Dirty Laundry Speaks Loudly

As I loaded up the rickety and often cranky washing machine in my basement, I couldn't help but notice that an entire load of my laundry consisted of college-themed clothing. A "Bennie" t-shirt from each of my four years, in a rainbow of colors, each bringing back memories of the particular year I received them. A dark grey St. Ben's athletic sweatshirt. It's funny, you know. I still wear these things - mostly to the gym - and they define much of my recent history.

I think life tries to speak to us using subtle yet noticeable themes that often occur in mundane situations - laundry included. Case in point: my laundry is not the first time this week that my Bennie roots have surfaced.

I was at a corporate networking event on Wednesday and sat across from a Johnnie. I received an email from a soon-to-be graduate of St. Ben's seeking career and post-college advice. And she was a Communication major, like me! It seems everyone I talk to these days has either gone to my school themselves or at least knows that their friend's neighbor's cousin's daughter went there. Catch my drift?

It used to be quite thrilling for me to see that connection when these happy coincidences came up. But as I've moved away from central Minnesota's college town, moved into somewhat of a career track and have had additional experiences away from that small-town campus and those lake-side classrooms, my enthusiasm seems to have dwindled.

I still find it fascinating how life brings you people with connections like that when you aren't even looking. And there is obviously value in making such connections. But I think I'm moving on from the novelty of college. I haven't even been to campus in over a year. Yeesh. I'm getting old.

So what is it exactly that my laundry is trying to tell me? I don't really know, honestly. I'm not sure what I'm even listening for at the moment.

What I do know is that in less than a year, I'll be on the job hunt, building new relationships, seeking new experiences, looking to grow personally. It will be another big change. It won't be easy, but it'll be worth it. One thing that won't change, though, is my past.

My diploma will still say College of St Benedict in partnership with St. John's University. I'll still have many more Bennies and Johnnies to meet in the Twin Cities or around the world (it's a small world, after all!). And I'll have those precious things called memories of days riding the Link or working at Clemens library at St. Ben's.

Don't worry. I'll still be sorting my Bennie laundry, too. Maybe then I'll be able to decipher what it's trying to tell me.

Saying Goodbye to Grandma's House

Over break Mom, Aunt Barb and Uncle Jim and I ventured over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house, we went. My grandma, that would be. My Mom and Aunt's mother.

The house had been on the market for awhile and we were having trouble locating a qualified and eager buyer. Finally, the call came and the wheels have been in motion since, getting all the necessary paperwork filed and taking care of the final physical details of the house.

Visiting my Grandmother's house as a child was always something spectacular. I always marveled at the fancy furniture Grandma kept in the living room, the comfy beds we napped on and the delicious food she served up in the kitchen. And she was an amazing cook.

In the basement was where Grandpa and I hung out. I spent endless days drawing, spelling and completing math problems on the school-room sized chalk board that hung in the basement. Grandpa would give my brother and I a problem or two to solve while he sat on the green wicker patio furniture in front of the T.V. and watched whatever college basketball game happened to be on. Next to the massive green player piano, Grandpa kept his mini-fridge, always stocked with Shasta Moon Mist, Cola and of course, Old Milwaukee Light for he and my Grandma who always shared a beer before bed. The brick style basement walls always made me nostalgic for the 70's despite not even haven lived through them!

Grandpa's humor and fun attitude earned him the title of "The Funny Grandpa" in my mind and I would always inquire if we were visiting "The Funny Grandpa" or not. He was an active part of my life while he was around. We always played the magnetic fishing game, or sometimes, if I was extra good, I got to type on the typewriter. Wow.

Not to mention my Grandpa's penchant for polka dancing in the kitchen. I can't remember any happier time as a kid then when Grandpa would lift me onto his feet and whirl me around the kitchen while he taught me the polka dance steps. All while the music of the local polka station drifted about us.

There have been so many good memories of my grandparents and their house. They were the original builders and owners and took great pride in maintaining what they worked so hard for.

Visiting Grandma's house over break brought back these flood of good memories, even as I stared at the now blank walls, the once brightly colored orange framed chalk board (now tan) in the basement, and the empty master bedroom where Grandma's signature bedroom set once resided.

Most of her possessions have now either been collected and redistributed among family members, donated to GoodWill or, sadly, discarded. But I can't help feeling that none of the furniture that we've acquired will ever feel the same. The green wicker patio furniture now lives in my mother's basement; the side tables from the den, the guest bedroom set and even things like glassware seem out of place in my own mother's house. As separate pieces, they feel less powerful, less homey, less grandma-like. I feel that they'll always bring a piece of Grandma and Grandpa back whenever I see them, yet they'll never belong or 'fit' nicely into a new living room, a new bed room or a new den outside of the hallowed walls of Grandma's house.

Leaving Gilbert, MN on New Year's Eve, I said my final goodbyes to Grandma's home: the place that I longed to visit when I was a child. That house always gave me such good feelings and warm memories of my mother's childhood, simply because she and my aunt would reminisce about boys they snuck into the basement, family dinners around the kitchen table, adult card parties in the partitioned living room, and the family dog that ruined so many places in the plush carpet.

The new owners are very sweet and seem to understand how different things are going to be for us now that the house will no longer be ours. "The invitation is open to come back and visit any time" Mrs. Palazarri told us. But I think I might pass on that generous offer.

Grandma's house is and always will be a special place in my heart and I want to keep things the way they were. The chalk board orange, the green wicker furniture in the basement, the dog-ruined carpet adorning the walkways into each bedroom. In my mind, I want to visit "Grandma's House".