Happy Birthday

Part I

Tom Froehlich

The pizza box lying next to me was translucent with pepperoni grease.  “It must be heartburn,” I thought. “It has to be heartburn. Well, it’s either that or a heart attack and I refuse to have a heart attack at one o’ clock in the morning!” Besides, it was my birthday as of an hour ago and you just don’t have heart attacks on your birthday.

For three hours I laid in bed insisting what it was or was not. Certain that if it was a heart attack I would in fact be dead by now. That’s the way they work, right?  Excessive chest pain. Terror. Death. I had covered the first two a couple of hours ago and death hadn’t come yet so I figured I must be cool on the heart attack deal. Then again, who knows?

Just the day before I had prayed to my higher power to get me to a doctor for a check up. I asked my higher power to either help me find the balls to make a doctor’s appointment and if he didn’t see that happening, to get me to a doctor any way he could. You see, I am terrified of the medical profession. I was six months into a sobriety program and I knew I needed to get checked out after decades of drinking and smoking. I was the kind of guy who was reluctant to check the donor box on his driver’s license for fear the DMV would just point and laugh. However, I knew the odds of me seeing a doctor for a physical, voluntarily, were about as good as Charles Manson voluntarily taking a lethal injection. Just the thought of entering a doctor’s office jacked my blood pressure up into grande mal seizure territory. Evidently my prayers were being answered because here I was surreptitiously glancing at the phone each time pain knifed through my chest.

After what seemed to be the eight thousandth burning, knife-like sensation twisting just below my sternum I grabbed the phone. I had looked up the phone number earlier in my denial, just in case I was in fact having a heart attack and needed to call just moments before becoming unconscious as the result of some explosive coronary embolism.  It’s funny how death really held no fear at this point. I figured if I end up dead I’m not going to know about it anyway, right? Even if there is an afterlife and I do realize I’m a goner, the after life by most counts of those who have returned from it is supposed to be pretty awesome. Bright warm, welcoming light, surrounded by those you love who have already past on. You have access to the knowledge of the universe are at total and complete peace and most likely thin and eternally young. Almost makes you want to not make the call, right?

“Hello, Santa Monica Hospital switchboard, Christina speaking. How can I help you”?

“Hi Christina, I’m not sure what your position entails beyond answering the phone, but I think I may be having a heart attack and am wondering if you could shed any light on that.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound good sir, but I am not qualified to help you. Let me connect you with emergency.”

“Before you do, I want you to know I have no insurance. Will you still take me or leave me dying on the sidewalk in the pink glow of the neon emergency sign?”

“Oh no sir. Don’t worry, we accept everyone. Let me transfer you.”

I hear a click and the phone rings. And rings. And continues to ring.   As I wait for someone to answer I just keep thinking, “Well, if I’ve made it this far maybe it isn’t a heart attack and I should just hang up.” But as I push aside my diagnosis of heart attack I realize this still hurts like a son of a bitch and I had better get it looked at. I’m not sure how many times the phone rang as I may have blacked out momentarily from the pain, but I finally decided to hang up and give Christina a ring back.

“Hello, Santa Monica Hospital switchboard, Christina speaking. How can I help you”?

“Hey Christina, it’s me again. I’m not dead yet, so maybe I’m not having a heart attack, which is good, because no one is answering.”

“Well, it’s Saturday night and Halloween, they may just be busy. Why don’t we try again?”

I’m possibly having a heart attack and they are too busy to answer the phone in the emergency room? Somehow I am more amazed by this than fearful.  That white light seems to keep getting brighter. And yes. I was born on Halloween. Save the jokes. I’ve heard them all.

After several rings I hear, “Hello, emergency.”

“Hi, I may or may not be having a heart attack and I don’t really want to waste your time if I’m not, so is there someone I could talk about the symptoms with and confirm whether or not that’s the problem?”

“Well sir, I am not allowed to diagnose you over the phone, but what exactly are your symptoms?”

“Well, I kind of have this searing hot knife-like pain just below my rib cage.”

“Again sir, I am not allowed to diagnose you over the phone, but that doesn’t sound good and I suggest you come in and let us check you out. I mean frankly, anyone who suspects they are having a heart attack should probably be here already.”

