IN SEARCH OF EMILY a novel by Susan M. Nelson © 2009 Susan M. Nelson

. . . a woman’s story of longing and discovery.

 

1

       It was raining when I packed up the car. It was raining when I stopped for lunch at Curt's Cannonball diner at Cannon Falls, Minnesota three hours later. It had been difficult driving in the grey. None of the familiar landmarks had been visible: no golden ochre cornfields, no rusty sienna weeds in the ditches, and no deep dark reds in the woods, no dairy farms in Iowa, with the black and white ladies calm and serene. In Minnesota, no open prairies with every natural color possible, no cattle grazing on still green grass and no Amish farmers in their clip-clop horse-drawn buggies. It was just me and the tedious wet.
       I only saw Curt's because of the red light stretched across the highway. Curt's was a comfortable roadside diner, gas station and trucker's motel just off Highway 52. The counter was shaped like the long side of an eight cut in half and there were tables around the edges. Even in this weather, it was busy with every kind of Midwesterner possible, farmers, families, old-timers, and, of course, truckers of all shapes and sizes. A sign said they served the best breakfast in the state, and I believed it. Most of the diners were having breakfast even though it was early in the afternoon. Strong coffee, freshly baked pie and fried food was the fare. The soup was terrific and warmed me up, and I got coffee to go. The tall, reed thin attendant in the baseball cap filled the car with gas and flirted a little. Cute.
       It was a typical autumn Midwest rain. The water came down in thick, gray sheets turning the world into a monochromatic landscape. It was hard to tell where the road stopped and the ditch began. Or the sky and the ground, for that matter. "Sten grå kallt," or something like that, according to Grandpa Algot Lind. It took me years to finally realize it meant "stone grey cold," rather than a Swedish curse, which was the way he uttered it. The kind of weather that colored all thoughts. My God, I won't get there before dark! It was going to be a trick to find the place in daylight, impossible after dark.
       But, I was on my way to a favorite memory from childhood and I couldn't wait for the weather to cooperate. I decided I had to get there today, no matter what unforeseen circumstances tried to prevent it. A place I had not seen since age ten, twenty-two years ago. A very magical place to a child and God knows I needed some magic in my life these days. It had only taken me a few minutes to decide to respond to the legal letter I received. Now I wondered if perhaps my abrupt actions had been too hasty. But then, that was how I did things. Never think it out or I would never do it. The more I think the less action I take.
       So here I am. Driving in a downpour in a very old, small car. A faded two-door hunter green Saab 95 with a grey leather interior, affectionately known as the sow bug. She was on her very last rusty legs. Her shape was that of a hard shelled beetle and I thought of it as my 1930's era gangster's car, only cute and free of danger. The world held no other vehicles like her. It was extremely fun to drive, low to the ground and somewhat, but pleasantly so, noisy.
       I had left my home and my marriage with very little deliberation. I simply wanted out. I had wanted to leave for a very long time, but it was easier to stay and, as usual, take no action. Hard as it had been to admit I had made a mistake in my choice of husbands, which was exactly what I had done. The lawyer's letter gave me the excuse I needed to act. I took my dogs, my oil paints, canvas and my parrot. I didn't want it to look like I wouldn't be returning, although that was probably true. Maybe I thought my husband would sic his friends in the Highway Patrol after me and fetch me home. But then, perhaps not.
       I reached over to the passenger seat to rub Lily's ears for the reassurance we both needed. She looked at me with worry and apprehension. Lily, a 100-pound Great Pyrenees dog, as white as almost new snow with grey ears, she thought she was tiny, but I suppose that came from growing up with twenty pound dachshunds. They were lap dogs, so she was a lap dog also. Rain frightened her because it might thunder any minute.
