Minnesota Journal

St. Cloud - Cold Spring - Elk River - Rochester - St. Paul - Minneapolis

My wife and I travel to Minnesota every winter to see our parents and extended families. We celebrate Christmas three or four times over the course of a week. After one such celebration I sat on the couch flipping through a history of Minnesota, Peg Meier’s Bring Warm Clothes. Introducing a set of entries from a 19th century missionary named Edmund Ely, Meier notes that in all his letters and journals, he mentions his family only a handful of times. His wife, Catharine [sic], on the other hand, also kept a journal, and “wrote almost exclusively about her children.”

We’ve been too busy for me to write in earnest, but I can’t help tapping notes into my phone. Now that we’re at our last stop, with Christmas behind us, I find myself scrolling back, wondering what to make of the account.

St. Cloud

No boots and snow pants in Los Angeles. Grateful to I–––, S–––, J––– for their help.

Very cold. They stay out all afternoon.

Cold Spring

Visit with great grandma. News of full earthly spectrum. Cookies.

Kids in snow for hours. They show me a tunnel they have made, storage, shelving. Hilton’s cheeks dark pink. Flo’s light pink.

Elk River

Warmer, good snow. They work as a team on the sled. Hilton holds it for Flo, counts down, jumps on behind her. They separate, play with separate cousins, join back together like mercury.

Rochester

They play outside for hours. Hilton spends a good deal of time breaking up ice at the end of the driveway and putting chunks into a wagon. Florence builds and extends what she calls her “river.”

Good distance on the foam sled. Eventually they crack it. Want to put on tape but I say don’t. They try going backwards. Then lying down. Then lying down backwards. Then lying upside down, on their backs. Then lying upside down, backwards. Flo lies on top of Hilton. “Woo!”

They go to play on the ice. Soon they come back; Flo’s nose is bloody. “You’re okay,” says Hilton. I make him get some toilet paper from the port-a-potty. She is okay. I suggest one more ride to repair the mood, and they leave happy.

St. Paul

Kids stay inside. Christmas gifts. I am allergic, sneezing. Fall asleep on the couch to comforting thoughts. I know that my children are known. They will know these good people in turn. It is a form of protection.

Minneapolis

Pool. Haven’t been watching kids for a while. I look up and see her stepping onto his head as she jumps into the water. Both laughing. I pull my fingers across my neck doing the “cut it out” gesture.

Every time she jumps, he swims over to help shepherd her back to the wall.

She wears her suit that says “Secretly a Mermaid.” In the hot tub, group of men drinking beer. One says to Hilton, “Are you a Merman?”

“What?”

“Your sister’s a Mermaid, so are you a Merman?”

“No.”

At dinner. Server named Scottie talks louder than everyone else. “Cream of salmon soup!” he nearly screams. (I like him).

Waiter asks Hilton, “So is your dad behaving himself?” He does not answer. Seems baffled by this question.

Flo wiltingly tired. She leans on me as I read the book about the inchworm. Suddenly wants to wash her face once more, as the chlorine stings. I hold a warm towel over her eyes. Show her how to cup water in your hands and splash it on your face. She gets back to bed and snuggles up to her lamb so tight. I feel that snuggle in my whole body. Lay my cheek against hers and say “I love you.” She says “love you, too, dad.” I would do anything for her.

Understanding them gives me new understanding of their mother. New love, too.

Rochester

Twelve degrees. The kids can nearly bundle themselves. Florence only needs someone to snap the sleeves over her gloves. Grandma S––– applies rubber bands. They head out alone.

I have some time to myself. Go down a whole rabbit hole about the Elys. Learn Catharine’s father was a white fur trader, her mother Ojibwe. Read an academic paper about their missionary work, the spear of the American imperial project, and how their beliefs informed their parenting. “Large cultural fault lines are revealed in small, everyday acts.” I reread Catharine’s entries. Many sound like mine. She describes how her baby daughter, Mary, liked to suck on rabbit bones, how she liked the sound of a flute. But other entries reveal difference. Every mention of the child’s “will” is negative. “Her will is beginning to show itself.” “Her will is gaining ascendency.” I might write something similar but mean the opposite. I don’t believe in hell or salvation.

The kids are back. They tell me what they built, their faces so cold that they talk slowly. I kiss the tops of their heads and can smell the outside. As usual, I don’t feel capable of synthesizing all I’m thinking and feeling. I feel close, always just close. Maybe the best I can do is report. There is one thing I know for sure, which I feel comes across in the notes. Like snow melting on skin. One thing I know without the slightest doubt in the world.

Works Mentioned

Denial, C.J. (2019). "Mother of all the living": Motherhood, Religion, and Political Culture at the Ojibwe Village of Fond du Lac, 1835–1839. Early American Studies: An Interdisciplinary Journal 17(4), 443-473. https://dx.doi.org/10.1353/eam.2019.0015.

Meier, P. (1981). Bring Warm Clothes: Letters and Photos from Minnesota’s Past. Minnesota Historical Society Press. 28-34. Google Books.