in my chair– both to alleviate that pain of a presumably oversized watermelon baby moving in a small space but also to reflect on the rebound thought, “Have I done enough for the world?” I sure have received more than my fair share. I try to remember that we give back in small ways. We can’t all be Greta Thunberg, although my ideal self will try. We pick out small moments that arise and capitalize on them; we create greater moments where we can. We might give some change to that homeless guy, or better yet, we stop to talk to him on our way home from work. We learn his name, hear about the life he had in Alaska, bond about our love of nature and sleeping outside, share a common interest in libraries and journal writing, give him some health care advice, and yes, eventually ask about his teardrop tattoo. This man was a face that made me smile often in this decade as I passed him on the same corner for three years of my commute. He told funny stories, reflected on the simple joys of his day, shared his art work, asked about my family and how work was going, and once, when I told him “sorry, I don’t have any money today” after feeling bad about not giving him anything for the last handful of visits, he started pulling out some cash and said, “how much do you need?” I suddenly realized that I’m not this kind man’s benefactor. I’m his friend. So, again, “have I done enough for the world?” because it sure feels like I gained here too.

I started a new birthday tradition a couple years ago. I spend some hours of the day at a bookstore and inevitably walk out with 1-6 books. I walked out with three today. One of these is “Upstream” by Mary Oliver. I’ll leave you with a few wise words from this great poet to start off your new year, your new decade, and your same wonderful you.

“In the beginning I was so young and such a stranger to myself I hardly existed. I had to go out into the world and see it and hear it and react to it, before I knew at all who I was, what I was, what I wanted to be.” -Mary Oliver

“Teach the children. We don’t matter so much, but the children do… Give them the fields and the woods and the possibility of the world salvaged from the lords of profit. Stand them in the stream, head them upstream, rejoice as they learn to love this green space they live in, its sticks and leaves and then the silent, beautiful blossoms. Attention is the beginning of devotion.” -Mary Oliver

“You must never stop being whimsical. And you must not, ever, give anyone else the responsibility for your life. I don’t mean it’s easy or assured; there are the stubborn stumps of shame, grief that remains unsolvable after all the years, a bag of stones, that goes with one wherever one goes and however the hour may call for dancing and for light feet. But there is, also, the summoning world, the admirable energies of the world, better than anger, better than bitterness and, because more interesting, more alleviating. And there is the thing that one does, the needle one plies, the work, and within that work a chance to take thoughts that are hot and formless and to place them slowly and with meticulous effort into some shapely heat-retaining form, even as the gods, or nature, or the soundless wheels of time have made forms all across the soft, curved universe- that is to say, having chosen to claim my life, I have made for myself, out of work and love, a handsome life.” -Mary Oliver

Now, no matter how you started this new decade, whether you spent it with your head hung in a toilet or while drinking tea in a more upright position, whether you were surrounded by friends or all alone, there is no telling what ten years of time has in store for you. You cannot plan a life or a decade but you can create small moments of a day. You can choose how many smiles you give in that day or don’t. You can read for an hour of that day or scroll on your phone for that same time. You can stop to visit with your neighbor. You can meditate, pray, go to church or walk outside; you can do none of those things and still know yourself and the power that moves you. You can stretch your mind with whatever book, media, or conversation you put yourself in. You can love the ones around you no matter what they do with their moments. These moments make days. These days become a decade. The decades create your life.

“Have I done enough for the world?” is an incredibly broad inquiry. I’ll just start with finishing this tea, thanking my husband for hooking up the sink in the bathroom as I write this, walk around for ten minutes to give my son and my guts some extra space and exercise, write down my intentions for tomorrow, and text a friend back. After that, I’ll grab those ginger beers and meet Michael on the couch for our 10pm movie date. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll give him a foot massage instead of asking him to fork one over to his super pregnant birthday wife… Nah, that’s overkill.

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When You Have To Boat To Your Boat

“Whatchya writing about?”, says my husband as he shaves his face over the sink while sitting next to me on our bed. There are no distinguished spaces here. It is one room containing all the aspects of a home… except for no laundry machine or any sort of closet. I tell him, “the flooding”. He says, “whoa, that’s a biggins.” “I know; where do I start?”, I say, “at ten feet, twelve feet, eighteen feet?” Michael says, “Start at the bottom of the river.”