       "It's not that kind of storm, baby," I tried to calm her. Eyes straying to the windshield, she ignored me. Sullivan, or Sully, a red, longhaired dachshund, and my current wiener dog, lay uncharacteristically quiet in my lap. He was on his back with all four feet resting on the steering wheel, which couldn't possibly be a safe way to drive, but I did nothing to stop him. Pearl, the small grey and white parrot, slept soundly and safely in his cage and under his blanket. Thank the Gods for small favors! That screeching would do in my frayed nerves, in this small space, with barely enough room for my tiny family.
       With hours to go and tired of the two CDs I had with me, Nora Jones and Beethoven's Seventh, which had been in the car for months already, my thoughts strayed to the letter once again. I don't get much mail, and did not often check the box, so this expensive paper caught my eye immediately. From the law firm of Anderson/Erickson, on Payne Avenue in Saint Paul. I had grown up in Saint Paul, Minnesota, but hadn't lived there for a lifetime and knew no one there. All my relatives were long gone to the west coast or the cemetery.
       Payne Avenue was known to me though. A Scandinavian neighborhood often visited by my paternal grandparents and then by my Dad and myself. Swedish bakeries and butcher shops lined the sidewalks. Strolling down the avenue always filled my fanciful imagination of women in long skirts and men in those white shirts with the enormous flowing sleeves. I loved looking in the windows of the old world gift shops. There were blue and yellow flags everywhere and Swedish was still spoken at the bank and post office. Names like Jacobson, Svensson, Anderson, Nelson, Erickson, and Lindquist abounded. Jacobsons Bakery was a favorite. You could smell it floating in the air up and down the block: cardamom, almond, and fresh rye. The trips there were practically the only memory I held onto of life with my father.
       Actually, that was not true. I was being unfair, but still, at an adult age, I resented his unbending staid ways. He was unwilling to compromise or even to listen to any reasoning other than his own. Life with my father colored my views concerning my relationships and attitudes toward men to this date. From a very young age I learned that Dad was always right. Even if I had evidence to the contrary, he was right. I learned I was better off not to argue or disagree, no matter what the topic. If I tried to tell him my idea, I was ridiculed and scoffed at, even in front of my few friends.
       When I was in school, I gave my thoughts less credence than those of my male classmates. Somehow, my mother and I were much less important than my father or, for that matter, any man. My first date, at age fifteen, was a disaster! Ronnie Burns kissed me constantly while we were supposedly watching a drive in movie. Later, I wasn't able to recall what the movie was; his sloppy wet mouth was all I could remember. It was so unpleasant; I wouldn't accept another date for years. And yet, I didn't know how to deal with the situation. I didn't know how to say no to a man. This leaving my husband was probably my first action on my own, without any input from a member of the male race. It felt good. Really good. 4th of July celebration good. I knew I had turned a corner in my life of a second-rate member of the human race. I was free. I was happy. I was doing what I wanted to do.
       Howard, my Dad, was an incredibly handsome man. Tall, shiny black hair and a smile that could melt the polar ice caps. I have a photograph of him standing with his father and three brothers, all of them dressed in short-sleeved white dress shirts and black trousers. They are all smoking and holding drinks. Smiling at the camera, they look like a small Swedish mafia, self assured, happy with themselves and their lot in life. Knowing, that in their world anyway, they were kings. Absolutely on top of the world. They were a force to be reckoned with.
       I wanted Dad to love me. I wanted his respect and approval. So I was always trying to earn it. By the time I was twenty five, shortly before his death, the realization finally hit me. What I wanted simply was not possible. Not unless I could magically sprout a penis. My life changed for the better in that moment. I just stopped trying to fix things with Dad. But I still wasn't standing on my own feet; I switched from a domineering father to a worse husband. Ah, my father, my husband, there was an incredibly long and complicated, but dull story. I shook my head and concentrated on the road, and the letter.
       "Dear Ms. Lind" I had not been Ms. Lind since before marriage and that salutation alone startled me.