“Damn…” is all I say and turn off the phone. I’m not exactly sure what I was expecting her to say, “Oh we get these kinds of calls all of the time. Searing knife-like pains are nothing unusual. Take two aspirin and call us in the morning. That is if you’re not already sucked into that white light and universal knowledge thing.”

Now I have to decide how to get to the hospital. Not only do I have no insurance, but I also have no car, having totaled it the year before.  I could take a cab, but I could be dead by the time that arrives or have changed my mind no less than a thousand times. My roommate is out of town. I do have keys to her car and could drive myself. Now, of course I consider that I will be driving six miles through the city in extreme pain with the possibility of a major organ exploding out of my chest, but I say to myself, “I think I can make it.” That’s right. I “think” I can make it! Those are words chosen by an NBA star attempting a difficult free throw or someone in a decathlon, struggling the last ten feet to the finish line. Those are not or rather should not be the words of someone driving himself to the emergency ward.  Yet, I pull on shorts and a t-shirt, slip into some flip-flops and am out the door, keys in hand.  As I pull out of the parking garage it seems as if the pain has subsided a bit and I actually consider turning back. Then I consider the possibility that if I did die my roommate’s cat may make a meal of me before her return.  My roommate has enough phobias and the last thing she needs is to my snacked on corpse, a half eaten alternative to kibble.

A mile from the hospital the knife in my chest feels like it’s filleting a tuna and my thought is no longer, “I think I can make it,” but “Jesus Christ! I hope I make it, this hurts like a mother fucker!”

Pulling into a parking space I see signs warning that cars parked over twenty minutes may be towed. I worry about that momentarily, but then figure if I am dead who gives a shit if the car is towed? Yet I do take the time to wonder who has an emergency that takes twenty minutes or less?

I step toward the entrance, the glass doors slide open and I see two security guards. They look at me blankly and ask, “Can we help you?”  I think, “Well Christ, yes! This is the emergency ward isn’t it?! Who in the hell doesn’t need help in the emergency ward? Do you fully understand the meaning of the word ‘emergency’?”

Instead I calmly and politely say, “Yes I think I may be having a hear attack.”

“That lady there should be able to help you when she is finished,” one of the guards says pointing to a woman filling out forms with another patient. The lady motions for me to sit in the waiting area, while she finishes. Again, I wonder if anyone here fully understands the definition of the word “emergency”. 

After what feels like a thousand knife stabs later she asks, “Now, how may I help you?”  I’m pretty sure when I mentioned my possible heart attack to the helpful security guards moments earlier, I vocalized it at a volume she could hear fully. Followed by something that could possibly be described as a high-pitched girl scream. Yet somehow this doesn’t really seem relevant to her. 

She pulled out a form and asked, “Have you ever been here before?”

“No.”

“We just need to fill out some paperwork and get you admitted.”

“You’re kidding, right?! You did hear me say I may be having a heart attack didn’t you?”

“Yes sir, but we just need to fill out some paperwork before we can get you admitted.”

“You are aware I could be dead before we are finished aren’t you?”

“Name?”

To be continued next week.

Sunshine in a Bottle

 Tom Froehlich

“What about the lavender?” Her skin was the color of those windmill cookies my mom used to buy when I was a kid. Her head wrapped in violet cotton, mirrored the fragrance she had just mentioned. 

One of the many jobs I had, while trying to find my place in Southern California, was promoting organic, bath and body, products at local farmers markets and festivals.  I found that people are often drawn to the color associated with a fragrance. I have a theory that colors, sounds, smells and flavors, even touch all have sensory compatriots vibrating at a similar frequency, and when we are in alignment with the Universe we are drawn to those sympathetic vibrations.  I have no idea if it is true or not and for all I know someone with the appropriate letters following their name has written a paper on this theory and perhaps even won a Nobel Prize.  I’m not trying to convince anyone. Take it or leave it. It just makes sense to me on a spiritual level.

Opening the bottle of lavender lotion, I handed it to the turbaned, windmill cookie lady and said, “Smell it,” with a knowing grin.