I still didn’t know where to start so here we are. I began by giving you the visual of Michael inches away from me at 1:12 am while I sit cozy in bed tip-tapping away on the keyboard. We have three candles lit because our power is out. It’s been out for 22 days now. We’re borrowing Neighbor Mike’s generator because ours fell in the river last night at 4am. I know it was 4am because I wake every time the generator turns off. I’ve turned in to one of those people that has to sleep to the sound of a fan, except in my case: a generator. The whole dock hums of them at night. I met a neighbor for dinner on the dock yesterday and we yelled across the table to hear each other over the loud drone- it was lovely. Anyway, here we are. We’re off grid. Our generator is in pieces to “dry out” on our boat’s floor. There is six inches of snow on our dock. We have to kayak to and from our boat to traverse the flood waters. And Michael shaves his face at 1am while I try to process these last few weeks of Minnesota madness.

Spring isn’t always like this. We usually don’t get flooded out of our parking lot. Our power has never been turned off. We’ve never received an email from the city to evacuate our floating homes due to major flood levels… how strange that none of us checked our email that month.

One month ago, the marina started buzzing with the information that this would be a year of historic flood levels. Would it be something like 2014- a river crest of 20.13 feet? Many neighbors were familiar with this year and smiled as they shared stories from it. It was one year before Michael and I made the marina our home. Could it be something akin to 1965, the highest waters here in recorded history? The river crested at 26.01 feet then.

I’ll quickly brief you on the river levels. The river depth here in Saint Paul, MN is about 9 feet deep. There’s a ton of history on how the 9 foot navigable channel was established. The Upper Mississippi River was not always navigable, not even close, but humans have knack for manipulating nature to suit our wants. I read a book recently that brilliantly goes through the history of our local river: the good, the bad, and the ugly. I highly recommend it: “The River We Have Wrought” by John O. Anfinson. Anyway, back to river levels. The action stage is 10 feet, the flood stage is 14 feet, the moderate flood stage is 15 feet, and the major flood stage is 17 feet.

In the week leading up to the river’s rise, the harbor’s waters remained frozen, and the summer’s boats lined the parking lot just waiting for the spring thaw and eventual release to their dock slips. This year, this transition from dry dock to water would not happen naturally or smoothly. It would require a 65 foot barge pushed by a tug to break up the frozen ice. It would require volunteers to chip away at snow and ice surrounding the stands that held the seasonal boats on land. It would require hundreds of different maneuvers to get the seaworthy boats (boats that can float) in water and the not so seaworthy ones on high ground. The parking lot was going to flood, maybe six feet high. This meant that all the boats safely stored on the lot for winter would not be so safe anymore; they would be floating away… and fast.

This year’s flooding was already different from that of 2014. In 2014, the flooding happened in June- a rather pleasant time of the year to hassle with extra water. Now, it’s March; it’s cold and everything’s frozen. We are understanding these things: we’ll soon be off grid as the power will be turned off before the water reaches the breaker box, we’ll be kayaking to and from our boat as the parking lot is sure to flood significantly, and if all the boats on shore can’t get in the now frozen harbor, they will float away, sink, or surely be damaged. I’m not sure we’ll be telling stories of this flood with a smile on our faces.

Letters were written to the city officials, and the marina acted quickly and with minimal rest. They got that barge to come in and break up the marina’s main channel. Volunteers came forward in impressive numbers to break up the ice within the dock slips and where the barge could not reach. The marina employees worked tirelessly to slip in 48 boats in a span of three days. The boats would be safe.

The water rose quickly, and when we arrived from a weekend away, the liveaboards were in full flood mode. A dinghy dock was established, Neighbor Sam purchased a new motor for his dinghy while Neighbor Mike purchased a new generator, Neighbor Roger lended me his neighbor kayak for the flood season, Neighbor Sam gifted us gimbaled oil lamps for the weeks of power outage to come, and Mystery Neighbor delivered my rain boots directly to Neighbor Girl’s door. As evidenced over and over again, lots of looking out for each other seems to happen here when conditions aren’t fabulous.

