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Page 37 August 2015 By Kindra Hall Last month, the kiddos and I made a trip to my home state, Minnesota. There were several reasons to go: The kids wanted to go to the cabin with Gammy and Gamps (which is 45 minutes south of Canada), Michael needed some well-deserved time for himself in Phoenix, and I could sneak in a visit with some of my oldest, dearest friends. There’s just something about old friends, isn’t there? After a smooth plane ride and sending the kids off to almost-Canada with my parents, I made my way to Maren’s house. Maren and I were roommates in college (a small, private Lutheran college next to Fargo) for three years – all of which were filled with stories. The story of when I did a “Find/Replace” on her term paper for her elementary education class and swapped the word “children” with “snot-nosed brats,” and the word “student” with “hopeless miscreant,” and she almost handed the paper in. The time we made up choreography for Britney Spears’ song, Lucky and performed it for anyone who would watch. Or when we made up endless variations of the Interrupting Cow knock, knock jokes when we were supposed to be writing about Plato’s Republic. Then when I moved to New Mexico for graduate school, Maren (who was always up for anything) moved to New Mexico, too – for adventure. We lived in a cheap, two-bedroom apartment where we kept a hammer in the bathroom to kill cockroaches as we sat on the toilet at night. I was responsible for turning in the rent and Maren was responsible for having seasonally appropriate candles in her room at all times to hide the smell of the previous tenants. The candles were particularly exciting and felt a little rebellious. Probably because they wouldn’t let us have candles in our dorm rooms in college – something about them being dangerous. That December, Maren found the most amazing apple cinnamon candle either of us had ever smelled (for $3). Even before it was lit, it made you want to sing Jingle Bells. It burned all day long on the floor in Maren’s room (because there was no room on her desk or dresser). Then, one night I heard Maren let out a startling gasp, followed by a scream. I raced in to see if by chance the cockroaches had made their way into her bedroom, but after a quick scan of the scene, it was clear what had happened. The once festive, red, Christmassy candle had reached its last moment of apple cinnamonness and the jar exploded under the pressure. (Personally, I thought this feature should have been listed on the label right next to the image of the apple pie, but alas, it was not.) Hot, red, apple-cinnamon liquid wax seeped onto our rental-beige-with-dark- brown-flecks colored carpet. We both stood there a moment, in shock, as the wax settled deeper into the flooring and then the same, horrible thought struck us both at the same time: security deposit. For a grad student and a Barnes and Noble employee, getting a security deposit back was essential to survival and we were pretty sure a large red candle stain in the middle of a bedroom floor lessened our chances. We immediately got to work, trying several carpet-cleaning options. First, we tried cleaning the wax with a paper towel, but it was too hot. Then we poured boiling water on it – admittedly, I’m not sure why. Then we ironed it – Maren swore she saw Martha do it, but I’m not so sure. Then...well, I left the room because I was bored and pretty sure no matter what we did, a bright red candle would leave a permanent pink stain on rental-beige-with-dark-brown- flecks carpet. Maren, however, refused to accept this reality. An hour or so later, I walked back into Maren’s room to find her hunched over the stain with dark brown eye shadow in her hands and beige eye shadow sitting beside her. Her palms were sweaty, her brow was furrowed, her fingers were bright pink and she was covered with smudges of eye shadow. Her room was still thick with the smell of apple cinnamon – and a hint of burnt carpet. I looked to the floor where she was so fervently working. To my surprise, the stain had changed. It was now pink around the outside and, strangely, Cover Girl beige toward the middle and finally, dark smudged chocolate brown in the very center. Maren looked up from her hunched position. “I’m trying to disguise it with makeup,” she said. Unfortunately, if you can believe it, her plan didn’t work. The pale pink, beige and dark brown stain scowled at us for the remaining months in that apartment. When move-out day arrived, if there was any hope of getting our money back we knew we only had one choice: Distract the inspector! The three of us (Maren, me and the stain) put our makeup on and when the man walked in to determine our financial fate, we entertained him with Britney Spears choreography, Interrupting Cow knock, knock jokes and stories of the cockroaches we killed in the bathroom at night with a hammer. Fortunately, if you can believe it, this plan actually worked. After returning the check we had deposited 12 months earlier, the inspector mentioned none of the others apartments smelled as good as ours…and he walked out whistling Jingle Bells. Fifteen years after our first year as roommates, a lot has changed for Maren and me: many jobs, many miles, many homes, taste in music…but as with all oldest, dearest friends, our stories are our shorthand. All it takes is the mention of a candle and it’s as if nothing has changed at all. Can’t hold a candle to priceless memories GIRL NEXT DOOR