“Oh my,” she gasped after hiving taken a whiff, “that is just wonderful isn’t it?”

Smiling I said, “I know, right? All of these fragrances are taken directly from the plant they are named after. The Sicilian Blood Orange actually comes from the rinds of blood oranges from Italy. The Australian Eucalyptus from down under and the lavender comes directly from…”

“France,” she finished for me with a smile and a rich chuckle.

“You got it,” I said, smiling at her joy in something so simple.

“I think that’s why all of the fragrances are so amazing. There is nothing manmade and I think our bodies intuitively know if it’s a scent that was made by Mother Nature or by man. And in this day and age, I think our bodies crave things that bring us back to the Earth.  Back to a knowing of where we come from.” I didn’t get into my whole color/vibration theory.  I kind of felt as if I had gone far enough out on the limb of, “just how crazy is this guy?”. I mean I’m just selling body lotion for Christ sake not some magical potion that’s going to heal the world.

Yet the lady with a laugh richer than Swiss chocolate just smiled, her brown eyes twinkling and said, “May I smell the rest of them?”

“Certainly,” I said, handing her a bottle of Sicilian Blood Orange lotion. As she inhaled I commented, “Smells like sunshine doesn’t it?” and then laughing at myself added, “Well if sunshine had a smell.”

“No. You were right the first time,” she said with a surprised look of wonder. “It does smell like sunshine.”

I walked my new friend through the California Rose and the Greek Honey Mint. She shared her journey with me through her ooohs and aaahs and her winsome smiles and somehow the experience became something beyond just selling a bottle of body lotion.  It was about sharing with a stranger, that if we wanted it to, a bottle of blood orange scented lotion could actually smell like sunshine.

“Well, honey I can’t decide so I guess I’ll have to take a bottle of that incredible French Lavender and how could I walk away with out a bottle of sunshine?” she said with a grin.

I slipped the lavender and blood orange lotion into a plain brown bag and dressed it with magenta tissue paper.

“Look at you! Isn’t that just beautiful,” she said with a grateful smile, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners revisiting furrows from countless smiles long past.

“The way I see it why not make something beautiful if you can? It’s all about the magic.”

“And I do like a magic filled morning. I certainly do,” she said as one of like mind.

I handed her the festively dressed bag and said, “Thank you. And thank you for your laugh and beautiful smile.”

She paused for a moment and tilted her head slightly as if her thoughts needed time to crystallize and then said, “It was you, you know. I felt it when I saw you across the market.”

I looked at my new friend with confusion.

She laughed and continued, “Could you, for a just moment, be open to the possibility that you drew that joy to you? Because you did you know. It was you.” She paused a moment, giving me a thoughtful grin.

I just smiled.

She sashayed away, with a wink and a smile, calling back over her shoulder, “Have a magical day Sunshine Man.”

“Abracadabra lovely lady,” I responded, quietly adding , “I already am.”

Happily Ever After

Tom Froehlich

Driving home from work the other night, many things weighed heavily on my mind. The bulk of them most likely weighed more heavily than were necessary. Nothing terribly important.  Just a whole closet full of nightmares of what may go wrong in my life. A closet full of nightmares and stories I create. Stories that usually end with “…and then I was shot in the head while falling off of a cliff, dying of some terminal disease that with any luck will be named posthumously after me.” I least I close on a high note. Yes I am, in fact, just that nuts.

Some of these thoughts are as simple as the possibility of having a car accident on the way home from work. This would, of course, result in totaling my car, causing me to lose my job, become unemployable and living on the streets of Los Angeles until I get shot in the head, while falling off of a cliff, dying of some terminal disease that with any luck will be named posthumously after me. I’m not certain how I would react if some sort of natural disaster would strike, but I have a feeling I would be cool with that, as it would circumvent the whole falling off of a cliff, demise.

Oh sure, I pray and I meditate and I do all of the things that Deepok Chopra and Wayne Dyer and Oprah and all of the other spiritual gurus suggest we do to lead a more fulfilling and peaceful life. However, one of the more glaring and pivotal differences that I see, is that Deepok and Wayne and Oprah have like a gazillion dollars so that sort of takes the edge off of their everyday bullshit. And I think it’s fair to say that kind of bumps them up a rung or two on the ladder of enlightenment.

