When my son was born until he was about five, we lived in an apartment building in St. Paul on Fairview off Grand Avenue. The landlords, Pat and Harold Hamm — the two kindest Angels of my early adulthood — had taken us in as their adopted family. We were invited to Sunday dinner, to sit with them on the curb in the evening, to share their air-conditioning on hot evenings. But mostly Pat, a large woman, made sure we were eating properly.
“You kids are too skinny,” Pat would say as she whisked my son away to get his special treat; green Jell-O.