to be a doctor in a small town...

My dad was 50 years old when he was diagnosed with cancer, a rare incurable cancer that would take his life five short months later.  The doctor that diagnosed him was the same man who attended local football games rushing onto the field every time one of our hometown heroes went down under the Friday night lights.  This doctor was the same man who according to my father saved my mother after giving birth to my older brother in 1981. 

When my father died, I was four months pregnant with my first child, just starting to swell and lose my shape.  Six months later, I had labored and pushed 20 hours when they told me to stop, my baby was in distress and that I would have an emergency cesarean section (which would turn out to be the first of many figurative and l am sure literal middle fingers we’d get as parents).  My dad’s doctor was the on-call surgeon that night and after comforting my terrified mother, he pulled a boy from my body who would have his Grandpa’s name….making me a mother, giving me hope and making the sky a bit bluer for our whole family.  I will never forget that, not just because I became a mother that night but because a man just doing his job had truly woven himself into the fabric of our family.  I am certain this is not something that is uncommon for him, a small town doctor who has treated generations, burying and birthing families along the way.  However, that in no way diminishes the role he’s played in our family. 

Five years later, my second child was born late on a Saturday night again via cesarean section.  Again, the man who even though he has ushered both of my sons screaming into this world will forever be referred to as my dad’s doctor arrived after a day of motorcycling and delivered another son into my husband’s waiting arms.  Before he left, he ducked under the curtain that separated me from the carnage of a c-section birth and said, “he’s a perfect baby boy,” to which I replied, “thank you for taking such good care of my family all of these years.”  He patted my head, gave a slight smile and said, “You’ve been a great family to take care.” To be the patient of a doctor in a small town.

National Blueberry Month

Happy National Blueberry Month!  Here's a couple photo from three summers ago of my then 2 year old son picking wild blueberries, a couple even made it into his bucket.


Check out this article on blueberries at home:
Blueberries for Home Landscapes- University of Minnesota Extension

fireworks

The 4^th of July, the worst storm remembered in the county followed up to a weeklong power outage in many places, our tiny town’s annual festival and my 10 year class reunion all occurred last week.  Fortunately our power came back on before my reunion; I was thrilled about the prospect of attending my reunion without a bath.  I fully intended to blame the thirty pounds of post high school weight gain on the power outage though.  Eighty mile per hour straight lined winds pushed countless trees over and our tiny town was scarred by trees that were uprooted and snapped off landing on cars, houses, and landmarks.  My friend who was visiting home from the Washington D.C. area shares her story of the storm in her blog, "What They Don’t Teach You in Deer River".  The storm and power outage cancelled the annual 4^th of July party we always attend but what didn’t change were the fireworks.

Fireworks are one the things I love most in life.  They invoke my inner child, making me squeal in delight as the beautiful flashes of light and color brighten the dark night sky.  I look forward to them each year and with great pleasure introduced my child to the excitement of fireworks.  The day reminded me of Christmas Eve, my five year old son asking every thirty minutes, “When are the fireworks?  Can we light some fireworks?” and me saying, “Not yet, after dark,” with growing strain in my voice each time he asked and finally giving in to some afternoon sparklers to try and satisfy his growing excitement.  At dusk, we began lighting off the $20 of small fireworks bought from the local stand, I laughed out loud as my son would race to my brother (the resident pyro for our small display) to hand him the next one to set up and light off and without even watching the last one blow off.  After that, we headed down to the dock to watch the “big ones” blow off around the lake.  It was a still night with mosquitoes nipping at us and all around the lake there were big beautiful booms of bright white and colored lights, we counted eight different displays and sat rotating our heads until the lake was foggy with gunpowder and yawn’s abounded.  I was much less animated without the party to ready me for the excitement but my heart was warmed by the tradition and my family around me.  Now that I am a mother, I realized I love fireworks because unlike many traditions they are not about food or gifts but rather a moment in time when we are all together watching the night sky, excited by the lights and noise and waiting with anticipation for the next big boom.