As I pulled out of my parking garage earlier in the day, I decided to pray for the fellow child of the Universe who cut me off just as I attempted to pull out onto the street. Perhaps they just had a fight with their spouse or maybe lost their job or found out a loved one was terminally ill. I thought, “I need to send them loving, healing energy.”  Yet when the prayer came out of my mouth it may or may not have gone something like this. “Please God, help that @#$%^ idiot pull his head out of his  #$%^& ass so he can see where he is going the next time he gets behind the wheel.” And that prayer may or may not have been accompanied by a double bird, I flashed passive aggressively below the dash, as I drove through three lanes of, Los Angeles, traffic with no hands on the wheel.

I am aware that every thought, every single thought that goes through my mind, is created by me. Me. Nobody else. Whether they are happy thoughts or sad thoughts or kind thoughts or Charles Manson-worthy thoughts, I create them all. And when the negative thoughts come flying into my mind and annihilate my day like a stealth missile, it is my job to process them. Deal with them. Transform them into the kind, joyous, loving thoughts of a fulfilled, loving sentient being. The problem is that when these crazy thoughts come to call, I have already become a psychotic, vindictive, asshole who really has no desire to throw on a saffron colored robe, stick a dot on my forehead and play Gandhi.

I am in fact, fully prepared to court those thoughts as if it were date night on Saturday night. Why wouldn’t I? I created them. Gave birth to them. They are my babies. I must need them in some way. Maybe to prove to myself that the world is not as kind to me as I would like. Or maybe I feel I  deserve far greater abundance than I have attained thus far in my life. So I meditate and I pray and do my best to find my way to a more peaceful place within myself. But, I gotta tell ya, some days…some days it seems as if I brush and floss in the morning and start processing and don’t finish until I’m brushing and flossing before bed. I mean, how does a fully realized spiritual being find time to actually live beyond a life of spectacular oral hygiene?

I once had the luxury of a bottle of tequila that assisted me in ignoring, if not actually processing my difficulties, until a blinding hangover set in. Since I have left behind the days of, “chasing after that lost shaker of salt”, I have replaced a dozen or so margaritas with Yogurtland. I mean, a guy has to have something to do while contemplating how to get past a bump or two in the road of life while waiting for total insanity to grab a hold doesn’t he? Of course, I am a bit concerned that by the time I am a fully enlightened being I will be a total fat ass, but I am very good at convincing myself that the yogurt is “low-fat”. Even if it’s not identified as “low-fat”, I work under the assumption it is, determining my generous portion size accordingly. I am in a total a state of denial. I am oblivious to the fact that atop (I have always hated that word! It’s right in there with “whilst”.) this so-called low-fat dairy delight run rivers of chocolate and caramel syrup, several cheesecake nuggets, brownie chunks and a minimum of one of those spiral pirouette cookies.  This particular choice is not based so much on flavor, but on the fact that they just make this fat-assed dairy dessert look kind of fancy, up-scale, sophisticated. Anyway, a guy needs a way to unwind after finishing a swing shift working with addicts who are willing to do anything to catch a buzz and escape from reality for a moment. This can run the gamut from snorting their grandma’s ashes to champagne suppositories.

There is a young man who works at Yogurtland, named Joseph. He always greets me with two sample cups, a smile and a delightful, “Hello”, sprinkled with an accent from some exotic island. I have decided it’s exotic merely because I choose it to be. If I can convince myself that the sundae I am about to assemble is a low calorie treat, I can convince myself that the sunny island from which Joseph hails is, in fact, exotic.

Yogurtland is mid-way between work and my apartment.  It is open…well, it’s open later at night. Evidently I can’t keep the hours straight, because when I pulled in the other night I could see through the windows that they were most likely closed. However, in a desperate quest to console myself through a dish of Deep Dutch Chocolate and Peanut Butter Parfait with all of the accoutrement I forged ahead. That was until I saw the sign on the door that sadly informed me that they shut down this port of dairy delight at midnight and, unfortunately, it was ten minutes past the hour. As Joseph walked toward the door, I assumed to lock up for the night, my shoulders visibly slumped in disappointment. Beaten, I reached for the car door handle and as I did, Joseph pushed the door to the store open and said, “Well...are you coming in?”

