View From a Prairie Home

by Hege Hernfindahl, Columnist

Springtime! It is wonderful! I was raking. Uncovering tulip plants coming out of the ground, yellow and leggy due to having been under leaves for so long. But once I uncovered them, the stems turned green and I could almost feel their pleasure as they reached for the blue sky and warm spring sunshine. I quickly spread blood meal around them to prevent the rabbits from foraging.

The hydrangea bushes were next. I used to snip off just the dead parts, but then I watched professional gardeners at work around the apartment when we lived in St. Paul. They always cut them almost to the ground. And they grew and became beautiful, lush and green and later in the summer, the beautiful, white hydrangea flowers would sprout wildly from every stem creating a mesmerizing sight. So now I also cut mine way down. And that day, the weather was perfect. Almost 70 degrees with not too much wind.

I wanted this day, this spring day. To be perfect. I wanted it to last. I did not take it for granted because I knew it would pass. So I truly rejoiced in the sun. In the warm wind on my bare arms. In the fact that I could be outside. And I was – all day. By evening, my face glowed and I had a very red nose. But I didn’t care. So, I served supper on the patio and we stayed there until it became too dark.

I know about light and darkness. I know that not all days can be perfect. I know that tragedy can strike. Fast. And with terrible force. And I know that joy is fickle as are perfect days.

I remember sitting on our deck when Patrick didn’t come back. And how we found him dead from a heart attack, they call it widow maker, in our driveway. The morning had been perfect. The Korean lilacs, that surrounded our little deck, had been in full bloom. Their smell intoxicatingly beautiful. The night before had been perfect. Supper in our gazebo. With conversations and laughter while the fireflies danced as the sky lit up with stars. As the loons treated us to their haunting songs from the nearby creek.

I also remember a perfect December day. Christmas with its many tasks was over. We were busy planning our traditional New Year’s Eve party at our cabin. Where we get silly hats, eat fondue because it is slow. Dance to Abba. Blow those fun party flutes and when the year changes, we dash down to the lake and write the New Year on the ice with sticks. I was excited and happy when the phone rang.

It was our son, Erland. Who lived in Belgium where he was the top trade diplomat. His dream job. In a huge house provided by the State Department. Everything was going well with him. He swam at the gym. A mile each day. He rode his bike to work. His boys went to The International School of Brussels, a premier private school. But he was crying. Why? He had suddenly felt stomach pains, so his wife insisted he go to the hospital. They did tests and found liver cancer.

Our lives changed then. From joy to worry and deep pain. It felt like my heart would break. Literally. I had never known that before. Being an action-oriented person, he had his surgery lined up at Mayo in Rochester about two weeks later. They removed the cancer; the liver grew back and he returned to Brussels cancer-free.

He had a spring of joy. Traveling with his dear family and working at his dream job. His type of cancer couldn’t be prevented with chemotherapy, so he didn’t have to endure that. But then came summer. The summer of suffering. We knew something was wrong as we saw him when he came home on vacation. The cancer was back. With a vengeance. Two different types of cancer in his liver. And he died one month later.

I think last year was my fog year. I never really felt anything. I just was. But there are days now when I can actually feel joy again. Like today. When nature has awoken from its long winter sleep. I know now not to take such days for granted.