NOVEMBER 28, 2023
“FULL CIRCLE”
CLIFTON TOWNSHIP, WI – MAY 31, 1995
She was named Maia Grace after her great grandmother on Jenny’s side and her grandmother on Garrison’s side. Born on December 29, 1997 in New York City, Jenny and Garrison’s daughter made her Minnesota debut a couple of weeks into January. Her christening, however, was deferred until after the frost was out of the northern prairie ground.
By the end of May that year, winter had retreated irreversibly. Replacing the harshness of cold, ice and snow was the vengeful fury of tornado season. On the night before Maia’s baptism, the weather had gone rogue across the region, downing trees, destroying homes, and cutting power to broad swaths of human settlement.
To achieve extra privacy, the baptism ritual and celebration that followed were planned for “the ranch,” as it was called—Jenny and Garrison’s secluded enclave of “craft structures” that Garrison had had moved and renovated some years before to a large country parcel south of Hudson, Wisconsin, about a 45-minute drive from St. Paul.
To reach the site, you exited the freeway just east of the scenic St. Croix River, then drove south across classic Upper Midwest farmland. At a certain curve past the entrance to Kinnickinnick State Park, you slowed down, then turned right onto a narrow lane undulating past corn and hay fields spreading westward another mile or so before making a lefthand turn south. A ways farther you looked for the mailbox on a post, which marked the dirt drive leading upward across more cropland toward the big woods.
Where the farmland met the trees stood an old country schoolhouse relocated to the site and refurbished as a small rehearsal and performance venue. The appealing structure had a pool room in back and a studio addition—for Jenny’s practicing and Garrison’s writing—off to one side. For guests, a basketball hoop and tennis court were installed close by outside. A hundred feet into the woods was the main dwelling, a square-hewn-log house of modest proportions. Farther yet into the woods was a cozy guest cabin, which inside and out recalled old-style Scandinavian design and craftsmanship. If you could find the path somewhere around the cabin, you’d eventually reach the river, assuming you didn’t get lost in the thick woods along the way.
Normally “the ranch” was a relaxing, bucolic spot; a perfect place for Maia’s grandparents, aunts, uncles, a few cousins, and close friends (including Robin and Linda Williams and Kate McKenzie for a good round of gospel singing), to assemble for the baptism. And given the hand-carved wolf’s head newel cap—with its likeness to a collie—inside the main house, “the ranch” was the ideal site for the revelation that was soon to be heard.
But early that day Beth, our boys and I found our neighborhood in disarray—downed branches and a few uprooted trees littering the boulevard and nearby yards. Later that morningJenny called, her voice filled with aggravation.
“We lost power, damnit,” she said. “As a result, we have no water—taps or toilets—and because we couldn’t close the electrically-operated skylight in the kitchen when it was raining cats and dogs last night, we have a flood going on inside the house.”
“Wow. We experienced some tree damage around here but never lost power,” I said.
“This is why I hate coming back here from New York. You’re at the mercy of the weather all the time.”
I allowed myself a silent laugh. We Minnesotans proudly allowed people from milder parts of the country to define us by our extreme weather. By her years of “big city living” on the East Coast Jenny had grown soft. But then again, Beth and I weren’t hosting an infant’s baptism and after-party for 30 or 40 people.
“We’re not cancelling,” she said. “The Episcopal priest we hired and the caterer are still on board, and all the guests I’ve talked to are planning to come, so we can’t cancel. But I am asking everyone to bring a jug or two of water, okay?”
“That’ll be a new one . . .” I said “attendees hauling water to a baptism. And I’ve never heard of holy water coming out of a plastic jug.”
Even in angst, Jenny managed a good laugh.
“Maybe for the actual baptism,” I said, “you can use the water that flooded your kitchen. After all, that water came directly from heaven, didn’t it?”
“I suppose,” she said, momentarily forgetting her distress.
By the time we arrived later in the day, power had been restored. The port-o-potty that Garrison had ordered was no longer needed, and as it turned out, the priest would bring his own ample supply of holy water.
The priest was the last person to arrive, and a few minutes ahead of him appeared the last of the guests: Garrison’s sister Linda and her husband David.
Kind, smart, funny, cheerful, and interesting, Linda and David always brought light, warmth and good conversation to family gatherings. On that day, they greeted everyone cordially but then trained their attention on Dad.
“Mr. Nilsson!” Linda exclaimed. “We can’t wait to tell you something absolutely amazing!”
Dad, being Dad, smiled graciously but with Swedish reserve. “Yeah,” he said in the tone he used to acknowledge an assertion without necessarily agreeing with it.
“Sit down,” said Linda excitedly, taking a seat beside Dad, as David too pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Two weeks ago yesterday, David and I were driving up to Anoka to visit my parents . . . We crossed the Champlin bridge into town and to my puzzlement, David turned onto the first street along the river . . . ‘David,’ I said. ‘Why are you going this way? Where are you taking us?’”
I looked at David. Smiling broadly, he seemed eager to say something, but Linda was too animated for him to get a word out.
“He wouldn’t answer me,” she said. “He just kept driving down the street with no explanation. About halfway he slowed way down, and again, I asked, ‘David, what are you doing? Where are we going?’”
“She had no idea,” said David, shifting in his chair.
“Toward the end of the street,” Linda continued, “he stopped the car altogether . . . in front of a house . . . and said, ‘This is it, I’m sure.’
“Leaning toward me David looked out my window at the house . . . I was about to tell him . . . well . . . but then he said,. ‘I don’t know if I ever told you, but before we met,’ he said, ‘I had a dog, a beautiful dog, that I couldn’t keep . . . I had to sell it, and I sold it to the folks who lived in that house.’
“ ‘David!’ I said. ‘Do you know who lives here?’ – ‘No,’ he said. And I said, ‘Jenny’s parents!’”
I looked at David, who’d removed his eyeglasses and was blotting an eye with his shirt cuff. I turned to Dad in time to see his face light up as if reacting to some divine revelation. “No kidding,” he said. Another word and his voice would’ve cracked. He reached for his right back pocket, removed his billfold and from its well organized contents pulled out a photo of Björn. “That right there,” he said, showing the picture to David, “was the most beautiful dog that ever walked the face of the earth . . . and I assure you, David . . . he had a long, beautiful life.”
With those words, Dad retrieved his handkerchief from his left back pocket. I recalled Doc Andberg’s telling me about all the grown men of Anoka whom he’d seen cry their eyes out when their “huntin’ dogs” were put to sleep. I couldn’t hide my own emotions any better than could Dad, David, or any of those Anoka men. The only difference was that my shirt cuffs were inside my blazer sleeves and I wasn’t of the generation that carried a handkerchief. I had to steal a napkin off the nearby dessert table already set up for the after-party.
After all, Björn had also been my beloved dog, and given the story just told, I had every right to cry too. (Cont.)
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