Trying to hide my elation, I mean it’s just frozen yogurt for God’s sake, I said, “But, you’re closed aren’t you?”

Joseph flashed me a smile and said, “No. I don’t think so. Come in.” Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I quickly dispensed my standard flavors, Deep Dutch Chocolate and Peanut Butter Parfait, into the family size cup.  When I arrived at the syrup and topping bar, it was clear that Joseph was already in the process of storing things away for the night. 

I said, “Oh, I’m sorry Joseph. You’re really ready to go home and I’m holding you up.”

Joseph’s eyes met mine with a complete look of peace and lack of concern and said, “No really. It’s okay. Just take your time.” It was almost as if Joseph was foreshadowing how necessary it was for me to “take my time”. Grabbing the bottle of caramel sauce, I gave it an over zealous squeeze, shooting a load all over the counter.

Again, I apologized and said, “”Oh my God Joseph. I’m really sorry man. Here I am in a hurry to get out of here so you can go home and all I am doing is making more of a mess.”

Again, he said, “Really. It’s okay.”

I looked at him and asked, “My God, Joseph. Are you always this nice? Every night I come in here you always have a smile on your face and something nice to say. And now here I am keeping you from going home and you just continue to be gracious. What do you do?  Get high in the back room?”

He just smiled and said, “No. I just don’t allow any negativity into my life.” He said it so simply. So matter of fact. There was no doubt he spoke his truth. He didn’t ramble on about it. He just said, “No. I just don’t allow any negativity into my life.” As they say, “The truth needs no defense.”

I just say, "Wow." Here I am at Yogurtland, being offered my choice of hot pink or lime green spoon by the Dalai Lama, after accusing him of doing bong hits in the back room, and I come out with, “Wow.”  And then because I felt my initial response wasn’t quite deep enough to fully acknowledge his level spiritual atonement, I followed up with another terribly impressive, “Wow.”

He began wiping up my caramel mess on the counter as I set my dish on the scale, ready to be weighed and paid for. “No. That one’s on us tonight,” Joseph said, flashing me his exotic island smile. Wow.

I got into my car and as I twirled a pirouette cookie into the caramel and chocolate syrup I replayed in my mind, “I just don’t allow any negativity into my life.” I thought of the number of times I welcomed sadness or anxiety or fear into my life. I admitted to myself that not only did I create them, but I also chose to create them. I took them on a Saturday night date.  And now I asked myself, “What if I just didn’t allow negativity into my life?” What if I chose not to choose to create the negative reaction to life’s dramas? No cliff. No bullet in the head. No terminal disease. If I didn’t create these thoughts, there would be nothing to process. No need to work through the envy or self-pity.  No need, because they simply wouldn’t exist. That certainly frees up an awful lot of time between brushing and flossing.

This is difficult for someone like me to grasp, because I have a creative mind that’s running pretty much 24/7. And as I have mentioned, the outcome to my stories tend more toward the melancholy, if not downright tragic. Once that ball starts rolling, I have no control as to the outcome. Then again, maybe saying “I have no control”, is also a choice. Maybe I just have to begin at the end. Begin at the end and close with the line, “…and he lived happily ever after.” Then I’ll work backward, doing my best to not make it more complicated than it actually is, because I am very good at that. I’ll remind myself of how Joseph made it all sound so simple, most likely because it is. “I just don’t allow any negativity into my life.”  I really like the sound of that. Besides, the odds are pretty good they weren’t going to name that disease after me anyway.

“Thanks for the yogurt Joseph,” just doesn’t seem adequate, does it? Wow.

