Allison Campbell Jensen

If a person is fortunate in their friends, as I am, you may have different friends for different activities. This may sound like a bland truism. Well, it is and, maybe, it isn’t. Or it depends, like talking about the weather in Minnesota:

“Can you smell the leaves turning?” Okay, no one said that to me — except me to myself. I added it to the list because the fragrances of Minnesota tend to wow me (including pulp and paper plants, like the one near Cloquet). In springtime, the crocuses and the daffs emerge and their scent is very light but present, like sensing water in the desert. A bit later, the lilies of the valley come up, hiding their white bells at first, then showing them off a bit — and their odor can be cloying if you crouch down into a bed crowded with these little beauties. From a couple of feet away, however, they are splendidly just sweet enough.

Then there’s autumn, a favorite of mine; the leaves turn brilliant before they fall, like certain middle-aged people who effloresce before they begin to fade as the years steal the bloom from their cheeks. Fallen leaves have a certain scent, too, but I cannot capture it in words, not today. I just know that I love it.

Some friends are like that: I just know that I love them. There are people at church who make me smile and I consider them friends but I really don’t know much about their personal history, their quirks, their hidden habits. We share in worship and, in pre-pandemic times, a cup of coffee, a cookie, and a brief conversation. When Earl died, I thought I knew something about him: Dedicated to his wife, Annie; a fellow traveler on the road of Christian social justice; and a good man with a brother who is not his twin but could play him on a TV adaptation of his life.

Earl once said: “This used to be a Buick parish. You’d look into the parking lot and almost all the cars would be Buicks. Now, it’s a bunch of Toyotas and Hondas.”

“I don’t know what happened.” He was joking, mostly. At his funeral service, however, I heard that he had been a daring young man, walking on top of split-rail fences in the countryside, diving into swimming holes without first scouting their depth, and generally raising hell. Wow, nice, quiet Earl??!! What happened?

Too late to ask him.

Don’t wait — that’s what I suggest. When you wonder what happened to change a person’s direction, ask them.

My dear friend Barb, now one of the very few close friends I have known since the wilder days of my youth, offered me a gift the other day that floored me. (I love that image of being knocked to the floor by feelings, don’t you?) She said that my love of nature had inspired to pursue her passion for teaching in the environmental field. I hadn’t known that before. She’s been working an environmental educator and leader for the State of Washington for, let’s say, some time now. And she thanked me for helping her find her path. I had not known I had that much influence . . . in a good way. She knows what I mean 😉

But, that’s quite a responsibility! Pointing the way for somebody sounds a bit pretentious to me on the face of it, although teachers, preachers, politicians, and other leaders in the persuasive arts do it all the time. And, I have to add, they are among my favorite people.

My Dad and my mother were teachers. My sister Anne is a school psychologist; Tracy taught American Sign Language; Trish at one time taught English as a Second Language; brother Richard really enjoyed leading the nursing and respiratory therapy students and interns who followed him around St. Joe’s in Tacoma; Stephanie taught at St. Martin’s, a small private university in Olympia, Washington. I don’t know if Lori has ever taught formally — but she and Mike are bringing up four sporty, smart, and engaging people, the eldest now 17, so I believe there has been plenty of teaching going on in their household.

I suppose Bobert and I are the only siblings out of the running in the teaching competition. But he may have taught others, such as his fellow bartenders?

As for me, I decided I didn’t want to teach. At Yale as a graduate student, I led a section in my Anthropology professor’s course. Ask me about China’s historic ba jia (八家) system of policing people through their neighbors: I can describe it to you and why it still retains some power as a contemporary political tool. That is one cool thing about teaching — a person really gets to know their subject and can explain it well or at least better than during student daze.

But I didn’t have the chutzpah to stand up in front of a class and tell them my opinion and, if they disagreed, dare them to say why. (Example: Dad) I didn’t have the focus on one subject area, other than China, a big region with an illustrious and looonnnggg history, that would make me a good candidate for a professorship with tenure.

I’m a bit of a dilettante when it comes to knowledge. My history teacher Prof. Brennan at Central Washington University, on the other hand, exemplified digging into an area and an era, with the intellectual daring to learn languages and tackle cultural questions. Besides courses on Russia and Medieval Europe, he taught us modern and colonial African history. Believe you me, memorizing those changing borders, names, and “owners” [Oh, the blatant racism!] of colonies and emerging states for the entire continent of Africa was a bear. Well worth it, though, when now I read about African politics in the Economist magazine, as I have an idea of which areas were Francophone, the sad history of Sudan, and an acquaintance with the terrors of South Africa in an earlier era.

When I was preparing to go to China, Prof. Brennan told me to immerse myself in the language — to try not to speak English while I was there. He also said that, when he visits Italy, he speaks Latin and the Italians understand him. I admire him and, because he likes to chuckle, I like him as I like a friend. We’ve never had coffee together, but I consider him one of my crowd, as it were. In that modern African history course, he let me get an A without taking the final, because I had been admitted to Yale. But . . . I spent all that time memorizing the tribal nations of Ghana and the borders of Zimbabwe (formerly Rhodesia) and the route of the Nile River . . .