       "We have the unfortunate duty to inform you of the death of your maternal grandmother, Augusta Jane Svensson. She died six years ago this past August. We are sorry this news is so late in coming. Your grandmother left an odd will, and it took us some time to locate her next of kin. In her will, Augusta Svensson specified no one but her granddaughter was to live on her property in Minnesota. If you could not be found, we were to use the money in her estate to maintain it until such funds were depleted. You, Ms. Lind, are her only remaining kin and are to inherit her entire estate. If you choose not to live on the estate, you are to forfeit the inheritance entirely."
       The letter went on to explain in detail what that inherited property consisted of, but all I could think of was the cottage by the lake. My mother's cottage by the lake. In truth, I often remembered that house and the summers spent there, but assumed it had long ago been sold, destroyed, or turned into a lakeside resort. I should have known better. My grandmother could barely tolerate my mother, her own daughter, and me coming to visit her. But we did, every summer for ten years. Long, perfectly glorious summers. When Mom died, the lake side summers died also. In fact, for a very long time I felt that the Emily part of me, also, had simply slipped away; slid right through my fingers and disappeared completely. I was just a girl, any girl, but Emily was no longer living in me.
       My father was not welcome at my grandmother's house and nothing more was ever mentioned of the place or of Grandmother. When I would question Dad or ask to go to the lake, I was met with a silent, stony stare. Eventually, I just stopped asking. Dad was as lost to me as Mom. Even at age ten, I knew what subject to avoid. Anything at all to do with my mother or her family was taboo.
       The lawyer's letter gave a phone number and I dialed it.

      

2

      I was just north of the Twin Cities now and the rain was letting up some. I was not used to driving in such traffic, living in a nearly microscopically small Iowa town with no traffic lights and only a handful of stop signs.
       "So far, so good," I said to Lily. She was nervously turning around and around in her seat and whining at the window. "Want to stop for a bit?"
       We were driving through Anoka on Highway 10, and I spied a small park with a covered picnic area. Lily, my oh so brave dog, wouldn't pee while her head was getting wet. She and Sully wandered around on their flexi-leads, Sully pulling his out the full fifteen feet, Lily leaning on my legs. Finally, we accomplished our mission and climbed back into the warm dry car. Sully had only managed to bathe in one puddle.
       The weather had made the day darker than it should have been, and I was worried about the rest of the drive. As it was, I nearly missed the turn-off onto Hwy 169, completely. God knows where we would have ended up. Small towns with pretty names flowed by: Zimmerman, Princeton, Milaca and finally, Mille Lacs Lake. I remember always wanting to go by way of Elk River just because I liked the name so much, but Mom said it was too far out of the way. I had to pull over to the roadside lookout I was so excited.
       "Look, Lily!" I exclaimed, "When I was a girl I thought this was the ocean." Lily looked but it was still too grey for her. I gazed out over the choppy, ice drab water until it blended into the equally grey sky. One color, no line to separate the greys as the lake was too wide to see the far shore. Even on a clear day.
       Oh my God, memories of Neapolitan ice cream, soft, Indian beaded moccasins and fishing with Dad and his father overwhelmed me. While my father had never been at the cabin, he often came this far north just for the fishing and time spent with his father. I was occasionally allowed to come along.
       "I fished right here," I told her, pointing. Grandpa Lind was a real fisherman. He entered contests and usually won them, and I and my cousins would be at his side. His photograph was in the St. Paul Pioneer Press almost every winter, holding one large fish or another. I could bait a hook, catch a sunfish, scrape scales, and bone it before I was four. Grandpa had a sign that said "Old fisherman never die, they just smell that way!" For me, warm smells of sweet pipe tobacco spoke of Grandpa, not dead fish. He had also been a carpenter and outfitted the fancy railroad cars when he worked for the railroad in Saint Paul. He and I would walk from his house to the tracks just to watch the trains come and go. Often there were gypsies camped in the spot we liked, so we would bring a chicken or two with us. Grandpa said if we were generous, they wouldn't steal any. It seemed to be true. Grandma Bengta was the only woman in the area who never complained of losing eggs or chickens. Grandpa Lind was a terrific grandfather and I spent a great deal of time with him. Grandma Bengta was the sweetest person I have met to date, a very proper Swedish lady who wouldn't let her husband kiss her in front of us.
