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Scott shakes his head. “That’s way too big a move. It’s two thousand miles away, and I couldn’t work there. We can do what you’re talking about without moving so far. I want to stay in Minnesota if we can. We have family here. We know it here.”
So that night, when Scott puts on a movie, I go load up the internet and look for opportunities in Minnesota. An opportunity for something new, something fulfilling.
I type “Minnesota non-profit jobs” into a search engine and click on the Minnesota Counsel of Nonprofits website, then on the “jobs’’ link. I scroll through a list of positions around the state, eliminate all the ones based in Minneapolis and Moorhead, and I'm left with a couple interesting ones: Program Director at the YMCA in Duluth and Development Director at a radio station in Grand Marais.
I remember how my old school friend Rachel used to work for a radio station before she went to grad school. She said it was real, community-based work. She gave it up because she wanted something more prestigious. Well, I want something real.
It doesn't pay much, but money's not what it’s about. It’s about following my heart. It’s about being on the right side, contributing positively, making a difference.
I read through the job description. Main duties are writing grants and developing partnerships. I’d be good at that. I open a Word document, create a résumé tailored to the desired qualifications, and send it to the e-mail address listed in the “How to Apply” section. Then I shut the computer off and crawl in to bed to finish the movie with Scott.
The next morning, there’s an e-mail from the station manager asking me to give her a call. I send Scott out to the store with Morgen, pull up my résumé for reference, and call the number.
“Hi, this is Melanie Steele calling.”
There’s a pause. Then, “Hello, Melanie. Hang on a sec, okay? I want to put you on speaker phone so you can talk with me and the interim Development Director.”
I wait while she puts me on hold, and when she comes back she sounds far away. She asks if I can hear her.
“Yes, can you hear me?”
“Yes, just speak up a little.”
We talk for forty-five minutes, them firing questions at me and me yelling my answers into the phone. They want to meet me. Can I drive up tomorrow? We have a couple hundred bucks left from our garage sale earnings, so yes I can. I’ll be there by eleven o’clock.
The drive takes longer than I expect because I get behind a camper-trailer that’s driving under the speed limit on the single-lane highway. There’s literally no opportunity to pass. I make it just in time, running up to the entrance and taking a deep breath before I step in.
No one’s there. There’s three desks set up in a large room, and two of the computers are on. I stand there watching the clock on the wall for five minutes. Six, seven. Then the door opens and a woman walks through.
“I know who you are!” she says. “You’re Melanie!”
“Yes, Joan?” I extend my hand.
“No, Joan had to run out. She said to tell you she’d be right back. You drove up from Duluth, right? How do you like it there?”
“There’s some great things about it,” I tell her, making an effort to be positive. “But it’s a bit big in some ways.”
“I know what you mean. Folks around here avoid the city. We only go to stock up and then we get out of there as quick as possible. Down and back in one day, usually.”
“Stock up? What do you mean? Like at Wal-Mart or something?”
She shakes her head. “No. No one here shops at Wal-Mart. It’s against our religion.”
“Oh, really?” I let a smile spread across my face. This is the place for me.
Grand Marais
When something feels this right, I decide, I should probably roll with it. So I do. I accept the position on the spot and head down to the gas station to buy a local newspaper. There are two places for rent, and I call about them both. One’s an apartment in town with a view of the harbor. The other's a small cabin on the outskirts of town. I make an appointment to see them both this afternoon.
I go to the cabin first. It’s hidden from the road by a grove of trees. The long driveway winds around to reveal it, nestled in among the pines. It’s small. Very small. Everything about it seems miniature, from the door, to the yard, to the woodpile, to the cabin itself. It’s all minimal and quaint. The rental agent is there, showing it on behalf of the owner who lives in Arizona.
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