Lover of Words

I just finished listening to The Book Thief and my tear stained pillow is a testament to the power of words and a wonderfully crafted story. As the gravely voice of the narrator is still echoing in my head I have begun to reflect on my long love affair with words.

My family can tell you that I always had my nose in a book from about 5th grade on. It started with Where the Red Fern Grows. I think it was the first book that caused me to cry. Bridge to Terabithia in the sixth grade was the first to elicit a sob. 

In the seventh grade there was talk about a book in the library that was full of sex so, naturally, I checked it out. It must have been in the Spring because I remember reading it on the back patio. My mom was sitting near me reading her bible while I sat there with eyes as big as saucers reading Clan of the Cave Bears. I just knew she would find out what I was reading. How could she not see my eyes darting from the book to her? She had to have at least heard the loud beating of my guilty heart - my tell-tale heart.

In Junior High books were an escape. An escape from the anguish of a life I felt I had no control over. Fear and dread and loathing melt away when you can immerse yourself in someone else's story. If that story was filled with fear and dread and loathing it was at least not my own. 

All throughout high school I devoured words - essays, poems, autobiographies, novels, cereal boxes, sugar packets. Seriously, anything with printed words that was within reach I consumed. Eventually, I started to let words spill out of me and into a diary and timidly into letters to my grandma Opal.

During my first stint in college I quit reading for pleasure - I was reading textbooks; so many dry textbooks. Unwilling, or unable, I'm not sure which, to read things I enjoyed I had one small outlet: writing. My friend Wendy and I got our first e-mail addresses which was perfect because Wendy was going to school in Bellingham. Our chats on her bedroom floor and under the large maple in her front yard moved to the computer labs at our respective schools.

These last two years since Mr. T started Kindergarten I have hungrily read (listened to) what feels like countless books. Everything from The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy to Les Miserables.

It has been in the last couple of months that I have taken to writing again - just for me. There is something so cathartic about seeing your words turn blue at the end of the pen as your hand helps give them shape. With a friend, sometimes two, I share even more words in the form of long emails. I am giving a little piece of me that I keep hidden from most everyone - it is the chaotic and messy truth. As the swirling thoughts in my head and ache in my heart make their way to paper, to my journal, to this blog, the confusion clears and the aches of my heart dull a little. 

Sometimes I'm the one receiving the words from a friend. As they speak or write their truth to me and I try on their pain or shoulder a bit of their burden, just as they have done of mine, we are building and reinforcing the foundation of our friendship. 

I wish I was more articulate with the spoken word and didn't have to rely so heavily on writing my feelings down to feel heard and understood. When words fall from my mouth they do just that:  fall. Flat and one dimensional and incomplete. I usually say too much as I think if I throw out enough words I will eventually utter the right ones or I say too little as words elude me. At least with the written word one can write and erase and delete and perfect and polish the thoughts before bundling them up and gifting them to a friend. 

Comedy of Errors

I went to our rental house this morning to wash windows and to power wash a balcony and the fence. While Ryan has been patching holes and working on electrical outlets I have been doing my Cinderella best to clean the two years’ worth of accumulated grime. Last week I exfoliated the bathtub. *shudder* It went from a sickly grey to an off white by time I was done with it. The downstairs bathroom was too horrific for me to describe here.

So, today was an easy day. 

With my audiobook, All the Light That Cannot Be Seen, keeping me company I washed the windows.When the windows were done I moved the power washer to the tiny balcony and went to put on my rain gear. 

After retrieving my rain boots from the car and I turned the doorknob to go back in the house to get something.

$*%^#! It was locked! Dread engulfed me. My purse and BOTH sets of house keys were in the house. All the windows were locked and we don't know the code to the garage's key pad. 

I called Ryan - he usually has good ideas. He asked if either sliding door was unlocked. "Yes. To the master bedroom. I was just on the balcony." Good. There was a tall ladder outside I could use to get to the balcony.

Sweet! Ryan wanted me to find a neighbor to hold the ladder but I was confident the ladder would hold because the ground was level with crushed gravel.

I climbed to the top of the ladder and I saw it move a little. It slid down a little. Not enough that I felt it but it took me no time to scramble back down the ladder to re-position it a little higher.

At the top of the ladder I examined the railing. It seemed sturdy enough for me to haul myself over. Once safely on the balcony I exhaled deeply and went to the sliding glass door. 

Locked!

Dear Lord, I am really good about locking doors.

Oh. No. I would have to climb back down the ladder.

There are two things you should know about me.

1) I hate jumping into water - anything other than a pencil dive from the side of the pool. As a kid I loved jumping from a hay loft into a piles of hay but I just couldn't do the pool. Still can't. 

2) I hate climbing down ladders. Going up? No problem. Going down? No, thank you. 

When I was 4 or 5 my brother Ike, neighbor Mundi and I climbed to top of the play house our dad built in our back yard. Everyone climbed down except me. Mom had to come get me because I wouldn't get on my belly and swing my legs over to the ladder

In second grade Ike and I climbed to the top of the old chicken coop on the property of the house we were renting. I was on the edge trying and failing to build up the courage to jump down. Ike helped me down with a shove to my back. 

So, I peer over the edge of the balcony. I may as well be on the high diving board. I call Ryan. Again. "We have to call a lock smith. I can't get down." 

We try to think of the neighbors who would be home. The neighbors wouldn't do me any good except act as a witness when I plunged to my paralysis. They couldn't get me to climb on the railing and swing my legs over.

"No. I'll try," I tell him as I'm imagining falling and cracking my head open on the first ledge of the retaining wall. I took off my clogs and set my phone in it - Ryan was still connected and listening for screaming or too long of silence.

I swung myself over the balcony and with my toes on the ledge I slowly and surely made my way on to the ladder. Positioning myself as close to the wall as I could I climbed down. 

Alive!

On to plan B. Ask a handy neighbor two doors down if he had any ideas or a hammer. The lock needed to be changed anyway and it would be cheaper to buy a whole new door knob than call a locksmith.

Neighbor wasn't home.

Plan C.

Find a big rock. 

About 10 cracks with the big rock and the knob came off and no one came to look to see who was making all of the noise.

More hitting with the rock before the door would open. Once inside I find the drill and unscrew the other side. The door closed. The knob comes off and the inside thingy fell out. Onto the porch. 