Weeks have come and gone now- more than three of them. We are still off grid. Roger’s still letting me use his kayak. We’re getting our day time warmth from the sun (if it’s out that day) and our night-time warmth primarily from candles or our solo propane heater that kicks off frequently for no good reason. We gave up trying to power our fridge, so we’re consuming a hardy amount of dry goods and making more frequent trips to Mickey’s Diner.

We are caught up to the present now. Just when we got settled in to this off-grid flood life, the 5th biggest April snowfall on record blasted us with nearly 10 inches. As temperatures dropped in to the twenties and the wind picked up to 20 knots sustained and 51 gusting, our generator landed in the river at 4am. Michael retrieved it, but it hasn’t been able to be revived. We woke up to one cold boat being tossed back and forth by the unrelenting winds. With my winter coat on, I packed a bag with three days worth of clothes. I impulsively determined that I would find somewhere to stay until this wintery spell seceded. I stormed off the boat in my knee high rain boots in to the snow and across the flood waters. In that moment, I thought I’d be gone until summer.

My rage did not last long. That night, I was back on the boat with my three days of belongings put away and a borrowed generator for heat. It is now 1:12 am. I’m cozy in bed, loving this boat again in all her resilience and charm. “Whatchya writing about?”, he says… I write without really knowing I guess. I start with one small thing, event, person, and I wring it free of all the sensations it has to offer. I write to understand this life all over again; to feel it fully. It goes too fast otherwise. I write to share the beauty in life and the funny in it. I write to honor the very essence of living stripped from all the extras. “The flooding,” I say. I’ll start there. Of course, I start the story talking about him. I can’t help it; it’s just where I feel the most.

If you’re wondering how we (Saint Paul, MN in the year of 2019) ended up in the historical flood contest. The river peaked at 20.19 feet. Yes, 20.19 feet in 2019; I bet you won’t forget that now. It’s the seventh highest in recorded history. The river was higher (and colder!) than 2014, but not as high as in 1965. What a year to have two floating homes on this mighty Mississippi.. uffda. We’re not out of the woods yet, but so far, both are surviving. I wouldn’t say thriving but definitely surviving; I’ll take it.

Since I started this story with Michael, I’ll end with him too. I like to bring things full circle. Since Michael and I work evenings and not always the same evenings, the commute home during flood season has involved a kayak trip from dinghy dock to boat between the hours of midnight and 2am, either alone or together. At first, I though I would dread this after a tiring shift at the hospital. It morphed in to one of the favorite parts of my day (except when that April blizzard hit; screw kayaking in that mess). The water was the most calm at night. It looked like glass, and the moon shine would light our path home. On my nights alone, Michael would always text me things like, “wear your life jacket” or “paddle over the parking lot; it’s more shallow there”. We also debated nightly on which was the best exit point at the dock. I liked to venture straight to our dock finger where a ladder dipped in the water to meet me. Michael preferred to go up the walkway at the dock’s end; it was a gradual slope up and one he insisted was less risky. The water is still icy cold, so any fall in could be dangerous.

One morning, I woke up to Michael blasting through the boat’s door in only his underwear. I didn’t have my contacts in or glasses on, so this was just a strange, blurry vision at first. He had fallen in the water, swam to the dock, got assistance from our neighbors to fish the kayak out, and then stripped his wet clothes off and hung them outside to dry. (The clothes were later found to be frozen stiff.) I couldn’t help but to laugh at him as this blurry image shared his story. “And you always tell me to be careful,” I said, “how ironic.” So, for the official record of Mississippi River fall-ins over four years of life aboard: you can tally Michael’s at a whopping three, while I sit cockily here at zero.

April 2019 Stats To Remember:

  • The 7th highest river crest with a height of 20.19 feet.
  • The 5th largest April snowfall in history.
  • An astounding jump in the river fall-in count with Chelsi securing a 0-3 lead. Booyah.
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