He Sowed She Sewed

The Pajari Sisters Press On after Last Summer’s Tragedy

(Originally Published in the Cook News Herald; Sep. 17, 2014)

By Jared and Caitlyn

The question was never if the Pajari Sisters would continue to grace the Cook area with their friendly laughter and quirky entrepreneurship after the loss of the Cook Dollar Barn, but when. And now we know the answer. With roughly fifteen months behind us since the tragic loss of a historic Cook building containing two businesses and eight apartments, Lois and Laura Pajari are back at it – this time with a real barn and plenty of other animals alongside their two beloved Corgis.

The farm that hosts one of Cook’s newest businesses – Cook’s Country Connection – is actually one of the oldest places in the area. And even though they officially opened on August 28, 2014, the Pajari sisters’ family has been working that land since the beginning of the 20^th century. The farm and homes of Lois (husband Steve Gams) and Laura (husband Paul Williams) sit on part of the original homestead of their Great Grandmother Augusta, just atop the hill north of Cook on County Road 24, and now a brand new sign welcomes visitors to share in the history and happiness of their beloved haven.

On June 17, 2013, the Pajaris experienced what experts refer to as “a life-altering catastrophic event” when flames and smoke filled the summer sky above Cook on an otherwise beautiful summer evening. Our town watched in horror, not just at the loss of homes and businesses, but at the thought of losing one of the truly charming places in Cook. Lois explains that after working through the mountain of paperwork post-fire, and hauling away the mountain of rubble sitting on 114 S. River Street, it was time to think about something new.

“It was time for me to find a job,” she laughs, “The problem is, I didn’t want one.” See, the sisters had always joked that they were not running the dollar barn to make money, but to make friends, and while the fire destroyed a building, it certainly didn’t destroy the spirit of the two ladies who had succeeded in making so many friends along the way. The sisters weren’t about to settle for just another job, they wanted something that could keep them woven deeply into the fabric of this community. As Lois explains, “I am so thankful that I took the time to heal and wait for the ‘right something’ rather than the ‘next something’”.

And it just so happens, this “right something” includes pygmy goats, giant bunnies, a rafter of turkeys, and plenty of other goofy critters and friendly livestock that’ll keep you grinning as long as your visit will allow.

As you turn at the sign off County Road 24 just north of Cook and head west along the beautiful, tree-studded drive, you’ll soon see the original homestead barn, a relic that has earned their home a “Century Farm” award from the Minnesota Farm Bureau. On one of our visits, someone from the gang of turkeys had just laid an egg in the middle of the road. “Yeah, turkeys aren’t too bright,” Lois jokes.

You’ll soon want to descend the hill and greet George and Ruby, a species of rare KuneKune pig who are sure to roll over along the fence for a belly rub as soon as you beckon. Keep some change handy and buy treats for the animals from the dispensers posted along the various pens like gumball machines.

The ponies and donkeys will shyly lick snacks from your hand, while the alpacas – Maddox and Madelyn – will have you wondering if the farm keeps a professional hairstylist around.

Anthony Vito, one of the many young people who help at the farm, saved up his money for two years and now is the proud owner of Lily, a miniature Scottish Highlander, whose long fur and cute horns always attract admirers. You might be lucky enough to catch Pixie and Pepper, the humorous pygmy goats, going headfirst down the slide on the plastic child’s play equipment in their enclosure.

A wonderful playground fills the grassy yard and can keep kids busy for hours, along with a giant sand box full of vintage dump trucks and excavators to spark imaginative play. Children and adults can also spend time in the new barn, with the kids coloring pictures or working on crafts while the older visitors investigate the impressive history of the old homestead.

When one considers the recent journey the Pajari sisters have been on, the story of this farm becomes all the more profound. A good home should always be a place where one can recover and heal from life’s toughest blows, and the old homestead has certainly been that for Lois and Laura. But now, the same ladies with whom we shared so many smiles and laughs at the Dollar Barn are now ready to share their home with us – helping us all connect better with the community and land that we love.

