101 Years

Today is the 101^st anniversary of Norway’s independence from neighboring Sweden. It’s been one year since the trip to Kristiansand to see the rellies and start this blog. I celebrate my heritage by adding a cocktail of Kilz primer to the living room trim. Pimsleur’s Norwegian plays on the Ipod. Kiwi eyes the new room dubiously. She freezes as I step precariously over her with the wet brush. I rush to complete a list of home improvement projects before the summer heats the prairie and melts my determination.

I find myself talking at length with our new Macedonian neighbors. About the war in Kosovo. The European Union. About the use of burlap to treat stubborn grass seed. When the Macedonians moved into our hood, they pruned a tree which compromised our privacy above the backyard fence. We grumbled about it for awhile. Every time we went into the shed, we’d see them smoking out on their elevated deck. Smokers. We’d exchange tentative greetings. Then their three ebullient kids began to visit, congregating in our front yard. Last week they helped us load two cubic yards of river rocks into the wheelbarrow. The youngest boy proudly passes me a four inch rock he found in the gravel and I take it slowly from his hand, savoring this blessed moment. They just might become a family by proxy.

We stood in the cul-de-sac last night chatting with the Macedonians as the gnats circled aloft, the kids pinwheeling their arms to keep the bugs at bay. The father’s voice is filled with life, his face etched with an intractable grin. Kiwi sniffs the air and narrows her eyes like Diane Wiest and then sweeps her tail against the asphalt when she sees the youngest boy approach. Her floppy tongue spills from her mouth, and she laughs at something no one understands.