Rocks & Roots
Donna Salli
Brother’s Keeper
I’m the firstborn in my family. In this sweet photo, taken at our grandparents’ farm, I’m with my little brother, Robbie. Our grandmother, whom we called Mummu, did the milking—you can see the milk can she’d left to drain, leaning against the house. Our mother liked to tell a story. Robbie didn’t begin to talk as early as most children do. He’d make grunting sounds, in the rhythms and tone of a request. Mom would say, “What do you need, Robbie?” and I would jump in, translating. “He wants a cookie.” Or “He needs a drink of water.” Robbie didn’t have to talk, and he didn’t need to “do.” I saw myself as my brother’s keeper, and I would jump in and help. I had what seems to me, even now, a natural impulse to care for him. The older I’ve gotten, the more complicated that idea has become. Rob and I developed very different adult perspectives and beliefs, leaving me to wonder if I’m still my brother’s keeper.
The Ways of Mice: A Holiday Story
Do you sense at times that there are celestial powers watching over you? Have you felt at other times that loved ones who’ve crossed over still move invisibly around you? I’ve felt those things and wondered about them in my writing. I no doubt will again. But not today. After the recent scary hurricane season, the interminably long and divisive election, I’m in need of an infusion of lightheartedness. I expect you are, too. So today, at the start of this holiday season, and in the spirit of the poet Robert Burns and his ode “To a Mouse” (which he opened with the epigraph, “On Turning her up in her Nest, with the Plough, November 1785”), I am going to tell a story of the ways of mice. It’s a reminder that we humans ought not to act as if we are the be-all and end-all—a reminder to take other creatures into account as we make decisions that impact the earth.
Dear Dad: On Fathers and Daughters
The spiffy young men in the photo above are my father, Oiva, and his brother, Waino. Dad is on the left. It’s not surprising that there’s a dog in the picture with them. Even the dog is beautiful and seems to be posing for the photo. Oiva (pronounced OY-vah) was a dog whisperer—he had invisible charm that every dog could sense. When I’d arrive at Mom and Dad’s with my two Maltese dogs, they would claw at the door to get in and then speed like white lightning right by Grandma in the kitchen to get to Grandpa in the great room. Mom would say, “What am I—chopped liver?” We’d hug, laughing. My pups were astute judges of character. My dear Dad has been gone for twelve years now, and I feel the loss of him every day. Missing him has made me really aware of how people keep walls and borders around themselves.
Mother Love
The photo at the top of this post is of my mother, Rauha, and her older sister, Ingrid. Mom is on the right. The picture was taken at Pikes Peak. My memory is that Mom and Dad were on their honeymoon. They’re all gone now—Mom, Dad, and Ingrid. But “gone” doesn’t mean gone. When I look at this picture, I feel both Mom and Ingrid so strongly, it’s as if they are with me. They were both mothers to me, in different ways. I had many mothers, growing up—my other aunts, my grandmothers, even some of our neighbor women—but I’ve been thinking, lately, about Mom and Ingrid especially. They were in some ways opposites. Watching them, I learned that there are many ways to fill the world with mother love.
The Clock: A Story of Midnight
When my husband Bruce and I got married, his parents gave us a clock with a stained-glass face and a silently swinging pendulum. The clock face is covered with iridescent white flowers. It’s pretty, and it did its job reliably for more than thirty years. But last October, over a period of days, the clock began to act peculiarly. As a writer, I see in the things that happen day-to-day an opportunity for discovering hidden meaning. I couldn’t help but think, What’s up with the clock? And I couldn’t help but wonder—could its odd behavior be a sign? I started trying to figure it out.
Radius: A Geometry of Fathers
Occasionally, a caring presence comes to me while I sleep. He seems to be male in spirit. It’s always the same presence, and over the years, I’ve come to think he watches over me, a sort of father. The encounters seem more a vision than a dream. I’m left with a sense of the man, but the narrative details fade. Lately, I’ve been thinking about the word radius—the straight line between the center of a circle and a point along its circumference. Human lives are bounded by circles—family, community, nation, planet. I see the hate and trouble around us, and I chafe at how limited I am in my reach and my ability to lessen it. I think about my immediate sphere—my family and friends—and don’t know if I should feel happy for the closeness of it, or guilty over how small my circle is.
The Church on Fink Hill: A Story of Light
It’s Christmas, season of light. The candles are lit—our tree is up. Its branches glow with pinpoints of light and hold ornaments that were once on my parents’ and even my grandparents’ Christmas trees. If you’re not Christian, or not a person of any faith at all, you might wonder why a story of Christmas would speak to you. Well, think of it this way. Have you stood breathless beneath the Northern Lights? Or noticed the peace and calm to be found in a certain quality of light? Sitting here in our candlelit house on this December evening, I feel a glow that is light and family history entwined. I glance over at the ornaments on our tree and remember a church I never saw, a church that isn’t there anymore—the church on Fink Hill.
Two Weeks in Heaven
This morning, before dawn, our dog woke me. She needed to use the yard. I stepped out with her into strong wind. Even the light from the streetlights seemed to be blowing around. A blustery rain was moving in. Wispy clouds raced light-gray and ragged overhead, below a darker blanket of overcast. Whenever I’m outside, I watch the sky. It’s something I learned from my maternal grandparents, who in the 1920s built a small farm between a big swamp and a big lake. The biggest lake: Lake Superior. My sister and her husband own the farm now—we call it Heaven. It sounds tongue-in-cheek, I know, but we mean it. There’s something spiritual, mystical, about the farm. In September, I quite unexpectedly got to spend two weeks there, two weeks in Heaven. This morning, as I watched the clouds sweep past over my head, my mind quite naturally began to wonder what the weather was like over in Heaven. I’m already longing for my next trip there.
A Little Heat
My mother picked up a green bell pepper and placed it on the cutting board. We were at the close of the growing season—the table was heaped with peppers, fresh from the earth. In moments, she had gutted and sectioned it. We were making pickled peppers, something Mom did every year. I was fourteen—this was my first time helping. “You do the yellow chilies,” she said. “Cut them in half, then take out the seeds. We’ll put a half pepper into each jar—they’ll add a little heat.” I nodded and set to work. The peppers felt smooth against my skin. They were lovely to look at. A little heat would be good. Looking back now, more than fifty years later, I have to say, yes, a little heat is good—until it’s not.