Cook’s Country Connection is open for businesses, welcoming guests Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays through October. The cost is $6.00 per person, with special group rates available. Children under two are free, so bring out the whole family this fall and enjoy the petting zoo and farm. Find out more at Cookscountryconnection.com.

By Jared

Originally published in the Cook News Herald; September 10, 2014

Perhaps you heard the playful hum of the accordion tumbling across Head-O-Lakes Bay on a still summer evening, but couldn’t quite identify the noise. Maybe you caught someone out of the corner of your eye shuffling their feet in a polka step through the frozen foods aisle at Zup’s. Or maybe you saw the happy, candy-apple red sign at the entrance to White Eagle Resort announcing the “Barn Dance” on Thursday nights throughout the summer, but the mention of a “barn dance” summoned silly pictures of large, wooden farm buildings convening in a giant field for a waltz.

As fascinating as that would be, it’s certainly not what the red sign outside White Eagle Resort was advertising on summer evenings. Rather, a barn dance typically refers to a folk-style dance accompanied by live music and a “caller” who guides the participants through a variety of group and couples dances. On Lake Vermilion this summer, the rec hall at White Eagle was full of people trying their feet at traditional polkas, jigs, and marches as head musicians and callers Jim Ganahl and Carol Booth tutored the community in folk dancing.

The idea for these summer dances originated while the lake was still locked in 3 feet of ice and heavy snow caked the spruce trees at the resort. The Lantry family, owners of the White Eagle Resort, were inspired to begin folk dancing after being invited to a dance in the Twin Cities last year. Then, a chance encounter with Jim and Carol at the Cook Credit Union suddenly provided the perfect occasion to continue dancing here in the Northwoods. So, while the snow and ice piled higher and higher around the Lantry home last winter, they hosted several dances for friends and family in their beautiful log living room while Jim and Carol initiated the group into the steps and rhythms of the various dance forms. Even though those early dances were fraught with bumping, tripping, and flailing, the hope was that when summer arrived there would be a number of skilled dancers who could guide the guests of the resort while they hosted weekly dances for vacationers and community members.

Those winter dances seem to have paid off. On any given Thursday night this summer, if you happened to take a right off County Rd. 24 at the candy apple “Barn Dance” sign, you would have stumbled upon a room filled with the laughs of people sliding and shuffling their way across the dance floor. Jim could be seen squeezing the accordion while calling out the commands, and Carol oscillated between her keyboard and the dance floor where she demonstrated steps or filled in for exhausted newcomers. Early in the evening, children as young as 3 would flutter in and out of the circle as they imagined themselves various species of birds in the famous “Bluebird” dance, or they’d tap their toes and clap with their partner in the clever “Patty-Cake Polka.”

As the sun sank into the western horizon of Vermilion, the dances intensified. Children cuddled on the couches that bordered the room while the adults tried to navigate the more complicated contra dances, which involve frequent transitions between partners with various combinations of steps and maneuvers. Depending on the number of musicians, a fiddle might harmonize while couples drifted across the floor in one of the many waltzes, and an Irish pennywhistle might animate the room while dancers high-stepped the Irish jig.

The Lantry siblings Tom, Anne, and Ranae, have worked hard to nurture a deeper sense of community and culture at their family-run lodge. They frequently provided homemade meals to their guests on Thursday evenings before the dances, and folks of any age and skill level were invited to participate. All of this, of course, was enabled by Jim and Carol’s experience with teaching these dances in the northland for almost two decades. After moving to the area in 1997, Jim and Carol soon formed the Home on the Range Community Dance Association; and by January of 1998 they were hosting folk dances in places stretching from Grand Rapids to Ely. Their folk band, FriendsOnTheRange, has seen musicians come and go, but the love of music and dance has never wavered.

They offer various styles including Scandinavian waltzes, New England marches, Appalachian fiddle tunes, and Irish jigs. The band this summer was often comprised of a pair of fiddlers, Lois Weeks and Susan Hoppe, and Joey Lee occasionally came up from southern Minnesota to play the flute and Irish pennywhistle. With the musicians happily flourishing their instruments and the dancers playfully stepping across the floor, the White Eagle Resort was a joyful place to be this summer.