       Their tall stucco house on Saint Clair Avenue was once a dairy farm. Now it one of the busiest streets in St. Paul, with houses and businesses lined up like Roman soldiers. I loved that house. It wasn't large by today's standards, but it felt big to me, and so mysterious. Full of dark corners, polished wood, and deep closets. A small three season porch faced St. Clair Avenue, where we would sit and watch the ever busy squirrels. The city bus stop was at the corner just one house down, and I loved watching the people get on or off and speculate about their lives. The living room ran the length of the front of the house. The carpeting was dark and soft. I remember a forest green sofa that I would sink down in and fall asleep with my head in Grandma's lap.
       A formal dining room and kitchen sat behind this room. Grandpa's desk was in the corner piled with his papers and unread newspapers. There had been a photograph of me standing at Grandpa's desk, with his soft wool cap on my head and his pipe in my hand. I loved that photo. I wonder whatever happened to it. The heavy mahogany table could seat the entire family and my cousins and I would play for hours under it, safe from adult eyes. Through a swinging door was the small kitchen, whose space was nearly all stove. A tiny table seated four and that's where I would eat my breakfast of Swedish coffee and toast that Grandma cut into quarters. The room was neat as a pin, everything always exactly where it belonged. At the back of the house were an unheated pantry and the back door going out into a minute-sized yard.
       Between the kitchen and living room was a dark hallway no longer than four feet, with the refrigerator on one side and the basement door on the other. Halfway down these steps was a door that led outside, which I always thought was so clever. The cellar was the size of the house and was lined with narrow shelves absolutely filled with neatly tied bundles or boxes labeled in Swedish text by a female hand. An old fashioned wringer washing machine was really the only reason to be down there.
       The staircase that led to the second floor was grand. Dark wood and heavy posts. Halfway up was a landing where my cousins and I could listen to adults when we were supposed to be resting. At the top were three bedrooms, a closet, and a bathroom. The octagon-shaped hallway had shiny hardwood floors with wide planks. The bathroom floor was covered in tiny black and white ceramic tiles and a beautiful claw-foot tub that was so deep I needed to be lifted out of it. The largest room, where Grandpa Algot slept in later years, once held Dad's three brothers. A closet sized room tucked off to the side of this was Dad's space. Later, it was transformed into a sewing room with an old treadle machine where Grandma sewed doll clothes for me and my cousins and patchwork quilts for us all to snuggle under when we visited. Shelves from floor to ceiling were stacked with dozens of closed boxes. Some were tied with string and others wrapped in brown paper. Many of these were labeled in Swedish and, we were sure, full of interesting things like linens from Sweden, old letters and cards, clothes we had given to Grandma on birthdays, which were still wrapped in tissue paper when she died as they were "much to nice for this old Grandma to wear." I would give anything to have those cards and letters now.
       Another room had belonged to my aunts and then later, to an unmarried uncle who stayed with his parents until they died. I was never allowed inside of it.
       Grandma's room was the third. It had a high bed and white coverlet with matching lace curtains. When I spent the night, I would lie in that bed and listen to the sad, quiet sounds of the mourning doves in the grape arbor. The room smelled of lilacs always. Sweet and soft. After Grandma's death, my aunts found hairnets stuffed with her brown, fine hair. She always wore these nets on her hair and I never thought it odd, but I'm sure she was losing her hair and covered up that fact with these hair filled nets. Ah, we woman are so vain. Grandma always wore rayon or silk dark dresses and dark stockings. The dresses favored tiny flowers or solid colors, black and grays. Funny, that would be the type of dress I would choose for myself
       . A narrow sidewalk went to the one-car garage and a trash barrel where most of the household trash was burned, a practice no longer allowed. Tall, old-fashioned hollyhocks stood next to the garage. Some years they grew taller than my grandmother. Still, after all these years, I can never see that flower without remembering her. Up against the back door was the largest purple lilac bush in the Midwest. Or, so it seemed to my eyes. Grandpa had built a grape arbor there, with a bench underneath. On hot days, it was always so cool under the ripening fruit.