Recap: I'm in the house. The door is closed. Both knobs are off.

I can't disengage the latch. The part that would pull it back is on the other side of the door. The door is stuck again.  

Gah! This is the only door in the house. There is no back door. Ryan suggested going out through the garage and using a putty knife to disengage the latch. 

He sent me a text: "Don't close the garage door behind you." I sent him back a special emoticon.

I packed up everything I wanted to take home and put it in the car and made sure I had the house keys and car keys in my pocket before I closed the garage door. 

The putty knife wasn't working. I examined the piece in the middle and found something to pull back on which disengaged the latch.

Finally. Take off strike plate and remove latch. Stuff hole with napkins because? I guess I just don't like the big gaping hole in the door to let in bugs and cold even though bugs and cold will get in regardless.

Rather than stay and do more work and see what else I could bungle I pull the door shut, engage the deadbolt and go home. The power washing can wait another day.

Insanity

It is so exhausting trying to understand conservative Christians who support Trump. Who, with their actions, hate the earth that their God created.

I can hear it now, "April, we don't hate the earth."

Really? 

I've seen you take pride in your big rig that spews pollution in the air. 

I've seen you give me a smug smile when you throw a recyclable item in the trash. 

I've seen and heard your contempt for tree huggers. 

I've seen you enthusiastically support the current administration who is doing their best to dismantle the EPA. 

I used to be you. I know the disdain and contempt for the hippies in the cities who don't understand the plight of the fisherman, the logger, the miner (granted, I didn't grow up around coal miners).

For the conservative it is:  God > Jobs > People > Environment

That doesn't mean that for the liberal it is: People > Environment > Jobs > God - just kidding, they are all going to Hell since they are a godless lot. The liberal, with the bleeding heart, of course, cares about people and jobs. Lots of jobs are being lost to automation but focusing efforts on growing the clean energy sector could lead to loads of new jobs.

Recently, I was talking to some girlfriends about how we just don't understand how people who profess to love God and consider themselves followers of Christ don't, with their actions, care about the poor or live up to their pro-life stance (pro-gun, pro-death penalty and for the shame they heap on a woman for having a child out of wedlock - if you didn't have such loose morals you wouldn't be in this mess; don't use tax payer money to feed your bastard children; don't use tax payer money for birth control).

We were talking about how we have to choose our words carefully when talking to conservative Christians when talking about things like the environment.

We don't talk about saving the earth. We don't talk about climate change. We talk about how God gave man dominion over the earth and He charged us with taking care of it.

Then the message might get through a little.

I recall one conversation with a conservative Christian who didn't believe there is climate change so who cares about vehicle emissions? Okay, let's ignore the science - I did get him to agree the exhaust coming out of the car is bad for the human body and for life in general.

Shouldn't that be reason enough to care? To do something? To support legislation that aims to keep our air clean?

I don't know why this particular issue struck a nerve with me today but it did. I feel like I'm becoming numb to the insanity that is the White House.

How is it that the people who hated Hillary Clinton with every fiber of their being (email! Benghazi!) aren't up in arms over Trump's association with Russia? With his disdain for freedom of speech? With his conflicts of interest? With his ban on people who have already been vetted to come to our country in the first place?

This is just exhausting and demoralizing.

Alki

Here are a few pictures from our short trip to Alki this morning. It was cold and windy and perfect for collecting beach glass. As we were leaving the beach, G was leading the way and telling me I was taking too long. Theo, on the other hand started helping me find beach glass. And shells, and rocks and seaweed and cigarette filters.

Overlooking downtown Seattle at Anchor Park on Alki

He is as mischievous as he is cute

Anchor Park on Alki

My sweet goofy boy

One of the fifty plus pieces of beach glass I found. My hands were freezing by time I was done but it was worth it.

Looking for treasures

The boys were running from the water.

Like Labradors

We just spent the afternoon and evening at the annual Christmas Party that Ryan's soccer buddies have every year. I felt so comfortable with this group of people that I was able to fall asleep in a comfy chair in the living room while everyone else watched the Seahawks v Packers catastrophe. There is something I find so comforting about sleeping in a noisy room with activity going on all around. I wonder if it calls to something that is so deep, so old that it is embedded as a feeling rather than as a memory. Like being in the womb - warm and safe, or being a small child and falling asleep on your grandparents couch while surrounded by aunts and uncles and noisy cousins. This comfort is something you experienced but can't remember other than in this way of feeling.

Over the years this group of people has become special to me. When I first met them I felt like I didn't belong - not because of anything they said or did - it was me being hyper aware of how different we were. Or so I thought. They played soccer and I didn't. They enjoyed athletic pursuits in general. While I enjoy watching football and have come to enjoy watching soccer I don't do so much of the playing of the sports. 

As I was able to get over my self imposed feelings of inadequacy I started to think of them as not just Ryan's soccer buddies but as my friends, too. With each wedding, each Lamb Day, each random gathering I felt more and more like I belonged. And to feel like you belong in a group like this, a group of people who grew up playing sports, who have that camaraderie, is special to someone like me; someone who didn't grow up playing sports. I am not lacking in friendship - I have some kick ass friends - but this group of people is different from any other group I've been a part of. They are also some of the happiest people you could hope to meet. Seriously, they are like Labrador Retrievers, always running and chasing balls.

This past summer the Morelli's opened their home on Orcas Island to the group. It was such a fun weekend that the collective group made it clear we wanted to be invited back en masse the following year. The kids put on a talent show one night. The kids were hilarious and not always on purpose; there was dancing and joke telling and lots of improv. The next night the kids had the adults put on a talent show. While the kids got to choose their talent the adults had to draw their talent out of a hat. Ryan had to dance, Brad had to sing an opera, someone got to show off their sick break dancing moves and I got to tell a joke. Everyone laughed at my joke me because I was laughing so hard I could hardly breathe let alone tell my super awesome joke. 

Wanna hear it?

Too bad. 

"Why couldn't the witch have babies?" 

"Because her husband had a halloweenie!"

Ha! Get it? See - I told you it was hilarious.

I may have had a little bit too much to drink that night. Maybe.