The Chicken Bus

Tom Froehlich

My family has a cottage, built by my grandfather over eighty years ago that lies on the peninsula of Door County Wisconsin.  Door County is known as the “Cape Cod of the Midwest” and is dotted with cherry orchards who’s summer fruit is transformed into jams, jellies and pies and sold to tourists throughout the summer.  The land is surrounded by water on three sides allowing the air to hold a kind of ethereal, translucent mist drawing a collection of artists to this magical place.

Inspired by childhood crayolas and a bachelor of fine arts degree in college, I have dragged my family on countless gallery excursions.  It was not always about the art. Often it was about enjoying the beautiful landscape and watching the lake breeze chase the cherry blossom’s petals in the spring, or spinning the autumn leaves into cyclones of color in the fall. Essentially, it’s not about where you’re going, but about the magic you may find along the way.

I pulled off of the two-lane county highway onto the tire rutted dirt drive of a gallery sheltered in an old log cabin.  The rough-hewn logs still chinked with some of the original mud told the story of its construction over a century ago.  It offered a sense of enduring history, the old wooden screen door creaked and bounced on its jam, as patrons of the arts, more there for the looking than the buying, came and went.

I was greeted by pottery, paintings and rugs hanging on the walls all emblazoned with bold graphic symbols.  A graphic designer myself, I was intrigued by the symbols and how they comfortably adorned a variety of mediums.

A woman busied herself behind the counter, her wild tangle of auburn hair caught up in a makeshift bun offering her a reprieve from the warm August afternoon.

“Excuse me. Who designs the symbols I see everywhere?” I asked.

“I do”, she offered, “and my husband, Ponce, makes the pottery.”

“What about the rugs?” I asked.

“Oh, those my, father-in-law, in Mexico weaves.  I kind of channel the symbols and then later what they represent comes to me. I choose the symbols that resonate with me most and then my husband Ponce and my father-in-law work them into their designs.”

“Your father-in-law lives in Mexico?” I ask.

“Yes, my husband is from there,” she says with a grin telling me there is more to the story.

“And he somehow ended up in Door Country, Wisconsin?” I ask.

“You have time for a story?”

I smile and say, “I have a feeling I do.”

And the lady with the wild auburn hair began:

Well, twenty years ago I was a graphic designer working for an advertising agency in Minneapolis and I started designing these symbols on the side. I didn’t know where they were coming from, but they just kept coming and I kept putting them on paper.  One day an old college friend happened to be in town and got in touch with me. She came to visit and when I showed her the symbols she commented that they would look great woven into a rug. I agreed, but told her I had no idea how to make that happen.  She began to ramble on about a small village she knew of on the Yucatan Peninsula that was known for it’s beautiful textiles. I just thought, “Great. I live in Minneapolis, Minnesota the land of Swedes, pickled fish and mosquitoes and the Yucatan Peninsula is where?” Before she left, she asked me to print out a copy of my favorite symbol. I gave her my communion symbol, the one you see woven into the rug, hanging on the wall there, with the intertwining semi-circular rings. I love that one because it holds meaning on so many levels.

Months past and I hadn’t heard from her, yet I paid no mind because her initial visit had been out of the blue as well.  In fact, I can’t even remember the city she lived in, and this was before the days of cell phones when people exchanged numbers so readily.  Two old college friends having a random encounter was how I saw it.

Then one day the mail arrived and with it a six foot long mailing tube.  I popped out the plastic end cap and unfurled a beautiful six by eight foot rug with my communion symbol woven into the center.  It was amazing.  I’m not sure how long I stood and stared in disbelief.  When I finally came out of my daze, I thought, “I have to find out who made this rug and have them make more.”  Then I realized I had no idea how to get in contact with the friend who had evidently made this happen. As I said, no phone number. No idea what city she lived in.  No return address. She was a bit of a gypsy.  Weeks past and the rug hung on my living room wall haunting me.  I finally called my best friend who had seen the rug and knew of the mystery of its creation. She was the kind of friend who was usually and perhaps reluctantly up for any adventure. I called her and said, “Get over here. I have an idea.”

“ Oh no, Sondre. What are you getting me into?” she asked.

“Just get over here. You know you can’t stop yourself.”