       All of my family on my dad's side was from in or around the Twin Cities of Saint Paul and Minneapolis. I knew and loved them all. It is strange to think of them now, after so many years. It is a long and complicated story, but to simplify things, growing up I always felt that I was very special to all my dad's relatives. Well-loved and a favorite. When my mother died, I began to doubt this idea. People were kind, but not what I expected, distant perhaps.
       When Dad died, I was hit with a lightning bolt of realization. I watched as my aunt distributed Bengta's jewelry and personal items to my cousins, but not to me. Everyone was available to me, but not particularly loving and I immediately felt such a fool! It was so obvious to me then that the close family ties were simply in my mind. They were nothing I could count on. I was nobody's special or favorite anything. It seemed that while Dad was living, I was part of a family, tolerated and included. But when he died, I lost all of them as well. Even the best-friend cousin, who was my own age and had grown up with me, disappeared from my life. When she married into the Catholic Church, I was so sure I would be a bridesmaid that I planned for it. However, she never asked me. To this day I feel her rejection, still fresh and sore. I realized I was truly alone in this world. I also realized that Mom couldn't have loved me as much as she said, since she left me too. These thoughts completely devastated me for many years and can still bring tears to my eyes. Everyone needs to feel they are somehow special to someone else. Everyone. I cannot believe that I was so blind.
       Mom's family was always a mystery, especially Grandmother Augusta. Her, I knew not at all and loved even less. In some ways, I felt foolish for letting her back into my life dead or not, after all these years. But, I was very curious about Mother's side of the family. I think I was hoping to find a little of her on this trip. After all, she had grown up in Grandmother's house and lived there until she married Dad. The marriage, from what little I knew, was not a welcome one for Grandmother Augusta, and Dad was not allowed to visit. Or, maybe he simply chose not to put himself in that uncomfortable position. So each summer we went without him. I never understood, and it did not occur to a ten year old to ask. Why did my mother even go back there? So many questions! Was there anyone left to answer them? Why did it take me so long to look for these answers? I think perhaps that it was easier to let everything go, just like I had with my marriage.
       The rain started up again in earnest as I moved the car back onto the highway. There no longer was much traffic to confuse me. The summer people were back in their real lives and the locals knew enough to stay out of this weather. Another hour and a half or so and I turned off onto a secondary highway and stopped to consult the map sent by the law firm. This part of the trip was a blur in my memories because I was too busy waiting for the first glimpse of the lake or the mailbox shaped like Uncle Sam, to pay attention to the roller-coaster road.
       With my heart pounding, I soon made the turn onto the straight narrow gravel road that led to the lake. Up and down several roller-coaster hills with a bit of lake showing at the top of each. As I came over the crest of a long hill I saw it! The lake as it always appeared in my first glance. Then, I turned again. This time on a winding gravel path, rather than an actual road, that led to the house. Past raspberry and blackberry vines scratching at the car, we crawled up the lane. This path was so overgrown it was hard to distinguish it from the surrounding growth, especially in this dim light. It was almost like trying to drive in a forest except there were no fallen tree branches. I thought it would be too dark to see the lake, but then, there it was again. And just when the house came into view, a shaft of sunlight broke through the dark sky and lit up the place like a spotlight. Sunlight sparkled on rain drops, wet window panes, very long grass, and it took my breath away.
       The house was enormous. Two floors and a full attic and nearly the size of city block. The rooms had to be huge. It looked like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie, part deep red brick and narrow white siding with a dark red tiled roof. Part of my view of the mansion was obscured by overgrown tree branches shading the house so thoroughly those parts were lost in the shadows. Oh my dear lord, what have I gotten myself into?
