Fascinated by fire trucks

The fire must have broken out while my son and I were away, having lunch at Grandma and Grandpa Cook's house. We were getting home for nap time a little late, which is OK because visiting grandparents ranks high on my list of special things to do.

I turned at the corner and saw the fire truck and assistant fire chief's SUV parked mid-way down our street, lights flashing. As I backed my car into the intersection to go another way, fears flickered across my mind: Was there a fire at our house? Had one of our elderly neighbors fallen or had a heart attack? I backed up our street from the other end and parked. The call had been to the college student rental house three doors up, a kitchen fire, neighbors told me later.

Firefighters were milling around the truck, talking and putting their gear away. One waved to my son as he stared on his way up our steps. He decided he was going to watch from the porch, while I put our belongings inside. I considered making him come inside from the cold and watch from the window. But it isn't every day that a fire truck shows up in front of your house. I grabbed a blanket instead, cleared his sled off our porch swing and settled in with him.

Soon enough, the firefighters were leaving. They sounded the fire rig's horn as they drove past our house. I encouraged my son to wave. All waved back, making one little boy's day just that much more special.

The karma of Hiroshige

My husband and I donated a 19th century Hiroshige woodblock print to a fundraising auction for my son's preschool. It was part of a larger group of Japanese woodblocks we had purchased several years ago when we had a case at a local antique store. We had never framed it, as we much preferred the two Hiroshiges we already had hanging on our living room wall.

A week after I dropped off the print, my husband received an e-mail from a man in Kansas. "Do you still like Hiroshige?" he was asked. We failed to connect the man's name to anyone we knew though my husband answered the e-mail in the affirmative.

In the mail soon after, we received a gift of a Hiroshige. It was from an old friend of my husband's who had purchased a collection of art from the man in Kansas. Not a fan of Japanese woodblocks, he had told the man to send the Hiroshige on to my husband.

It's of Nihonbashi, one of 53 stations along the Tokaido Highway, framed in traditional style and much more to our liking.

Fading into oblivion

I bumped into our retired police chief at a fundraiser for my son's preschool this weekend. "How are things at the newspaper?" he asked. I informed him that I had been laid off in September. "You," he stated, rather incredulously. We talked about a variety of things: the state of the paper, what I plan to do now, the hidden blessing that I have this time to stay at home with my son before he starts elementary school.

The 10-minute conversation took place between the Epicurean cutting board and the collection of four bottles of St. Croix Vineyard wine upon which I was bidding. It was repeated several more times that night as I encountered other people I hadn't seen since the layoff.

I felt bad that I couldn't bid with abandon on the silent auction items or dare enter the fray of the live auction. I felt even worse that I hadn't given more in previous years when I could have afforded to. But worst of all, I felt what a downer it must have been for these people to have to hear about my misfortune. (My husband assured me that I did talk about other things, and even laughed and joked with closer friends and acquaintances.)

I went home with the cutting board but not the wine, as well as a sense of fading into oblivion.

City slicker -- not

A friend and I drove to the Twin Cities this week. Our meeting was in a newer office building downtown. We could park in the nearby outdoor lot or the underground lot, whichever we preferred.

Spying the sign for the underground lot first, I pulled in. The garage door opened automatically. I drove into the dark cavern, slowing at several empty parking spaces and noting that all were marked reserved. Stopping at the posted stop sign, I realized I had pulled up alongside a counter. "It's valet parking," the man responded quickly and kindly to my puzzled look.

I gathered the belongings I needed, handed him my keys, then started looking for the exit. "What's the address?" he asked, then smiled at my friend's reply. "Right through that door and onto the elevator," he said. "You're in the basement."

The wound is deep

I stepped onto my front porch Saturday afternoon, tired but upbeat after a couple of intense hours teaching Torah and Hebrew to a group of rambunctious kindergarteners. A package notice had been left in my mailbox. My husband receives a lot of packages, so I thought nothing of it.

It wasn't until after I briefed my husband on my morning experiences and put my son down for his nap that I turned my attention to the mail I had tossed on the couch. The notice was for me. A certified letter from my former employer awaits me at the main post office. I stopped cold in my tracks.

They took away my livelihood, cut off my benefits and ended my chosen career of 24 years -- all on one sunny afternoon in September. Now, six months later, what more could they possibly want from me? I am forced to wait and wonder until the post office reopens on Monday.

The wound is much deeper than I believed.

Alive in the moment

My exercise buddy (not to be confused with my layoff buddy) and I braved the sub-zero temps Thursday morning to snowshoe in Hartley Field. The air was crisp, the sky was clear, and the sunshine was brilliant. Few others were making use of these city-owned woods. And I knew after five steps that my first time on snowshoes was going to be a glorious adventure.

We set off across Hartley Pond, whereupon we ran into an aquaintance of my exercise buddy's. All three of us are in various stages of beginning new careers -- due to either layoffs or forced early retirement. One upside, we all agreed, was that we were fully enjoying this moment outdoors.