The summer guests have all gone home and the leaves slowly collect in our lawns, but that doesn’t mean the dancing has to stop. The Lantry family, along with Jim and Carol, will continue to host dances for our community throughout the fall and winter. You can come try your feet at traditional folk dancing the first Saturday of the month through the end of the year (Oct. 4^th, Nov. 1^st, Dec. 6^th). All dances begin at 7pm, and all are welcome at the White Eagle! Find out more at Whiteeagleresort.com.

By Jared

In the last few weeks we noticed a sharp decline in egg production from our 12 laying hens, and since our blue eggs had all but disappeared, we assumed our Araucanas had begun moulting (an annual phase in which a hen’s egg production slows down for several weeks while their feathers are replaced).   We thought, “Oh well, we’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got.”

Then, two nights ago, when I went to close up the coop after the chickens had gone in to roost, I only counted 11 birds.  We were missing Torrealba, one of our favorite birds – a bright and friendly Araucana!  I wasn’t too concerned, though, because we had seen her pecking around the shed around 7:00pm while the girls enjoyed their ice cream cones on the swings before bedtime.  I assumed Torrealba had simply found somewhere else to roost, and would return in the morning.

When Aleah and Sophi awoke the next morning, I reported to them, “Torrealba never came home last night, we need to go look for her in the woods and bring her home.”

Aleah responded casually, “No problem Dad, I’ve got good eyes and I can see through those woods real easily.”

So off we went.

I encouraged the girls to check near the shed, since that was the last place we’d seen Torri.  They crouched down to look in the small area beneath the shed, and then began yelling, “Dad, come here, we think there’s an egg down there, it could be a golf ball, but we’re pretty sure it’s an egg.”

Sure enough, it was an egg.  A beautiful, blue egg. And as I used a stick to roll the egg toward me, out of the shadows came Torrealba! Hooray!  She had spent the night under the shed, laid her morning egg, and all is well!

But as I lay on my stomach and nudged her out from under the shed, my eyes beheld a wonder that sent my sunburned lips stretching from ear to ear.  It was as if tiny, winged-fairies danced across streams of light singing Handel’s Messiah as they flew from a heavenly bassinet overflowing with blue eggs! 

And then the fun part.  The girls and I (well, mostly them, since they were small enough to crawl into the tight space beneath the shed) slithered our way in the cool, damp dirt as we retrieved our beloved bounty.  Caitlyn, holding Hudson and watching our feet dangle out from beneath the shed, was wise enough not to mention spiders, while I snapped pictured of the girls passing eggs back from the nest.

Mystery solved!  We collected over 20 eggs and they are all still good as they’ve been in a cool, dark place awaiting discovery.  Thank goodness for brave little girls and adventurous summer mornings!  

On late fall gardening, masquerading, and social media angst…

As we had hoped back in May, our greenhouse allowed us to continue growing vegetables well into the month of October!  And this was, in fact, quite an accomplishment. Up here in the Northland we actually experienced sub-freezing temperatures during a cold snap back in August, and overnight low temps were periodically below freezing throughout September and October.  However, once the cold hit, we moved our plants into the greenhouse, which provided plenty of heat during the day to keep our peppers and tomatoes growing, and a few small heat lamps protected them from the frost during cold nights.  By all accounts it was a successful first experience with a greenhouse.

…or should I say, by most accounts.

See, several weeks ago, Caitlyn had been urging me to do a post about the greenhouse.  Many of my pepperoncini, jalapeno, and serrano peppers (all of which I planted way too late in the summer) were burgeoning during the extended growing time in the fall, and I was anticipating a decent harvest that would have never been possible without the greenhouse.  I was proud of our success and was looking forward to sharing it with you all.

And isn’t that how it goes? We do something nifty, or think of something clever, or disclose something humorously self-effacing, and all of a sudden we’ve got an invigorating number of blog hits and followers, or an inspiring number of ‘likes’ under our status.

This is an undeniably significant process for most of us interacting on social media, and it’s become the standard by which our thoughts, experiences, and lives are deemed valuable.  There’s an increasing awareness in our culture that rendering one’s life “likeable” has become the existential quest (and subsequent crisis) of the social media age.  Thus we present ourselves in such a way that we will be “liked” (or “unliked” if one’s persona is to play the foil), and therefore feel fulfilled.