He’s part of my cloud of witnesses. These witnesses can be people living or passed on to the Other Side.

Friends can be with you in spirit even when they live halfway across the country or in another realm. In that vein, the Rt. Rev. Steven Charleston’s Facebook post/meditation/prayer for today, Feb. 9, 2022.

“When all is said and done, it is the memories we will treasure most. Those brief but clear windows into a world that once was, but is no more, nor ever can be again. The precious stop action of the mind where fleeting time stands still and those we loved live once more. That’s why it means so much: that instant of time travel. Remembering the feel of it, the smell, the touch of life, is as close to joy as we may ever know, at least on this side of a heaven where you can walk through memories as you walk through rooms. Take as much as you want, but leave me my memories and I will be thankful forever.”

As is well known, memories are pegged to smells. Barb and I used to get together to bake Christmas cookies, which I now do with husband and dearest friend Jeff. Powdered sugar clouds for the Viennese crescents, roasting nuts to the just right stage (one judges by smell), and spoonfuls of fruity jelly for the thumbprints!

I have another friend I have not spoken to in decades, Mary H. She and I used to go out for Chinese food: Our Chinese teacher saw us out together more than once and called us 吃饭的朋友, “friends who eat together.” Yes, we were! I wish I could call her now and set a date for dim sum.

My dear friend Betty Pat Leach, who was a mentor to me in doing social justice, a model of “Christianing” (living the Christian life in an active, verb-y way), and served a very hospitable afternoon tea to me and Lizabeth one chilly day. She gave me a hug and said, “You smell good!” “Well, . . . thank you.” {BTW, a tip of the cap to Daniel Wolpert for encouraging us to see Christian as not a noun but a verb, in a long but very interesting exchange on Facebook.}

To bring this thought experiment to an end, for today (whew! thanks for hanging with me), I want to mention my friend Mark. We were on the phone yesterday — remember talking on the phone? Helen and I, when we were 12 or 13, used to call each other and talk for an hour. The Great Northern Goat was one topic . . ..

Mark and I have worked together a few times, at Twin Cities Business Monthly, at the Academic Health Center Office of Communications at the University of Minnesota, and now at the U of M Libraries. Today, he’s my boss, actually, but not bossy. Very gentle in direction, yet clear. He’s smart without needing to be the smartest person in the room: Sometimes he just is. Anyway, we’ve known each other for years, would grab lunch together once in a while even when we were not working in the same office, and have long enjoyed each other’s company.

For the past week, he’s been home sick with this COVID crud. Yesterday, only after a few days, his fever finally broke. He was still a bit snuffle-y but didn’t want to take Nyquil again, he told me, because it gave him weird dreams. “Take the Nyquil tonight,” I said. “You need to sleep to get better.” (I can be a little bossy, at times, as my friend Robert will tell you.)

Then we were talking about a new medication that I am taking. “Is that why you can’t sleep?” he asked. He’s noticed the time stamp on emails at 4 in the morning — that was the giveaway! “It might be,” I said, surprised. I am small in stature, so maybe I need a bit lower dose than other folks. I am going to try cutting the amount in half and see how I do. I could use a little more sleep.

I used to say, “I can sleep when I’m dead,” but I’m no longer in a rush to get to the Other Side.

I could have titled this piece “You’ve got a friend,” but the melancholy way James Taylor sings that song might have colored it gray. My friends are rainbows. Thank you all!

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Our friends from church are on their first trip to the Hawaiian Islands. I have been fortunate enough to travel from Minnesota to Hawaii during February — more than once, even — and have celebrated Valentine’s Day on the Big Island with my husband and a coterie of beloved family members. The waiter at Huggo’s is not to be believed: How can he be so good, so funny, so endearing, that all who are in the know ask for him? “Yes, we’d like a reservation for Feb. 14. And we would like to be seated in Island Johnny’s section, please!”

Mickey would ask and, almost always, she would receive her wish. We all would benefit from her care and thoughtfulness and just downright deep knowledge. It’s always so, traveling with Mickey and Jim: They are in-the-know, up-to-speed, ready-to-go, caring, generous, and understand when to give their fellow travelers some space and when to urge the party to get off their duffs and get this party started.

How does she do it? I don’t know but I have a couple of guesses. She’s the eldest daughter of the family, super-responsible, a helper at home when her mom went to work while they were children, the adult child of a man who was loving and kind (but also may have had alcohol issues, may he rest in peace).

Mickey can be blunt and direct, which is refreshing in Minnesota, where indirection and passive-aggressiveness and hiding feelings are defaults. [I love Minnesota, maybe because I hate conflict and would, in general, prefer to paper over differences and move on . . . and I’m not the only one. That Scandinavian reserve can come in handy whilst I take a few minutes to bring my Scots-Irish temper under control. BTW, The cold, sunny winter days are neat, too, as long as you have a heavy coat and boots; snowshoes or cross-country skies help warm a person, too, once you get them out of the basement and put them on.]