As I sit here, having looked through some of the photos from tonight that people posted on Facebook, I noticed how people were sharing their own appreciation for this group. Instead of limiting myself to a few words on Facebook - and instead of going around to each person at the next gathering and telling him/her how much I appreciate him/her (because people would think I was dying or something and it just seems kind of creepy) I'm doing it here. So, soccer peeps, if you are reading this: I appreciate you.  

Hope

The kids are in bed and the house is quiet. The Christmas tree, in its imperfect glory, is a colorful focal point in the dark room. I'm sitting next to the fireplace, my right arm is getting quite warm but I don't want to change positions because that would involve turning away from the warm glow of the Christmas tree.

I have been sitting here off and on throughout the day trying to write this. I sat at the dining room table earlier and last night I was in the basement staring at my computer screen, unable to write. I can't find the right place. I can't find the right words. Nothing about what I'm trying to do is coming easily to me and I can't understand why so I'm just going to muddle through this feeling of not capturing what I want to say with just the right words. 

This exercise in what feels like futility is to tell you about Jason. To tell you that he was a great guy. That when I think about Jason the first thing that pops in my head is his smile. His smile could light up a room. He was kind of quiet and unassuming but you could sense a deep well of contentment in him. Physically he wasn't a very big guy but his - I don't know what to call it - his aura? his being? The thing that was Jason was big. His calm, his happiness and his love, were all larger than that could be contained in him. He kind of just spilled goodness because there was so much of it in him.

I was talking to Ryan at Starbucks a day or two after Jason died. Ryan told me he used to think Jason had the best luck - he was always winning something at office parties and at industry events. I said that maybe so many good things happened to him because he wasn't given a full life. Whatever good that was to be had needed to fit into his thirty-eight years before cancer claimed him. 

But talking like the cancer was predestined and that all of Jason's goodness had a finite amount of time is kind of lame. His goodness didn't have to be snuffed out. If he had a treatment that would have worked for him his goodness could have filled up many more decades. His kids could have had a dad to be there for the big life events and even more important, for the minutiae that is life.

This is where I'm looking to you for help. I'm trying to raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society by doing the Big Climb. Your contributions will help further the research that is needed to find effective treatments for the Jason's out there who do not know cancer is lying in wait for them. 

If you want to learn more about the LLS and the Big Climb please click on this link: http://www.llswa.org/goto/apriljahns; and if you are able to please consider contributing to this great cause.

Jason Holdridge

1977-2016

Love Letter to Meg

Ryan took the boys to Cub Scouts last night. I was no use. I looked quite the sight, horizontal on the couch, under a blanket, eyes half shut. This cold and ear infection have kicked my butt. So it was there, in the warmth of the living room, with it's fire in the fireplace and lights turned up a little too bright, I lay scrolling through Facebook.

I caught a name that doesn't pop up in my feed very often. Meg McKennon. It was her sister's post that Meg was tagged in. I sat up. No! This can't be real. Meg died this weekend. How? No!

I read her sister's post. Then I read it again. I went to Meg's page and there was an ex of an ex with whom she was friends posting how much she was loved and going to be missed. 

The years she was my team leader and boss and then friend came rushing back to me. I think the last time I saw her was at the now defunct Cupcake to a Tea with Sugar cafe. She started her own company, Dwellings, and it was doing well. Or was the last time I saw her at Bud's funeral? Or was it JB's funeral? 

Meg was such a light. Writing about her in the past tense is kind of surreal. She is a light. She is funny. She is loving. She is protective. She is. She is. She is.

But she's not. She's gone. She was so young, too.

All last night and this morning I have been thinking about her. She was unlike any boss I've ever known.

She was the most inappropriate boss. Like ever. In the best possible way. And the most encouraging. She believed in me. I didn't always believe in me but she saw through my insecurities and had faith in me. 

I'm just going to ramble on now with my memories of Meg, Meggers - NOT Megan - McKennon. 

When I told her I was going to send my license back to the state because I was not a good enough salesperson to make a go of real estate she said, "No. Give it a little more time." When I told her that I didn't have more time to give she said,"Wait. We'll find you a job here. I'll make one up if I have to."

So, I became the receptionist. I told her I would take the job but only if my official title would not be "Director of First Impressions". Gag. Really, Keller Williams? That is about the worst. Sure, it's true that the smiling person in the front office is the first impression of the company many people get but it is such an awful title.

She thought I was being cheap when she would put together a coffee order and I said I wanted a short latte. She would bring me back a grande. I wasn't being cheap - I just think the short latte has the perfect ratio of espresso to milk. I told her I preferred the smaller size and she just rolled her eyes at me. One would think that would have been my job to go get the coffee but I think she loved getting out of the office.

For Christmas she gave me a thong - a bright pink thong by Hanky Panky. Those really are the best. They really are the only kind of thong to be worn. How's that for too much information? So, now when I see Hanky Panky anything I think of Meg. I think she would have laughed if I told her that. Maybe I should have told her.

She called me into her office. She was laughing hard. "April! Come here! You have to see this!" I don't remember the email but it was a totally inappropriate forward that was sexual in nature. 

I don't recall how this came about but we were talking about languages and I told her I took German in high school and it was a big waste. I could have studied a more useful language. She asked me to say something in German but I was having a hard time remembering so I went to Google a phrase to make sure I got it right. Not that she would have known if it was right or wrong. I don't remember the words I entered but the I do remember the search results. They were not what I was expecting. Lots German porn came up. I shrieked and was trying to close all of the windows and erase my browser history. I told her why I was freaking out - I don't think I ever saw her laugh so hard as she did at that moment.

When I came to work the day after my step-grandfather died she sent me home. I told her we weren't that close but she sent me home anyway. 

She was one of the first people I told when I was pregnant for the first time. I'm not one to wait 12 weeks to tell the people I'm close to. She was also one of the first people I told when I was no longer pregnant. She shared in my joy and in my sorrow.

One day I answered the phone in the early morning at work and it was Meg telling me she wasn't coming into the office because she wasn't feeling well. I asked her if the traffic coming from Renton was too much (she lived less than a mile from the office in West Seattle). *crickets* I knew she probably stayed over with Jeff who lived in Renton. They were trying to keep their relationship quiet and I probably wasn't supposed to know they were dating as they held the same position but in different offices. She told me later that she had me on speaker phone and that she couldn't believe I didn't hear Jeff laughing. She said she also flipped me off. I can only imagine how red her face was. She could light up a room when she blushed. 