       As the dogs and I exited the car, I did what I had always done upon arriving: I turned to the lake and walked to the end of the dock. It was in great need of repair, but held our weight. I was finally here, Bay Lake, Minnesota, the most wonderful place on the planet. Nearly dark now, the sun setting on the water, I was immensely glad to be here, in spite of any misgivings I might have convinced myself existed. It was so silent. A quiet experienced nowhere else. I had forgotten the gentle sound made by the breeze flowing over the water just before dark. The only additional sound was the gentle lapping of the water against the dock and an occasional splash of a fish. I often imagined my mother, standing here just as I was, in a light cotton summer dress, flowing against her bare legs in the soft lake wind. She could spend hours just staring out onto the lake. Daydreaming, I guessed. As the breeze lifted my hair, exactly as it had moved hers, I knew the magic was still here. I stood there until the sun was gone and the dogs grew restless. They weren't particularly good at motionless daydreaming.
       Back at the car, I reached for the oversized key and moved toward the house. On the front porch, feeling like I was standing in the center of a small roofed Athenian temple, I hesitated. I never had been in there, I realized. Mom and I always stayed in the much smaller guest cottage by the water. No one ever said, but I think I reminded Grandmother of my Dad, and she couldn't bear to look at me. Putting the key back in my pocket, I made a decision.
       "Come on, guys, we'll sleep in the cottage." The cottage was between the house and the lake with the lane, if it could even be called that, in between. It had a friendlier look than the cold forbidding house and I felt better as we approached the door. This house I knew like no other.
       There was no electricity or water turned on there yet, and I didn't want to attempt to locate the fuse box in the dark. But I also couldn't go in the main house. Not yet. With the last remaining light, we entered. I do not think anyone had been there since Mom and me. With shocked eyes, I saw my forgotten books and crayons on the table under several inches of dust. One of my Mother's pearl earrings sat next to the sink and an old, dried out lipstick lay on the floor. There was no more daylight and the windows were covered in a wire mesh and opaque plastic for winter, making the room even darker and full of shadow. But it was a comfortable and still familiar space, so I swept the dust from the center of the room, using the small amount of dusk showing through the still open screen door, took out my sleeping bag from the car, and fed the pets. I was too exhausted and overwhelmed to eat anything myself, so I crawled into the bag and snuggled with Sully and went immediately to sleep. Home. I felt that I was finally home.

 

3

       I awoke from dreams of breathing in moist, humid, almost wet rainforest air to find Lily stretched out on top of me with her nose against mine. Sully was growling threateningly from inside the bag, nervous about being stepped on, and I remembered where we were. My new life was starting today.
       Coffee. I needed coffee first! The dogs knew better than to ask for anything until there was a steaming mug in my hands. Not today, though. In all my excitement the only supplies I packed were for the pets. Lily, watching me with a wary expression, and Sully oblivious as they ate their kibble. I uncovered Pearl's cage and was greeted with a chirpy "Good morning, how are you?" And then a more somber "What 'cha doing?" as he looked around the unfamiliar territory: "What are you doing to me?" He wanted to know.
       The weather had done a complete turn-around. The sun was bright and there was no wind. It was a warm day for September in Minnesota. One of those cherished Indian summer days that I wished would last forever. Leashing the dogs, we went out for a walk. What a beautiful world it was! Even more so than memory. Birch and poplar trees grew in clumps, with their intriguing and ragged parchment bark. Pine, oak, and willow were scattered around the yard. So many trees and so thick, I wondered if you could even see the lake from Grandmother's house. The grass grew thin and sparse here in the sandy ground; denser near the bigger house where once a real lawn grew and was tended. Against the water grew these odd little hollow plants. I don't know what they are really called, but Mom and I called them pull-aparts because the stems grew in sections and we could pull them apart and stick them back together again. Next to the lake stood the two trees we would stretch the canvas hammock between. I decided at that moment, we would make the cottage our home rather than Grandmother's forbidding monster of a house.