So the greenhouse was moving right along in October and I had big plans for a blog post.  And then it got cold.  Fast.  And I overestimated my greenhouse’s ability to hold off temps in the low twenties.  And four months of growing is no match for one night of a hard freeze.  And plants that are meant to grow in hot, humid climates, pretty much just roll over and die once it becomes clear that no such weather exists for them.

So in spite of our valiant effort at prolonging the growing season, it was a total loss.  Dark brown basil, frozen peppers, iced tomatoes.

And, of course, I considered not blogging about it at all.  But then I thought, “What the heck? Why not pull back the curtain on the façade often purported by blogs like ours and share something that didn’t go so well?”

Now, I understand that losing a few peppers isn’t actually that big of a deal, and I’m therefore not breaking any ground by “coming clean” about my loss.  Furthermore, I understand that most blogs aren’t written to be transparent representations of one’s life (that would be creepy).  Conversely, many online personas thrive on over-sharing in a way that, ironically, still perpetuates the problem, as one’s life is projected like a sort of reality drama in which we are all invited to comment and console.

So I write this only to say that, yes, we love our family’s life together and we enjoy sharing it with you all.  And yes, we often make mistakes or things don’t go so well; losing a few peppers is merely a blithe example of this.  But if you find yourself disoriented by the infinite world of comparison, self-advertisement, and desire to be “liked” in the social media age, let this post remind you that we all fall far short of the personas we project.  And that’s okay, because we are always so much more.

And to put everything into perspective, how about some pictures of cows…

I woke to the shower running and the lamp next to the bed still shining.  It was 11:30 pm and I’d been asleep for an hour.

“Jared, you need to start timing these,” Caitlyn said as she moved from the shower to the birthing tub; and with exhaustion still clinging to that space behind my eyes, I began watching the clock as I listened for my wife’s gasps and groans.  Three minutes apart.

By midnight the decision to call the midwife was settled.  We both spoke to Katie, our midwife, and received a few last instructions, which, in the beauty of homebirth and midwifery, amounted to, “Make yourselves comfortable – this is your time for intimacy and solitude.”  And, “Oh, do you have half and half for coffee or should we bring our own?”

It would be an hour before the apprentice-midwife, Serena, arrived, and another half hour before Katie and her doula, Anne, arrived.  In the meantime I attended to a few other details in the house, and sat quietly with Caitlyn while she labored in the warm tub.

The night was pitch black and unusually cold for early May.  Anomalous snow fell furiously to our southeast, but the commute of our midwives was undisturbed.  The house was silent as our daughters slumbered in their sheets.  Our room was lit by bedside lamps and wonderfully warm with the humidity of the laboring tub.  Caitlyn sat in the water, heroic and more beautiful than she’s ever been.  This is our home and this is our room.  This is where our baby enters the world.

Serena softly knocked at the front door, bringing with her the chill of that frigid spring night.  In our bedroom she moved about like a wisp, a gentle spirit, arranging towels and blankets in preparation for the birth.

I met Katie and Anne at the door shortly before 2 a.m.  After pointing them to the coffee and tea, we all nestled into our bedroom.  We are Caitlyn’s team: Katie’s strong, bare arms monitoring baby’s heart rate and mother’s vital signs – her strong voice offering confidence and leadership.  Serena’s gentleness providing peace and reassurance.   Anne’s ease and dignity working quietly in the shadows of our dark room.  I kneel beside the tub, breathing in rhythm with my wife, rubbing her hair and neck.

“I can’t do this,” she whispers to me, without lifting her head from the edge of the tub.  The words don’t startle me.  We know she will come to this place.  The place where she recognizes that the pain and effort is more than she can give.  And then she gives it anyway.  This is the untapped strength and force of motherhood.  This is childbirth.

Shortly after 3 a.m. Katie encourages Caitlyn takes a short walk to the bathroom and then the bed to change positions for a bit.  After a few more contractions Caitlyn agrees.  At the bed they check and she is 7 centimeters.  I give Katie a high-five before helping Caitlyn back towards the tub.  She pauses midway for another contraction, and then steps into the birthing tub.