Keller Williams has a company wide gathering called Family Reunion. It was held in Las Vegas every year, maybe it still is. I assumed I would stay in Seattle and hold down the fort while everyone was gone. Nope. Meg and Christi thought I should go. I told them I was fine staying but they insisted I go and take classes. So, I went. I learned a little more about the company and a lot more about myself. And Meg. I can't share all of my memories from that trip there because, you know, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

Just kidding. Nothing super crazy happened. Just intimate conversations that I cherish.

The house she rented was cute as a button. Adorable. Everything about it was cozy and comfortable and reflected her warmth. I don't remember anything specific about her house other than one felt at ease and comfortable in it. When she moved in with Jeff I helped her pack a little. Looking back at the house after it was emptied of everything Meg I stood there and took it all in. There was nothing special about the house. All of it's warmth and charm was gone; she is what made the place special.

Sometime after she left and I was gone from Keller Williams I learned that one of our agents, JB, died. He was a large part of the company and I knew Meg would want to know. Part of me thought she might already know but I couldn't think of who would have called her to tell her. I called her when I was without Gavin - which happened to be on a trip to the Home Depot in West Seattle. So, I wandered the store for an hour talking to Meg about JB and his sudden passing, about life and about hopes and dreams. 

It was at Bud's funeral (another real estate agent) that I realized we still had a connection. We laughed and cried together. We told Estella, one of Meg's super close friends and fellow agent at KW, stories about Bud since she didn't know him that well. The three of us huddled together in the bathroom fixing smudged make up and blowing noses. Meg used the toilet while we were in there. I laughed and thought, "Well, if we weren't close before, we are now."

I think Bud's funeral was one of the last times I saw her. I think Meg understood Bud's pain. How he had a smile for everyone but that there was a sorrow just below the surface. I know Meg had pain, too. She had a smile for everyone but in quiet moments she would let me see. Her hopes. Her fears. I don't know if she knew she was showing me or if I drew it out - or if everyone can see the pain others try to hide.  She didn't give words to her hurt but it was there. Maybe we all have that pain and it is through our own experiences with suffering that we are able to recognize it in others.

Or, I'm just full of it and feeling super emotional and reading more into my memories because a woman who was dear to me many years ago is gone. I could write more but I won't. Even though she is not here, the things she told me in confidence will remain locked in my heart. The things that made her blush - aside from Jeff's story - the stuff that pissed her off, the things that made her cry - will be my memories.

Everyone who met Meg was drawn to her. She had a pull and we all went to her; wanting to be special in her eyes. I hope she knew how special she was in our eyes. How so very special.

Goodbye, Meg. 

Warm Fuzzies

Do you have a favorite Season? My favorites are summer and autumn. Winter is too cold and Spring isn't much better aside from those couple of glorious teaser weeks in April and May. Summer, with it's heat and sunshine and days to be spent complaining about the heat and going to the beach chasing children with sunscreen makes me happy. Maybe it's the vitamin D. Maybe it's the blue skies. Maybe it's the heat and driving with the windows down.

Autumn is lovely, too. And not because of pumpkin spice. Enough already. If I liked pumpkin pie more than I do I might enjoy the other things sprinkled with the pumpkin and the spice. The best way to eat pumpkin pie, in my not so humble opinion, is with copious amounts of whipped cream. Copious. Like, 2/3 whipped cream to 1/3 pie. Better still is to just skip the pie altogether. 

Not all of my happiest memories are from Fall but it's in this season that I seem to reflect the most. Maybe other people reflect around New Years. By time the New Year arrives I'm cleaning up Christmas and trying to get rid of clutter.

So, I'm going to write down some of my happy memories. I hope they give you warm fuzzies, too or allow you to reflect on your own happy times.

I'm sitting on mom's lap in the house on Travis Street. Mom's back is to the window in the living room and my back is to mom's front. In each hand I hold one of Mommy's fingers and I'm moving them around as if they are joy sticks. I feel warm and content and fascinated with Mom's fingers.

My Daddy is driving his truck; it's just me and him. We are on the road that goes by the Dairy Queen (which I now know to be the Cape Arago Highway). Daddy is singing part of Clementine to me. I think it's "Oh, my darling." He tries to scoot me closer to him so he can put his arm over my shoulders. I am so happy and safe but super embarrassed that Daddy is singing to me so I admonish him with an, "Oh, Daddy!" 

It is near Christmas time. I must be three, just a month shy of my fourth birthday because the following Christmas Daddy is gone. Christmas cartoons are on T.V. at the same time as the evening news. Daddy turns the T.V. to the news. Ike and I complain because we want to watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer or Charlie Brown. Mom is nearby in the kitchen and hears us so she turns to Daddy and says, "Doug. Let the kids watch cartoons." Dad switches to the cartoon. He is probably annoyed but I am happy to get to watch cartoons and learn that mom wields some serious power.

We live in Vancouver now. It's Saturday and my step-dad drove to Seattle to watch the Huskies play. Mom takes me and my brothers to Landover Athletic Club to go swimming for a while. Mom brings a book and listens to the echoes of, "Mom! Watch me!" for a couple of hours before we dry off and walk the half a block back home. We bake cookies and laugh and tease each other. We congregate at the kitchen table or sit on the bar. It's warm in the house and it glows. I am at peace with my mom and my brothers.

More than the glowing warmth of the kitchen I remember how the backyard seemed to morph into an otherworldly place in the Fall. Looking outside there was a long hedge of tall arborvitae that separated our house from our neighbors. There were two or three tall evergreens that towered over the house. There was nothing special about our backyard, no landscaping that made it beautiful to me. It was the way the light bounced from the green grass to the green arborvitae. It looked like a lush sanctuary. 

I think it was the last day of school in the eighth grade and Wendy had a sleepover. Wendy, Kim, Torrie and I thought it would be fun to go back to the Jr. High and play a real life version of Calvin Ball (from Calvin and Hobbes). It was raining but I think that is what made it fun. We ran and chased each other all over the football field throwing a ball and making up rules as we went along. We were wet and muddy from head to toe. I think that was the last time I played like that with my girlfriends. 

