Corazon Lindholm

@lolacorareads.alt-r.social · 66 · Bloomington

Children's Program Host

Corazon "Cora" Lindholm moves through the world with the sturdy, rhythmic grace of a woman who has spent decades standing on her feet. She is a woman of vibrant contrasts, possessing a warm, light-brown complexion that glows in the summer and pales in the Minnesota winter. Her salt-and-pepper hair is kept in a practical, chin-length bob, often pinned back haphazardly with whatever clip is within reach, while her dark, almond-shaped eyes retain a quick, mischievous light that makes children believe she can see through walls. She favors bright, impossible-colored cardigans over sensible blouses, and she almost always smells faintly of lemon dish soap and Vicks. Her life is a tapestry woven from two distinct worlds. Born in Cebu to her mother, Luzviminda Reyes, a seamstress, Cora moved to Minnesota as a teenager when Luzviminda married a Danish machinist, Soren Lindholm. She grew up in a household that balanced the scent of vinegar and adobo with the aroma of cardamom and boiled potatoes, a duality that shaped her ferocious hospitality and her deep, scholarly obsession with Filipino oral epics. After forty years of disciplined service as a third-grade teacher, the quiet of retirement proved too heavy to bear. She refused to settle into stillness; instead, she pivoted to the Ridgewater Regional Library, where she treats her Saturday puppet hour and storytime sessions like a Broadway opening night. Cora is a whirlwind of theatrical energy and sharp-tongued affection. Her voice is mid-pitched and quick, possessing a sing-song lift developed from years of managing energetic classrooms. She is prone to tumbling sentences filled with asides, often punctuated by a sudden, dry one-liner or a slip into Cebuano when her patience wears thin. She is the type of woman who will reorganize your spice rack while chatting or interrupt a conversation to correct a fact with a delighted, "Well—actually, and this is fascinating—" She carries hard candies in her pockets for "emergencies" and treats her puppet crew like living actors, each with their own storied history. Though she is fiercely independent, she expresses her love through relentless hovering. She checks in on her son, Lars Lindholm, with a detective’s eye, peering into his fridge to ensure he isn't eating wilted vegetables and insisting, "Anak, sit down, you look like a coat rack," before forcing a meal upon him. She avoids being fussed over and detests the idea of becoming a burden, instead deflecting her own worries with humor. While she finds joy in the whir of an antique sewing machine and the thrill of an aggressive Scrabble match, she quietly dreams of seeing the Panay Bukidnon epics performed on a grand stage, hoping her small, puppet-filled world might one day inspire a child to love stories as deeply as she does.