I maintain the position that no laboring woman can ever be judged for their exclamations or expressions during childbirth; there’s just no telling what words and sounds may come.  Seconds after Caitlyn returns to the tub she stands to her feet in a panic and screams a scream unlike anything I’ve ever heard.  It’s a sound of fierce terror and pain, the kind that makes even the owls in the forest bury their heads in their wings.  She shrieks, “What’s happening to me!” Without hesitation, we all surround the tub like ministers at a baptism.

“It’s okay Caitlyn, it’s your baby.  Baby is coming.”  Katie’s words are matter-of-fact.  This is what she does.  She delivers babies.

Another scream like there’s a stabbing taking place, and I look towards our door for fear that our girls will enter at any minute, awoken by a scene they won’t soon forget.  He gives to his beloved sleep – Psalm 127:2.  On this particular night, they sleep.

We coax Caitlyn from her standing position, but are left supporting her as she squats and leans back.  I hold her hands from the front while Anne and Serena support her back.  “You’re safe, Caitlyn,” Serena reassures.

Katie maneuvers to feel baby’s head and birth position.  Another scream.  After the next contraction Katie encourages Caitlyn to position herself on her hands and knees.  Caitlyn agrees.  Baby’s head is out but chin and shoulders haven’t cleared.  Caitlyn pushes and screams again with a strength I know nothing about, and then instinctively reaches down for her baby and pulls him from the water toward her chest.

“It’s a boy!” She yells as she settles against the wall of the tub, leaning her head back and drinking deeply of the love and euphoria shared by mother and baby in natural birth.

***

He was born at 3:36 am on May 2, 2013, in our bedroom.

He was born directly into his mother’s arms and onto her chest.

He was born somewhere between Iron and Wine’s ‘Sodom South Georgia’ and The Album Leaf’s ‘Window’ on our labor playlist.

He was born when the waters of the Little Fork River overran its banks as our snowy spring melted away, and those waters wandered toward that great northern bay with which he shares a name.

He was born into a warm tub, filled with his mother’s tremendous effort and love, his father’s encouragement and joy.

***

Dads are tertiary during childbirth, but nowhere are they more embraced and empowered than in the home.  I was encouraged to be Caitlyn’s most intimate ally and our baby’s unbridled advocate.  While Caitlyn received postpartum care, I held our baby to my body and warmed his pink, wet skin with my chest.  His head rested perfectly beneath my chin and our hearts thumped towards each other’s through layers of bone and flesh.  A few moments ago I knew him only as the lump of life in my wife’s womb.  Now he is my son and I hold him close.

There’s a point during Caitlyn’s postpartum care where she needs an IV.  The midwives and doula are busy at her side.  She is pale and weak and fades into the sheets like sinking into water.  I glance at the clock.  It’s almost 6:30 and the girls could be awake at any moment.  Again, it’s not a scene I wish to greet them with in the morning.  But again, they sleep.

The girls sleep for another hour, a miracle in its own right, and when they do wake up they’re ushered into a room glowing with soft morning light.  We are calm and happy.  When the night began we were a family of four; now we are five, and we pile into the bed to share our warmth and joy.  Sophi curiously brushes his cheek while Aleah stares into his face with her dazzling blue eyes.  We are hugging and laughing.  We are in our home together.

***

It’s Sunday now, and I write this after dozing on our bed in the morning sunlight, my son on my chest and my wife sleeping peacefully beside us.  All is silent except for the breath that tumbles from Hudson’s nose across my skin, and the occasional drumming of the grouse’s wings in the woods beside our house; a sound that accompanied our entire labor and continues to provide cadence to our story.

We’re often tempted to think that our life is the sum of what we do.  It’s our action and advocacy, our education and vocation, our going and showing.  But what about this moment on our bed in the stillness of the morning, with my wife and new child resting like leaves on quiet water?  Is this just a break from the real thing, or isn’t this the real thing?  Life feels more vibrant now than it ever has.