It just occurred to me that maybe the reason why playing in the rain and mud with my friends in the 8th grade is such a treasured memory is because it was the last time I played like that. 

Kim, Wendy, if you are reading this I think we need to schedule a play session on a grassy, muddy field. Kim, bring Michelle. We'll make new memories.

Strawberry Shortcake

This picture was taken at my Grandparents house in Coos Bay, Oregon. This is the same fireplace where a log rolled out and caught my little brother's diaper on fire. I vaguely remember adults swarming him and putting out the fire. He wasn't hurt. The same fireplace where we roasted hot dogs - Grandpa preferred his uncooked and cold. *gross*

Circa 1981

The dress I'm wearing was my favorite dress. Really, look at it. What's not to like? Cute collar, apron and the best of all? The Strawberry on the apron. I think it was a Strawberry Shortcake dress.

My dad helped my mom with the laundry one day and somehow this dress was ruined - maybe it got bleached?

I was devastated. I put on the ruined dress and went to Don and Betty's house across the street to show my displeasure. Betty answered the door and I blurted out, "Look what my Daddy did to my dress!"

That's all I remember. This picture, that dress, my neighbor Betty.

I smile every time I look at this picture. Ike, a mini version of our dad, Joel a cute toddler with his belly hanging out and me, so happy and unaware that this dress was about to be destroyed.

1981

I was chatting with someone a couple of days ago when, in the course of conversation, a concert in 1981 came up. 1981, I thought, I was four years old. The worst year in my short little life - nothing has come close to it in the thirty-five years since. I kept that to myself, of course, but it has been gnawing at me all weekend. Hell, it gnaws at me every year at this time of year. This is one of the big years, though. The 10, 15, 20, 25, 27, 30 and 35 year marks bring about fresh pain and the old familiar pain and introspection. I'm learning to not be surprised when I learn a new way the pain and loss presents itself.

It was on October 28th, 1981 that my dad died. He had an irregular heart beat and was told that he was going to need a pacemaker when he was about 40. Wrong. He needed it sooner. Much sooner. He was only 27 years old.

The year I turned 27 was hard as were the years when my brothers turned 27, too. Of course, all milestones were difficult. Starting Kindergarten, learning to ride a bike, Homecoming and Prom, High school graduation, wedding. He didn't get to meet any of his grandchildren. I think he would have made an awesome grandpa. But of course I do - he was my dad.

Then there were the years when my kids were four and five years old. Oh, God those were the worst. I've always told the boys that my daddy lives in Heaven. They didn't ask questions until about a year or so ago. Gavin asked how old my dad was when he died. He seemed to know 27 was kind of young. I held my breath, just waiting for him to ask me how old I was. It was several months later when he finally asked how old I was. You could see the information sinking into his head. I want to give him assurance that I'm not going to die but I can't. I tell him my dad had a sick heart and that I've had my heart looked at by a heart doctor and that it is good.

That December right after my dad died I was lying on the bottom bunk at night when I yelled out for my mom. Mom came in and sat on the edge of the bed and asked what I needed. "I'm going to ask you a question and you better tell me the truth!" She agreed and I asked her if Santa Claus was real. "No. He's not," she answered. I wailed, "You lied to me!"

Of course it was many, many years later that I realized how I put it all together. Sometime that summer or spring of 1981 we were sitting at the table in the kitchen eating dinner when I asked my parents if they were going to die. I don't remember exactly how I asked the question or what their exact response was but I do remember being assured that they were going to live for a very long time. Then my dad goes and dies a few months later. Not exactly what I would call a long time. If they lied to me about how long they would live, what else were they lying about?

This shouldn't come as a huge surprise but I have a problem with telling my kids Santa is real. So, I don't. I kind of ruined it for Ryan but I just couldn't do it. It felt like lying because, well, it was lying. I am totally fine with the tooth fairy, though. I like to pick and choose my lies.

Santa? Not real.

Tooth fairy? Look she left you a dollar.

What do I have in my mouth? Um... not candy.

It feels like the only big painful surprises now are when a young father dies. I know two such men who died this year. It brings it all back. It is amazing how quickly it floods back, visceral and thick. A parent at the boys bus stop sent out an email last year looking for support in a charity event that raises funding for cancer research. He had battled cancer a couple of times when his kids were really little. Just reading that made my heart constrict and my the backs of my eyes sting.

I try to not worry about who is next. I know it isn't rational but I feel like I put in my dues for crappy life experiences so I should get a pass for the foreseeable future.

I wonder how this 35th year will shape up. I am hoping for uneventful. I will even try to not complain about the gray hair I see slowly taking over my head. After all, not everyone has the privilege of getting gray hair. I will complain if I start getting wrinkles, though. Those can't be dyed.

No Words

Well, that title is misleading. I have LOTS of words. They are just not nice words.




That picture sums it up.

Keepin' It Real

I just returned home from picking up a couple things needed for the upcoming Boy Scouts popcorn sale this weekend.

I don't know the other parents that well because Ryan was the main scout parent last year. This year we have two scouts so my parental involvement will necessarily increase since they'll be in two different dens. Packs. Groups. I don't really know what they are called.

As I was driving to the house in the hills to gather the card table and Square card reader, I noticed the homes got larger, and larger, and larger. There weren't cars in the driveways because they have three and four car garages and their cars will fit in said garages or both of the occupants are at work because it’s the middle of the day.

Not everyone can be a lady of leisure like myself, writing at 1 o'clock in the afternoon just for the hell of it. Hmm, maybe I should pretend I'm writing this at night because Ryan will eventually read this.

I'm not what you would call the best hausfrau. I keep a decent house, a cluttered and clean house. If you look really close, past the clutter you may notice the surfaces under the clutter is actually quite clean.

Baseboards? Clean. Trim around the doors? Clean. Light switch plates? Clean.

When I see a stack of papers to be sorted or laundry to be folded or food to be cooked the grime in the corners of the kitchen sink calls to me. The dog hair that gathered like tumble weeds since I last swept two days ago calls to me. Those teeny tiny specks of paint that splattered on the floor in our bathroom from ten paintings ago - likely the previous owner - taunts me. I. Must. Clean.

Hm, that was quite a tangent.

