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On February 12, 2025, I began a new chapter in my life. I moved into a senior living apartment in Minnetonka, Minnesota. After almost two years on waiting lists, an ideal apartment became available. I didn’t want to miss the opportunity that suddenly presented itself, so I made a quick decision to move within 30 days. Then I developed an epic case of flu that knocked me back for about ten of those days. Nevertheless, the move was accomplished with the help of a team of people.
Like the flu bug, the weather did not cooperate, we had a
cold “snap” the first week I was here. “Snap” is a good example of
Minnesota minimalism. It means a lengthy period of life-threatening
subzero weather. Anyone with the slightest excuse stays indoors and sips
coffee. My movers did not have that option, so they bravely hauled my
possessions to my new home.
Today, I am sitting at my desk looking out on a new and
different snowy landscape in suburban Minnesota. At my house, I looked
out on a hiking/biking trail and the near constant motion of runners,
bikers and dog walkers. This view is from the treetops (I am on the 4th
floor).
Movement is supplied by squirrels, birds, rabbits and
occasional deer. The sun shines brightly through the windows of my
office. I find myself floating in a transition period of postponed
appointments, clinging to memories of my past and the warm greetings of
my new neighbors. This leads me to reminisce about past homes.
The first eighteen years of my life were firmly anchored in
my parent’s small bungalow in Pineville, a village in the center of
McDonald County, the southwestern most county of Missouri. Our home was
part of a two-block addition to the town created in the 1920’s.
Pineville was platted in 1847 and both sides of my family have lived
there since shortly after the Civil War. Despite a long history, time
had largely stood still in that part of the Missouri Ozarks. We got
indoor plumbing in 1940 – the year I was born. I suspect it was not a
coincidence. There were no street addresses, everyone knew where the
Carnells lived, because we were related to most of them. We had a party
line phone. I remember our signal was “two longs and a short”. When I
lived there again in the late 1970’s I still had a party line, but
progress had produced a big black dial phone instead of one hanging on
the wall.
Despite a stable beginning, my life changed considerably
after that. I pursued an education and charted a career path. Thus,
moving became the norm. I have counted more than thirty different
addresses I called home in the intervening sixty-six years, but with
time the moves became less frequent.
Once when I have gone through a rough patch, my brother
called me with some advice: “Come on home honey” he said. “they can’t
whip us all.” We both knew that our family was the rock that we could
count on and that concept continues today. I still have family members
who will offer help, support and encouragement when needed. I learned
that again last week when I moved once again.
My husband, Al and I lived on Big Sugar Creek for eighteen
years. Once again, I was living near Pineville and was convinced that I
would be there until I left feet first.
Fate had other plans. A “five-hundred-year flood” turned the
normally benign stream into a raging beast that burst into our home
uninvited. My husband and I were rescued by a neighbor who pushed a
canoe through the muddy roiling water to reach us. We clung to it while
slogging though a chest deep current to safety. I had time only to grab a
purse that held our meds and credit cards. The story of the flood and
its aftermath is too long to tell here, but I will write about it in
more detail another time.
Even though I now live in a new place, McDonald County will
always be “home” to me – the place I returned to time after time. The
place where my ashes will go in my final journey.
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