My friend and I headed up toward Rock Knob Lookout then down into deeper woods. Our conversation covered a variety of topics: Jack London's "Call of the Wild," pondering when bears awaken from their hibernation, how we enjoyed watching trees we planted grow over our lifetime. I remembered how well I knew the woods of my childhood and marveled that my husband, who had played and camped out in Hartley Field as a child, likely knew these woods just as well.

After a couple of hours, my friend and I made our way back to the pond, hugging the cattail-laced shoreline until we reached our initial crossing point. We watched a red squirrel and a variety of birds in Hartley's "deer-free" enclosure. Alas, it was time to return our snowshoes and attend to our day's errands. But that sunshine has stayed with me.

Expecting nothing and still disappointed

I received a call from a woman from my bank yesterday afternoon. She had reviewed my accounts and was happy to inform me that, as a preferred customer, she could move my savings into a higher interest money market account or certificate of deposit, whichever I preferred. Oh and, of course, I'm pre-approved for one of the bank's credit cards, too. I asked her a few questions about any conditions attached to the money market account and if she could make the shift without me coming down to the bank. She would make the change to the higher interest account right away, she said.

She commented on the commencing snowstorm and asked if I was lucky to have had the day off or gotten home early. I'm recently unemployed, I told her.

This morning, I got a call from the same woman. It turns out that she can't offer me the higher interest money market account unless I have a "premium" checking account. That would require that I always have automatic deposit of a paycheck into my checking account. And since I won't have any check to automatically deposit when my unemployment runs out, I don't qualify for the offer she made me yesterday, she said.

Having never expected much in the way of service from this national banking firm, I shouldn't have been disappointed. But she's the one who called me with the offer then failed to deliver. At least this incident settles the decision of where my husband and I set up the accounts for our new business. That will be at his credit union, of course.

Avoiding the dressing room monitor

I was shopping for workout clothes -- now that I actually have time to exercise -- at one of those stores that discounts last year's name-brand clothing. I loaded up my shopping cart with two sizes of every shirt, sports bra and pant that might appeal to me and headed for the dressing room. Signs at the door told me to park my cart. I vaguely noticed the cards numbering one through eight, but nobody stopped me as I carried about 30 items through the door. I had arrived before the dressing room monitor started her shift.

I weeded out a third of the items -- the ones that absolutely didn't fit -- and took them out of my little room to the empty racks near the door. A woman took them out of my hands, asking casually if any of them worked. "Nope, not these," I said, then headed back to my little room. I was a little puzzled when she started counting the hangers. I ruled out another third, the clothes that weren't that comfortable. "Not these ones, either," I said, handing her another pile. Once again, she started counting. I went back to my little room to decide what I was going to purchase out of the clothes that were left.

I emerged with six items to buy and handed the rest to the dressing room monitor who again began counting hangers. As I walked out of the dressing room reveling in my shopping success, those numbered cards began to haunt me. I wandered through the store a bit longer, checking out the children's clothing, household goods and more women's clothing. I considered trying on a pair of pajamas. But then I remembered the dressing room monitor. Better to forget that kicky spring skirt, too.

You just can't delay one's birthday

Yesterday was my husband's 48th birthday. We weren't going to celebrate, as we plan to have some friends over this-coming weekend for sushi and sword study. But any possibility of not marking the day flew out the window when I told our son it was Daddy's birthday. Having crawled into bed with me so that I could eke out a few more minutes of sleep, our 4-year-old proceeded to plan the big event. I, in a semi-conscious state, agreed to everything.

First, we would get some presents. Then we would bake the cake -- devil's food cupcakes. Next we would go to the grocery store to pick up the missing ingredients for the cream cheese frosting and some milk, since we were out of milk. Then we would wrap the presents: his Superman ring to protect Daddy during scary parts of movies, the book Treasure Island because it has one of Daddy's favorite pirates in it, and some smelly fish foods (sardines, kipper snacks, mackerel) that Daddy likes so much.

Throughout the day, my son would announce excitedly to one of his stuffed animals, "_____ (insert animal's name here), today is my Daddy's birthday." He even went upstairs to put on a clean shirt just before Daddy arrived home from school. For me, there was no better moment than seeing the look on both my guys' faces when my son yelled, "Surprise!" as Daddy walked through the front door.

Doing my part to stimulate the economy

I received a call Monday from the man who sold me my Honda CRV about seven years ago. He has a $500 check with my name on it just waiting for me -- that is -- if I buy another car from him. Honda is trying to do its part to help stimulate the economy, he said.

I told him that my husband and I had intended to replace one of our vehicles this year. However, I explained, the money we had saved up for a new car will be going toward our living expenses once my unemployment runs out. He was apologetic about having called. No problem, I said, adding that I was very happy with the performance of my CRV.

Which got me to thinking about how long it had been since I had the CRV serviced. So I made an appointment for an oil change and 27-point inspection. On Thursday, with $116.90 less in my checking account, I had done as much as I could afford to stimulate the economy.

By the way, how does one's radiator resevoir cap go missing?