Before World War II, my dad invested in flax-its seeds were needed for oil and cattle feed, its fibers for military uniforms. After the War, the flax market plummeted. Dad tried to sell his land, but with fields slow to rot, no one would buy. Most farmers burned flax straw to speed up decomposition, so Dad, a city man, decided he'd try that. He drove to his fields one morning in late June. He thought twice about ruining the peaceful scene: Johnny-jump-ups, trilling meadowlarks, pheasants picking through the rows. He almost lost his resolve smelling sweet fresh earth, but knew he had to burn to vend. He checked the wind's direction, holding up his handkerchief. As soon as the flax ignited, the wind shifted. Golden fields of flax gusted heavy dark soot. All living creatures ran. Siren-ed up, fire trucks wailed down Highway 68. The wind blustered. The fire spread. Fighters furiously dug trenches and soaked structures in the trail of the blaze. The flames finally extinguished, at Marshall's city council meeting, members voted on the question, "Is Pat Rogers a son of a bitch?" "Yes." The vote was unanimous.

Oh Happy Day

"Bitch, we're not sittin' down." I shrug, "You have to be here. You might as well use me. I can help you learn to read and write." Seniors in high school, Melody and her friend, already mothers, take stock of me, a young rookie teacher. "Why do we care about that?" Melody asks. "Because it will help you get a job, take care of your children, find some enjoyment for yourself." Melody glances at her friend, nods. They sway to the back of the class, glaring at the other students, "Whatchalookinat?" They plump themselves down into dirty desks, ones they'll claim day after day. They're giving my class a chance. Our school is an aged Gothic castle with faculty attempting these days to defend its borders and protect its students.

In late September, the first all-school assembly convenes in the grand old auditorium. As homeroom after homeroom storms in, the noise level climbs wildly, riotously. Out of control. The principal and vice-principal rush up and down the aisles ordering the teachers, "Keep your kids in their seats." Melody, onstage for the opening act, begins singing softly, "Oh happy day . . ." The hall quiets down, eventually there's not a sound, all eyes and ears focused on this beautiful woman cradling the mike. "Oh happy day (oh happy day) When Jesus washed (when Jesus washed) He washed my sins away (oh happy day) Oh happy day (oh happy day) . . ." She starts clapping, her voice rising in key and volume. Kids jump up out of their seats. Another key change, Melody now shouting. With their hands in the air, students leap into the aisles dancing, chanting.

Suddenly, Melody walks off the stage, calling out, "He taught me how to watch, fight and pray. And live rejoicing every, every day." She strides straight down the center aisle. A siren. Pied Piper. Moses. A Mahalia Jackson, Mavis Staples, Aretha Franklin. Kids follow her, answering, "Oh happy day." "(oh happy day)" "He taught me how." "(he taught me how)." Assessing the volatility, I move toward Melody,catching her eye. I hope she'll read my mind, my lips, Lead them to the Martin Luther King Center. And she does, steering the students through the huge double doors down the worn concrete steps out onto the sidewalk into the blazing sun, headed toward the Center. On this day, Melody saves the school.

Newly married, I meet Ellen Kunzel on the phone one winter morning, her soft voice asking in Spanish to speak to my husband Tomás. She and her husband are in the States, hoping to visit us in Minnesota. Tom explains the Kunzels are friends from his Peace Corps days. Werner, an artist, left Hamburg in the 1930s escaping Hitler's draft. He married Ellen after World War II, when he traveled back, briefly, to Germany. He brought her to the stunning house he'd built in Irupana, close to La Paz, Bolivia. "They helped me survive," Tom says. "A break from my life of coffee plantations and TB inoculations." He describes climbing the steep path to their home, high in the Yungas with Bach echoing in the mountains. They welcomed him playing their own violin concertos. They fed him meat and potatoes, strawberries from their garden. Wine. Their home, full of books and artwork, held two impressive sculptures Werner had made: a death mask of Beethoven and a bust of Don Quixote.

The Kunzels stay with us in our small apartment in Minneapolis. We talk into the night; in daylight, they tour the Twin Cities. On a Saturday in a gentle snowstorm, we drive together to the Minneapolis Institute of Art. We shuffle through the snow toward the front entrance. Suddenly, Werner makes a strange, guttural sound, almost sinks to his knees, grabbing Tom's arm. I fear a heart attack, but what has stunned Werner is the sculpture by an artist friend of his, Ernst Barlach, from Hamburg, an angel, with a two-handed sword, on the back of a wild beast. In his heavy overcoat, Werner paces around and around the dark statue, removing his glasses, swinging them back and forth with a snow-flaked glove. He nudges the beast's paws with big buckled boots. He touches the sword held by the angel and swipes away tears from his craggy face. Ellen touches her husband's arm, urges him back to the car.

As we drive home, Werner tells us Barlach created Fighter of the Spirit not as a war memorial but as a monument to the mind and spirit rising above suffering. Werner says that almost as soon as the sculpture was installed, it was damaged- the sword broken-later, totally destroyed by the Nazis. A copy must have been made and brought to Minneapolis. While our snug car moves through a shrouding snow globe, my spirit lifts in gratitude for the beneficence of these artists.

A proclamation to my children: "We're going to see this one. It's a big deal!" The 1986 ice palace built for the 100th anniversary of the St. Paul Winter Carnival-10,000 ice blocks; the first to be illuminated by a computerized lighting system. My parents in their '70s ask if they can come along. The day we choose is terribly cold, way below zero with a bitter wind. We bundle up, hats, boots, gloves, scarves. When we get to Picnic Island, we're overheated, and the road to the entrance is blocked. We park far away. Still, tingling with excitement, we bolt out of the car to see the tallest palace ever built, 128 feet 9 inches high. It's also 90 feet long and wide. We trudge through parking lots, across streets, down sidewalks, finally entering the park, where we join a viewing line sprawled across vast frozen tundra. Lofty banks of snow fence in our interminable snake. We can't catch a glimpse of the palace, can't guess how long the procession stretches. We plod very slowly along; one boot forward, another, another.

Eventually, my dad says, "Honey, we have to warm up." We're far afield from the car at this point. The two older kids, nine and eight, beg to stay in line, "We've come this far." Unsure of any movement forward or back, caught between the needs of the young and old, I say, "I don't know what to do." Dad breaks from the column, "Not to worry. I'll flag a ride. Give me the car keys." He storms the distance to an ancillary road, waves at a lone car driving past. He returns, takes Mom's arm and my five-year-old's hand. The older kids and I can barely make out their figures climbing into the car. We're still non-progressing at an alarming rate.

So numb when we end up at the front of the queue, we look, quickly move on, taking no time to walk around or wonder. We hurry back to the lot, not feeling our fingers or toes, and jump into the warm waiting car. Before long, we're sweltering again, caught in another snaking-trail, a hoary swirl of cars exhausting out of the park. To pass the time, we share a scrolled picture handed to us at the site, a dreamy depiction of the fairy-like royal palace. We chat about it as if we'd really seen it.