       From the end of the dock I could see there were no boats on the water. No signs of other people. In the distance I heard the sound of a lawnmower or chainsaw, but it was a mile or so away, across the bay. The cabin was in a tiny bay of its own, completely out of sight of others. Except for a loon or two, it was silent. It was a steady quiet, a comfortable and dependable quiet where no unexpected noises would interrupt thoughts. Absolutely no people sounds unless I made them. A barely noticeable breeze stirred the long, thin grass as a red-tailed hawk soared above looking for a meal. It eyed Sully briefly, decided he was too big, and flew off. There was a memory of a rowboat either tied to the dock or lying on the shore, but none to be seen. Red. It had been painted a barn red. Of course, it had been at least six years since any people had lived here.
       Stomach empty and desperate for coffee, the dogs and I climbed into the car to head out into this strange but familiar world to find supplies. Wondering if Petersons General Store was still in existence, I drove in the most likely direction. At the end of my lane, I turned left and drove past cabins closed up for the season and those that were still occupied. Some folks lived there year round, and you could tell who they were by the kind of cottage they lived in. Some had a thin stream of smoke coming from chimneys. There were huge vegetable gardens and fruit trees at these places and piles of sawn and chopped wood. Good idea, I thought. It would be cold soon and I had no idea what sort of heat was available at either house. I'm sure Grandmother had heat, but I didn't remember if there was heat in the cabin. The only source of heat I remembered from childhood summers was a fireplace.
       Another three miles up the rough gravel road and I found it. Petersons General Store. I remembered five cent pony rides in the parking lot on hot sweaty afternoons and double scoops of ice cream for a dime. The hand-painted sign was so faded it was hard to read, but I was thrilled it was still here after so many years. A long, low rectangular shape, the building consisted of a poolroom bar on one side opening into the store on the other. White clapboard siding and no windows, it didn't look promising. But I remembered a treasure trove of everything interesting to a child, bubble gum to bait, comic books to sweatshirts with Bay Lake printed on them. Anything the summer people could want. The stooped, crooked man behind the counter looked too old and frail to be there, but wasn't familiar to me. Instant coffee, bread, milk, peanut butter, canned soup, canned pears, cheese, cereal, bottled water, and Milkbones. There were no fresh veggies or fruit, so a trip to a town was in order. Wherever that might be! I piled my purchases at the register and smiled brightly.
       "That's it," I said.
       "Well," Mr. General Store rumbled, "You know we can get whatever you want. Let me know by Tuesday and it'll be here on Friday."
       "Great."
       "So, what do you want then?"
       "I'll have to think it over."
       He rang up my food and studied the box of Milkbones a bit. "Got a dog, do ya?"
       "Two of them. They are out in the car," I offered with another smile.
       "Haven't seen you before….." So I proceeded with a shorter version of my story.
       "And now I'm here for awhile. Maybe all winter."
       "Lind, you say. Ain't nobody here by that name." He sounded suspicious.
       "My Grandmother was Augusta Svensson." That brought a closer look.
       "Didn't know she had family anymore."
       "Apparently no one did, since it took the lawyers so long to find me." He bagged my groceries slowly, watching me with a close and curious expression.
       "You must be Marie's girl." He finally smiled back. "Look like her, you do. The same curly brown hair, those rosy cheeks, eyes so dark blue they almost look black." No one had ever compared me to my mother. All I had were my memories of her; I had never seen a photograph. No wedding pictures, no birthday party celebrations. Nothing. There were later photographs of Dad and me, or his folks, but not of Mom.
       "Really?' I was pleased and I was sure he could see that. "Did you know her?"
       "Watched her grow up. She was a friend to my children. Moved away when she was eighteen or so."
       We walked to the door and he handed me my sack. "Ain't no Linds around here." He repeated with a grin.
       "There is now."
       "Welcome home." What a wonderful sound those words were! I did feel at home, for the first time in more than twenty years.