I think driving in that neighborhood caused me to evaluate my life choices. Not finishing my nursing degree. Letting my license as an LPN lapse because - ugh - I hated it. Not figuring out something else to do that would pay more than I could make as a receptionist. Social work would be awesome. It would also require a degree and the work would be hard and fulfilling but still with crappy pay. Meh.

I have an acquaintance, who by all appearances is very prim and proper, once said that if something happened to her husband the only thing she thinks she could make money at would be selling her body. My eyes bugged out and my jaw dropped before I laughed. I'm sure she could earn quite a living as an escort - she’s gorgeous.

Then it occurred to me that if something terrible happened to Ryan, and I had to go back to work, the money as a receptionist wouldn't cut it. I couldn't even be a stripper. There are so many reasons why. I can't dance, provocatively or otherwise. I have two children. I'll let you figure that one out. I would have to be the discount stripper. The one who keeps it real. A friend said, “Nah. You could just go to one of the clubs on Highway 99.” Gee, thanks.

When we first moved to Beacon Hill there was a woman who had a one man, er, woman, operation out of the back of her van. I called that van the hooker-mobile. She was definitely a discount prostitute. Well, I can't say for sure she was a prostitute. She could have been selling drugs and her clientele was 100% male.

As all of these thoughts were swirling through my head, as most of my thoughts are wont to do. I thought of the clothes I was wearing and the car I was driving in this affluent neighborhood.

Last night I sat on my couch and mended these super tiny holes in the shirt I am wearing now. If you look closely, or not closely, just in my general direction you could see I did something to my shirt. I can afford a new shirt and I didn't have to mend it or the two sweaters that I did last night; I could have just bought new ones.

Ryan would probably like it if I did that as my state of dress could reflect poorly on him. He is the one who brings home the bacon after all. I just can't be bothered to go shopping. It’s such a chore. Drive to the mall, walk the mall, get lost in the mall, try on 20 shirts only to find one that I like or 20 that I love and are really freaking expensive.

When I'm at Costco buying a flat of fruit and 50 pounds of birdseed I always swing through the clothing section. If I see a shirt I like, I'll throw it and two of the same in different colors in the cart. Two birds. One stone.

We got rid of the minivan this summer. Good riddance! Kind of. Sure it had horrible gas mileage but oh the space! Having a minivan is like having a living room on wheels. Everyone has their own quadrant. Children with their own quadrant can’t reach the other to hit or steal toys.

So I was cruising in this neighborhood of considerable homes, one might even call them McMansions, in our sweet ride: a 2004 Pontiac Vibe. Don't be jealous of my well-loved and well-used car. I do not worry even a little bit about someone denting it.

You know what I really like to do? When someone is clearly taking up two parking spots because they don't want anyone near their precious car I will squeeze my twelve-year-old ride in as close to the line as possible. See? I can be a jerk, too.

We did buy a nice car this summer, a 2014 Lexus. It's the nicest car either of us has ever owned. I really, really like it. And I love when the Pontiac Vibe is parked next to the Lexus 450H in the driveway.

Keepin' it real, folks. That's what we are doing.

If I could have had a glimpse into my life now as an adult when I was a little girl I would have thought I was a millionaire. Nice home, fancy car, baby grand piano, expensive shoes, vacations and fancy food. If I want green beans I buy fresh green beans - not the canned stuff. See? Fancy.

My first home was tiny. TINY. There were five of us in a two-bedroom house. My current garage is bigger than the house I grew up in. Many of our neighbors did drugs. I saw pot for the first time when I was four or five; saw it smoked for the first time when I was five or six. I thought, “Why are they smoking out of a pop can?” Oddly enough I've never smoked pot even though it wouldn’t have been that hard to come by. I think assumed if I did I would end up like some of my neighbors.

Maybe I should delve deeper into why I feel so uncomfortable and out of place when I'm surrounded by affluence. But I guess it's all relative. Who knows, someone could feel uncomfortable in my house. I would have felt uncomfortable in it when I was a little girl. It's a middle class home in a middle class neighborhood. Maybe that is why I'm such a crappy housekeeper. I want to bring everything down a notch as to make others feel comfortable in my home. Somehow I don’t think Ryan would buy that excuse.

Oy. That’s quite a lot to put out there in my first post in… let me see… five years! Wow. If I really wanted to I could take advantage of this quiet house and meditate and try to understand these uncomfortable feelings I’m having. Or… I could get up and clean behind the fridge because it has suddenly become very loud. There’s probably a mountain of fur under it that is blocking the motor.

Yeah, I know what I’m going to do. Everyone in my house is going to be so pleased with our quiet fridge.

Only YOU Can Help

My friend, Sarah Lenssen, has started a campaign to help bring food and hope to the drought stricken areas in the Horn of Africa where there is not enough food to sustain life.  I look at my food scraps pile that I toss out every night after making dinner.  And of the bits of food the boys don't eat.  And the food that spoils in the fridge.  Sarah's efforts have brought food - life - to these people with her campaign.  Please read on to see what Sarah has started and what you can do to help her help real people with real hurts.

Here are her words:

Thank you April and nearly 150 other bloggers from around the world for allowing me to share a story with you today, during Social Media Week.

A hungry child in East Africa can’t wait. Her hunger consumes her while we decide if we’ll respond and save her life. In Somalia, children are stumbling along for days, even weeks, on dangerous roads and with empty stomachs in search of food and water. Their crops failed for the third year in a row. All their animals died. They lost everything. Thousands are dying along the road before they find help in refugee camps.

At my house, when my three children are hungry, they wait minutes for food, maybe an hour if dinner is approaching. Children affected by the food crisis in in Ethiopia, Kenya, and Somalia aren’t so lucky. Did you know that the worst drought in 60 years is ravaging whole countries right now, as you read this? Famine, a term not used lightly, has been declared in Somalia. This is the world’s first famine in 20 years.12.4 million people are in need of emergency assistance and over 29,000 children have died in the last three months alone. A child is dying every 5 minutes. It it estimated that 750,000 people could die before this famine is over. Take a moment and let that settle in.