Jeff and I have traveled with Mickey and Jim to Hawaii, to London — alas, we did not see the Queen, but we did tour Parliament! — and to southern France, with Jeff’s brother and our sister-in-law, Lynn. Places I might have never seen, if Mickey hadn’t asked: “Say, are you and Jeff available in September to go to London with us?” Are we?! You bet. We will make it so!

So Mickey is my sister-in-law’s sister. She makes me feel that I am one blessed person in my Jensen, Jared and Bailey family connections! That’s another reason to love Minnesota. When I divorced from my first husband a couple of decades back, my brother Rich asked me why I didn’t move back home, meaning Washington State.

Tempting, but after a pause, I replied: “It feels like home here.”

And it feels like home in part because of relatives like Mickey and Lynn, their brothers, and the passel of kids and grandkids to whom they are mom and grandmother. And who are wonderful people in their own right. Mickey, however, deserves accolades as one of the most loving people I know.

Hey, Mickey, how ya doing? Thanks for taking us along to Hawaii, London, France, Arizona, and to your place on the lake! Love ya!

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This image of my older sister and I was painted by a friend of Dad’s, Traut was his last name (perhaps? Annie, can you confirm?). The painter had a photo of Anne and me (Martha, at the time) from which to paint, and his style on the Kansas skyscape strikes me as pretty cool.

I like the roses, too; nice symbolism and mirroring, with Annie’s red shirt and my white blouse. “Il n’ya pas des roses sans epines,” as the French say. There are no roses without thorns.

In my relationship with Anne, I’ve experienced both roses and thorns. We have a younger brother, Bobby, and an older brother, Richard, but he was forced to grow up very early. Our parents, Bob and Virginia, split when I was 5, Anne 7, and Rich, 10. Richard had to be, or chose to be, the Man of the House. More about the pressures of that role, from my point of view, another time.

Roses are beautiful gifts, yet beware the thorns; blackberries, the same. Anne and I stumbled into an emotional blackberry bush, full of prickles, after our Mom died. Blackberries thrive on Whidbey Island, where Mom, Rich, Annie, and I moved from Kansas a few years after the split. Oh, yeah, and this guy Dave was along, too; driving the van most of the time. Our new stepdad. If we kids were invited to Dave and Virginia’s wedding ceremony, I surely don’t recall it.

So it goes, as Kurt Vonnegut used to write. Or, as one of my best therapists used to say, “Well, that’s fine but Starting From Today, what are you going to do about it?” The “it” could be a bad memory, hateful feeling, emotional hurts, any of the baggage dropped from a freight train racing out of the past.

In that vein, starting from today, yet looking back I offer this brief excursion into the past to Anne and all our sisterlies: Tracy (Trey-trey), Stephanie (Taffy), Trish (legally, Mary), and Lori (legally, Ellen). Rich and Bobert, I’ll come back to you. (“Oh, no . . . no rush, Allie!”)

Yes, I chose to change my name when I was 18. In Washington State, one simply had to fill out an affidavit at the time, put everything in the new name, and be consistent about using the new name (and never using the former name) for seven years. I was enrolled in Western Washington University at the time, so I went to see the appropriate University official. He told me this change was too drastic; it was a big mistake and I would regret it. And besides, he asked, how did my parents feel about me going from Martha Nancy Goedecke to Allison Artemis Campbell?

Fine, I said. Campbell is a family name on my mother’s side, so she likes it. And I’ll go by my nickname Allie most of the time, which is a reference to “Catcher in the Rye,” so a literary allusion, you see . . . And my Dad will adjust.

Well, Dad’s response just about knocked me down. I will look in my old papers and see if I can find the original letter. This is how I remember it beginning:

Martha,

Allison

You daughters do amazing things when you turn 18. Annie produced a 8-pound boy and I expect you will produce an 8-pound book.

I never like the name Goedecke. Too long and no one can pronounce it correctly. . . .

Well, hell. I couldn’t even shock the old guy, even though he walked out of my high school graduation speech while I was giving it. Something offended him. Maybe it was the idea that I cribbed from a lady’s letter to Dear Abby — well, I cited the person! Probably, it was the idea I was promoting: That this elderly person had looked back at her life and said, if I had it to do over again, I’d eat more ice cream . . . I’d smell more roses.

Now, at 63 years of age (how did I get here?), I can see how that might be offensive to a man driven by ambition and bedeviled by mental illness. I was deeply hurt at the time, ashamed and embarassed by my crazy Dad. There were only 70 of us in our high school class — dear friends, why did you all have to choose me as the Class Choice Speaker?

I still abhor public speaking.

Annie, Tracy, Steph, Trish, Lori, sisterlies, let’s get together again soon. Let’s go out for ice cream. Let’s find a rose garden and wander, smelling, admiring their beauty — and keeping our fingers away from the thorns.

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