The Family *roll

Alright people, I’m about to get all circle-of-life on your asses. Check it:

A few weeks ago, I found myself feeling particularly relaxed and perhaps even a touch giddy. I surveyed the obvious reasons — Christmas was on its way; I was a couple weeks into my five week break between terms; the new Eleanor had arrived on the scene, generally making life pleasant and not sleep-deprived. All reasons to be relaxed and giddy, right? But that wasn’t it. And then, one day while walking to school, it hit me: I felt like I was home. I don’t just mean that Northfield was beginning to feel like home, although that is certainly true. Rather, I felt like I was back home in Kingston, Ontario, which is most odd given that everything here is new and we have no family close by. Nonetheless, that was the feeling. I think winter brought it on. I left home when I was 16 to go to boarding school and, since then, I have not lived in a small(ish) town during the winter. I forgot how lovely it can be. The pace and feel of the place during winter just reminds me of what life was like growing up in Kingston. I don’t know how else to put it.

But what made me particularly happy, I think, was the realization that this will be the world Eleanor grows up in. Yesterday, we headed to the local rink to skate. For whatever stupid reason, I imagined the rink would be somewhat substantial given all the interest in hockey around here. But it isn’t: it’s one of those arenas that looks like an oversized tin barn. Small stands, small dressing rooms, a little concession stand. In other words, exactly like the arena I spent a good chunk of my childhood in. It was strange entering that place — new, but so very familiar — as a father. Walking into the dressing room to put on our skates reminded me of my father lacing up my skates (never, ever fast enough for an impatient 8 year-old) and watching me play from the stands. Ellie’s not there…yet (oh yes, she will play hockey). But she had a taste of things to come: after some discussion and the granting of a veto to Emily to call a halt to the whole thing, I laced up my skates, strapped Ellie to my chest and listened to her coos as I circled the rink.

When we told people we were moving to Minnesota, their first impulse was to quote from Fargo. Their second impulse was to make some pronouncement about how cold it is in the winter. If they were wrong about Fargo (that’s North Dakota, not Minnesota), they were right about the weather. It’s cold here. Already, we’ve had temperatures that are colder than the coldest days we experienced in Chicago. But we do OK. The house is surprisingly free of drafts for a 90-year-old house. The baby has a space heater and Dan and I have the dog curled up under the blankets at night to keep us warm. For whatever reason, our bedroom is far and away the coldest room in the house. That picture at the right? It’s the frost on the window right next to Daniel’s head. [Daniel's note: That's pretty. Pretty fucking cold]

But the cold hasn’t stopped Eleanor and I from going on our walks. Our neighbors are treated to the grotesque sight of a bulbous, down, two-headed monster ambling down the street: Eleanor, bundled up in her hunting plaid fleece bunting, shoved in the Ergo, zipped underneath my mother-in-law’s down coat with her feet poking out at my hips. It’s not a pretty sight, but it gets us out of the house.

One interesting thing about Minnesota weather is that it’s perfectly acceptable to dwell on it in polite company. Even the indie rock station we routinely listen to has a detailed weather report every hour and MPR has a blog dedicated to talking about the weather to keep listeners sated between live call-in shows dedicated to the topic.

We got up close and personal with MN winter on Tuesday night when the power went out on the coldest night of the year so far (it was below 0 without windchill). A transformer burst around 8.30pm and the power company didn’t anticipate having things back up before 3am. Within 20 minutes of the power going out, the house became cold. It turns out we are ill-prepared for power-outages in sub-zero temperatures. We had candles. Plenty of candles. But no matches. Were it not for this summer’s camping trip, we would have been without a flashlight. With the house’s temperature dropping fast, we woke Eleanor up and decamped (with Belly) to Kim & Jason’s. Luckily, the baby has grown accustomed to traveling: she tolerated the abrupt change of scenery very well and slept soundly in her Pack n’ Play, lulled to sleep by a loop of white noise (pink noise, actually) downloaded by Jason at a moment’s notice.

We returned the next morning when Ellie woke-up and the house has been plenty warm since then. We’ve celebrated Hanukah and, with the purchase of our tree, we’re ready for Granny D’s arrival on Sunday and Christmas.

A couple weeks ago, Emily excitedly told me that St. John’s Church, on the other side of town, was having a community Norwegian breakfast and we had to go. Um, ok. I like breakfast. I’m not opposed to churches. Well maybe I am. But I like breakfast more than I dislike churches, so I agreed. Emily did her best hard sell to our friends. None of them were interested.

Fools all! It was a fantastic breakfast. Turns out that there is substantial overlap between Scandinavian and Jewish breakfasts: pickled herring, smoked salmon, hard boiled eggs. But the Scandis have us Jews beat when it comes to sweets: fruit soup, milk pudding, yule kage, danish tea rings, waffles and cinnamon buns. Drool.

The setting was lovely. We joined a table with two octogenarians in a hall of about 400 people, 390 of whom were sporting Norwegian Sweaters, or even more complicated dress. We had been in our seats for literally 5 seconds when Jo, pictured left, asked for/demanded Eleanor, so that we could get our breakfasts. Leave our 6 month old with a total stranger? Sure thing. While we piled our plates full of yummy goodness, Jo entertained, and was entertained by, Eleanor. A little later, another woman at our table took Ellie and went…well I don’t know where she went: I was too busy eating to pay much attention. But she came back and all’s well that ends well.

I had a very mild crisis of conscience when Jo said, “I assume you go to a church on the other side of town?” Not an unreasonable assumption given where we live and the fact that we showed up to a church meal (although our Chicago friends know that we like being the heathens at the church community meal). Now what to say? The easy answer, of course, is that I’m Jewish, so of course I don’t go to church. But it’s not like I go to synogogue. I don’t go anywhere because I’m an atheist dammit. So that’s the real answer. And there’s definitely a part of me that wanted to offer that as my reason, not only because it is, but because people tend to be made uncomfortable by outright declarations of atheism and that annoys me. Much to Emily’s relief, I went the “I’m Jewish” route.

We also had a glimpse of Scandinavian reservedness. Jo was, from our point of view, perfectly normal: smiling and inquisitive with the new people. The other people at the table (it filled up) appeared to show no interest in us at all. They didn’t even crack a smile at Ellie. But then, after minutes of no acknowledgment, out pops a very straightforward question and conversation begins. Although I wouldn’t call it free flowing. Case in point: An elderly woman, after establishing that I teach at Carleton, asked whether I knew Smith, her long time neighbor. “I’m afraid I don’t. I’m new here, so I haven’t met a lot of people. What does he teach?” A puzzled look came over her face: “I don’t know. I’ve never asked him.” End of conversation. This picture captures the vibe nicely (the conversation just reported was with the woman on Emily’s left).

The breakfast was put on by the local chapter of the Sons of Norway. We learned that every year there’s a motion to change the name to the “Sons and Daughters of Norway,” and every year the motion fails. Stay strong women of Norway!