The media plays a major role in disasters. They have the power to draw the attention of society to respond–or not. Unfortunately, this horrific disaster has become merely a footnote in most national media outlets. News of the U.S. national debt squabble and the latest celebrity’s baby bump dominate headlines. That is why I am thrilled that nearly 150 bloggers from all over the world are joining together today to use the power of social media to make their own headlines; to share the urgent need of the almost forgotten with their blog readers. Humans have the capacity to care deeply for those who are suffering, but in a situation like this when the numbers are too huge to grasp and the people so far away, we often feel like the little we can do will be a drop in the ocean, and don’t do anything at all.


When news of the famine first hit the news in late July, I selfishly avoided it. I didn’t want to read about it or hear about it because I knew I would feel overwhelmed and uncomfortable. I wanted to protect myself. I knew I would need to do something if I knew what was really happening. You see, this food crisis is personal. I have a 4-year-old son and a 1 yr-old daughter who were adopted from Ethiopia and born in regions now affected by the drought. If my children still lived in their home villages, they would be two of the 12.4 million. My children: extremely hungry and malnourished? Gulp. I think any one of us would do anything we could for our hungry child. But would you do something for another mother’s hungry child?


My friend and World Vision staffer, Jon Warren, was recently in Dadaab Refugee Camp in Kenya–the largest refugee camp in the world with over 400,000 people. He told me the story of Isnino Siyat, 22, a mother who walked for 10 days and nights with her husband, 1 yr-old-baby, Suleiman, and 4 yr.-old son Adan Hussein, fleeing the drought in Somalia. When she arrived at Dadaab, she built the family a shelter with borrowed materials while carrying her baby on her back. Even her dress is borrowed. As she sat in the shelter on her second night in camp she told Jon, “I left because of hunger. It is a very horrible drought which finished both our livestock and our farm.” The family lost their 5 cows and 10 goats one by one over 3 months, as grazing lands dried up. “We don’t have enough food now…our food is finished. I am really worried about the future of my children and myself if the situation continues.”



Will you help a child like Baby Suleiman? Ask5for5 is a dream built upon the belief that you will.

That something I knew I would need to do became a campaign called #Ask5for5 to raise awareness and funds for famine and drought victims. The concept is simple, give $5 and ask five of your friends to give $5, and then they each ask five of their friends to give $5 and so on–in nine generations of 5x5x5…we could raise $2.4 Million! In one month, over 750 people have donated over $25,000! I set up a fundraiser at See Your Impact and 100% of the funds will go to World Vision, an organization that has been fighting hunger in the Horn of Africa for decades and will continue long after this famine has ended. Donations can multiply up to 5 times in impact by government grants to
help provide emergency food, clean water, agricultural support,
healthcare, and other vital assistance to children and families suffering in the Horn.

I need you to help me save lives. It’s so so simple; here’s what you need to do:

1.Donate $5 or more on this page (http://seeyourimpact.org/members/ask5for5)
2.Send an email to your friends and ask them to join us.
3.Share #Ask5for5 on Facebook and Twitter!
I’m looking for another 100 bloggers to share this post on their blogs throughout Social Media Week. Email me at ask5for5@gmail.com if you’re interested in participating this week.

A hungry child doesn’t wait. She doesn’t wait for us to finish the other things on our to-do list, or get to it next month when we might have a little more money to give. She doesn’t wait for us to decide if she’s important enough to deserve a response. She will only wait as long as her weakened little body will hold on…please respond now and help save her life. Ask 5 for 5.

Thank you on behalf of all of those who will be helped–you are saving lives and changing history.

p.s. Please don’t move on to the next website before you donate and email your friends right now. It only takes 5 minutes and just $5, and if you’re life is busy like mine, you probably won’t get back to it later. Let’s not be a generation that ignores hundreds of thousands of starving people, instead let’s leave a legacy of compassion. You have the opportunity to save a life today!

Trying Something New

If I were more industrious I would go back and see how many times I've lamented about the loathsome job of doing laundry.  It, like washing dishes, is such a bother.  Wash, dry, take care of and repeat for the rest of your life. 

The few times that every article of clothing (save what we were wearing), kitchen towel and assorted linens has been clean and folded and taken care of are such sweet times.  I like to see empty hampers, laundry baskets, a spacious and empty laundry room and a pool table not covered in clothes. 

Then I squander that precious time of having nothing taunting me in the hamper by fretting about other chores that need to be done to make the house perfect.  If the dishes are done and the toys are picked up then are the windows sparkly clean?  The bathroom spotless?  How about the grout lines in the kitchen - how long has it been since I took a toothpick to them?

Nutso, I know.

Last week Ryan invited a friend over to play pool. 

There was only one problem.

The pool table.  It was covered - every square inch - with clean clothes, piles of stuff to go to Goodwill, to save for so and so, to be moved to the garage/kitchen/bookshelf/boys room...

One evening Ryan spent an hour and a half tackling the pool table. 

It took him 90 minutes to fold all of those clothes and sort through the piles of stuff.  And he goes pretty fast at it, too.  There is no precision folding going on. 

Maybe I should slack a little on the precision and just go with the whole 'getting it done and over with' method.  I'm the only one who cares if the sheets are folded so well that you can't tell which is a flat sheet and which is a folded sheet.  The boys don't balk if the towels in the linen closet do not have all of their edges matched up perfectly.  Or if the edge sides or round folded sides are not all facing the same direction.

Geez, just writing about this makes me want to go straighten out the linen closet.  The towels are folded all wonky and there is a huge stack of yellow shop cloths in front of the bath towels.  The wash cloths are not stacked by style (in the following order:  the white ones with pink trim, sand colored ribbed ones from our wedding registry, white ones from my mom 2 Christmases ago) and baby washcloths are mixed in with them and they are stacked so high the tower of wash cloths is falling over ....

Wait.

I need to go get a brown paper bag.

*********

Just kidding.  Sort of.  I'm not hyperventilating but I do think I've got myself plenty worked up about the state of the linen closet. 

Sheesh. Now I have to worry about the linen closet in addition to the hallway full of stuff I need to clear out.  It's been 5 years in the making but I reached my tipping point in our tiny bedroom.  Our bedroom set is lovely.  Really.  Very pretty, solid wood, blah, blah, blah.  It is also freaking HUGE.  We will gain 18 inches of precious space by removing our head and foot boards.  I cleared the top of my dresser (into a laundry basket, the contents and which are in the hallway sitting on top of my nightstand - which I also emptied in order to move it to the guest room) so I could work on emptying the dresser so I can take the dresser out of the room.