By the time she arrived at my apartment I had taken a Polaroid of the rug and had the World Atlas opened to the page showing the Yucatan Peninsula.  Letting her in, I walked back to the atlas and pointed saying, “It had to come from somewhere around here. A lot of the smaller villages won’t be marked.”

“What came from where?” she demanded.

“My rug. The rug with the communion symbol.”

“You’re still obsessing about that?” she asked, which was kind of a ridiculous question her being my best friend and all.  I mean it’s not as if she hadn’t seen me obsess before!

So after more than a bit of cajoling, I had two tickets booked to Mexico City.  The Yucatan Peninsula was more than a hop, skip and a jump from there, but I figured we would handle that when we got there.  Wherever that was.  As I said, all I knew is that it was a village known for its rugs somewhere at the end of the Yucatan Peninsula. Hell, I was twenty-three. You do that kind of shit at twenty-three.  Anyway to make a long story short, we flew into Mexico City and then took this crazy chicken bus to the Yucatan. After that, I threw some guy a few pesos and we rode in the back of his donkey cart to the first village on his route.  Since we really had no idea where we were going and it was going to be dark soon, I figured this village was as good as any.  Besides, we couldn’t really ask our donkey cart amigo where he was headed next since my friend and I didn’t speak a lick of Spanish.

I shook my head laughing as Sondre gave me an explanation even she knew was a ridiculous. “That’s right. You heard me. No Spanish. We were the idiot Americans who just spoke in English very loudly and slowly as if that was going to help someone understand. You can talk as loud and slow in Spanish as you want, but this chick still ain’t gonna get no Espanola.  American arrogance, right? So, we jump off of the donkey cart with our backpacks, armed with the one Polaroid of the rug hoping to find the person who wove it. Snowballs chance in hell, right?

I looked at my friend and said, “Well here we go!”

Just a little bet frustrated, my friend asked, “Here we go where, Sondre?!”

“We start knocking on doors, what do you think? It’s not like they are going to come to us!” I told her.

With a not very friendly look in her eyes, my friend said, “But Sondre, we don’t even speak Spanish!”

I said, “That just occurred to you? Hell, I can talk slow and loud, and there’s no way we are turning back now.”

Knocking on the first door, a small brown woman opened it a bit more than a crack and looked at us suspiciously.  I pulled out my Polaroid and asked at what was most likely a frightening volume, “DO-YOU-KNOW-WHO-MADE-THIS-RUG?”

Looking bewildered, she shook her head no and yammered on about something in Spanish. I’m not sure if she even understood what in the hell I was asking, but I figured if she had recognized the rug there would have been some kind of reaction.  For all I know she could have been saying, “What does this crazy red haired gringo lady want and why does she talk so loud?” But I was on a mission. One down, I thought. That was encouraging considering there were only about seven doors to knock on in the entire village. No shit.  Only six to go. We continued to knock and continued to get the same bewildered response.  I wasn’t really too discouraged considering this is the first day and we really have very little to work with other than the information “a village somewhere on the Yucatan Peninsula.” Like I said, I was twenty-three.  Finally, knocking on the last door it was answered by a man with the kindest brown eyes. I again asked in my loud slow voice if he knew who made this rug, pointing emphatically at the Polaroid. His face broke into a huge smile and he pointed just as emphatically at himself as I had at the Polaroid.  And that’s how I met my husband Ponce.  He spoke no English and two weeks later moved to Minneapolis with me and then we ended up here in Door County.   We have two sons. The oldest one is going to the University of Michigan and wants to be a golf pro.

“Go figure!” she laughed, finishing her amazing and unlikely story.

I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or cry and I told her so.

“Right?’ she said, “When they say it will happen when you least expect it I sure as hell can’t disagree. I would never have thought the man I was going to fall in love with, the father of my children was weaving rugs three thousand miles away on the Yucatan Peninsula.”

So, there you have it. What can I tell you to follow that story? We spend so much time trying to control our lives when our destiny may be to board a plane, get on a chicken bus and ride a donkey cart into our future.  Sometimes we need to trust our heart and allow ourselves the freedom to chase after life, like the lake breeze chases the cherry blossom’s petals.  Sometimes we just need to believe and trust in the magic, that happens along the way.