On Sunday or Monday we are going to get a platform bed that has storage underneath.  The one drawer full of clothes that I couldn't arrange neatly in the closet are going in those drawers.  We will be down 3 really bulky pieces.  Our room will feel like a calm and spacious oasis. 

Now I just need to get Ryan to take the boys to his mom's or dad's house for the weekend so I can paint the bedroom... and living room... and dining room.... 

I feel relaxed just thinking about the vision it's going to be.  Now I just have to work on my sales pitch to Ryan about my color choices.  Half of my pitch is about his lack of labor involvement and the other half will have to be made up of trust (see how nice the bathroom turned out?  You doubted that, remember?) and my big brown eyes looking at him all sweet and doe like. 

So the whole reason I started this post was because I had this novel idea about something new I'm trying:  folding laundry one load at time.  When a load needs to go in the dryer I fold the one already in there instead of piling the clean clothes on top of the dryer, then the washer then the pool table. 

It's been 3 days and it is going beautifully. 

The other new thing I was going to try and have already failed miserably at is a short blog post.  Since I like to write but finding the time to do it when I have enough uninterrupted time and energy is kind of hard I thought I would just write a small post about doing laundry.  But then I start in on tangents. 

Oy.  The tangents.

That reminds me about this time in the 9th grade when I learned what a tangent was...

Nutso

You know those days when you wake up and in spite of being a little tired you just go, go, go?  I had one of those the other day.  It hasn't stopped yet.  I think it may have something to do with having two young children. 

Just maybe.

The other factor would be the nutso factor. 

When you add coffee to the nutso factor - watch out. 

I cleaned the kitchen which is always an epic feat.  Always.  We have so many plastic kids dishes that can only be washed in the top rack that I always have a mountain of cups, plates and bowls that don't have any room in the upper rack so I have to wash all of those by hand, then the pots and pans, knives.....

The whole process of sustaining a human body with food is such a bother.  How nice would it be to just go outside and pick fruit and vegetables and eat.  Call it good.  No need to cook.  No need to clean. 

The sweeping led to vacuuming, the vacuuming led to moving some furniture which led to a curtain rod falling which led to curtains being washed which led to curtains being ironed. 

I suppose that stuff isn't nutso.  The nutso part is when I decided to strip the bed, wash the duvet, vacuum the mattress pad, the bed frame, two dressers and nightstands. 

Ryan was in the shower when I put the sheets on the bed.  In case you don't know I have to have the sheets perfect when I put on a fresh set.  After that, meh, not so much.  Ryan gets a kick out of wresting the corner of the sheet out of his hand to I can put it on properly.  And the way I smooth out all of the bumps and wrinkles in the top sheet so it lies perfectly flat.  I even make hospital corners - but I don't tuck the sheet in at the foot of the bed.  I'm like George Costanza in that I'm a "no tuck" person. 

As if that weren't crazy enough... I remembered that I had the ironing board out and the top of the flat sheet was so wrinkled that it wasn't making a straight line across the top of the bed.  Naturally, the only thing you can do it iron all of the seams of the top sheet.  And the pillow cases. 

When I plopped into bed I was a little disappointed in my self for not ironing the shams.  Really, that's what's going to be seen... by me and Ryan, the boys and our cat Bob.  I'm sure Bobby would much rather lay on an ironed sham than a wrinkly one.  Poor Bobby. 

The next day the craziness continued when we realized the freezer wasn't, well,  freezing.  Then we discovered the fridge wasn't refrigerating.  Working quickly we moved all of the food to the downstairs fridge in the laundry room.  Well, first I took out all of the beer and water and ginormous pot of chicken stock I completely forgot about. 

You wouldn't think it would be such a hassle to walk down stairs to grab some food for your kids for breakfast, lunch and dinner but it was a HUGE hassle.  We had a lot of take out over the last two days.  Most of that was because the kitchen was impassable.  If the fridge wasn't pulled out and the island butcher block moved then it was overflowing with all of the shelving, drawers and racks. 

Ryan spent Thursday evening figuring out the problem and Friday fixing it.  I spent Friday cleaning the inside of the fridge, washing every rack, every drawer, every shelf.  I didn't just wipe the stuff down, I scrubbed it with copious amounts of soap.  Then I spread them all over the kitchen and dining room table to dry. 

When I was trying to put a drawer back in the fridge I opened the door really wide and angled the drawer to slide it in.  The top pane of tempered glass slipped and shattered into a million little pieces, scattering themselves all over the kitchen, under the fridge, island, and dining room.  Theo was in the dining room and was fascinated by the sound of shattering glass and immediately started climbing out of his chair.  I said, "No, Theo, NO!  Ryan!  Help.  Ryan!" 

By this point Theo is standing barefoot on broken glass.  I quickly take a few steps on broken glass to get to him.  Just as I got to him Ryan arrived to pick him up. Theo starts to cry and I very gently brush the glass bits off his feet.  Fortunately, there were no cuts. 

I crawled over the baby gate to the chair that Theo was in then crawl to the next seat over, brush off my feet - also not cut - and scoot the chair away from the glass so I can get shoes on to help Ryan clean up the glass. 

Did you know that tempered glass keeps breaking after the initial crash?  As I was waiting maneuvering myself around on the dining room chairs I kept hearing pops coming from the kitchen.  I turned around and sure enough bits of glass were still breaking apart.  They weren't huge breaks but they were clearly forming new fissures.  It was pretty neat to watch. 

Cleaning up that mess was a big undertaking.  So big I worked up a sweat and took a shower afterwards. 

A couple of hours later I took a peak in the downstairs fridge and a glass bowl just slid out and broke on the concrete floor.  There was cellophane over the bowl so it helped contain the glass but still.  Another glassy mess to clean up. 

On the bright side off all of the breaking of appliances and glass - my floors are clean and my fridge is showroom clean.  Not a single item in the fridge is expired (my recycling bin is going to be overflowing with empty condiment bottles this week).  My, oh, my we have a lot of condiments. 

It is such a lovely sight to behold that I just want to go stare at it.  Or take a picture and post it on facebook.  

Nah, that would be really nutso.