Things About Planning

 My mom and my younger (but much more mature) sister are all about spreadsheets. They really are master planners, whether it's homeschooling a half dozen kids or The Most Epic Trip To Disneyworld Ever, as far as planning goes, they've got it dialed in. Me, I'm more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-whatever-pants I may or may not be wearing (you can see there where I got tired of dashes) type of a planner, which is to say, not much of a planner at all. But today, y'all, I have to say, I think I've outdone even myself in the planning/not planning department. And as a tribute for the rip-roaring success I have found, I'm gonna lay it all out for you in twelve easy steps. Ready? 

1) Unrealistic Optimism. I have found this character trait to be the primary necessity when planning any family-style event. First you have to picture your ideal. You know, that 8 hour road trip when everyone is singing perfect harmonius rounds of Michael Row The Boat and all of The Alleluias sound angelic. Then add to it. It in this case, 17 people carving pumpkins merrily around a bonfire in the waning gray of a sweet smelling autumn evening while the auburn leaves float gently down around our laughing shoulders. 

2) Involve as many people as possible. Always plan on family, extended family, the rebellious teenager from down the street, two adopted kids and the special ed student who found out you live within bicycling distance of his weekend abode. Not to mention dogs. 

3) Don't sweat the small stuff. Like whether the propane tank for your barbeque is filled, or how many fallen leaves might suffocate your serene bonfire, or if a bonfire with 11 elementary aged children, combined with a minimum of 37 pumpkin carving knives, is even a good idea. These details have a way of sorting themselves out. 

4) Alcohol

5) Stage at least three major emergencies. This aura of panic lends itself to an atmosphere of relief when dealing with minor injuries such as roasting stick gouge wounds, carving knife lacerations and small burns to ten or twelve fingers. My standby favorites emergencies for this include (but not limited to): neighborhood dog (or cat) attacks, empty propane tanks and an overflowing toiletful of poop. 

(Note: this one is only useful if one of the invited extended family members has the presence of mind to turn off the poop covered toilet valve that you're too disgusted to touch.) 

6) Alcohol

7) Get inexpensive food to feed the kids. This provides a great opportunity for parental guilt when you're doling out Foster Farms "blended meat" hot dogs and all of the kids make a scene about the gourmet beer boiled brats that they would much prefer. Over the years this strategy has given me the side perk of developing a taste for raw Foster Farms hot dogs, and ultimately saves my grocery budget. 

8) Leave the kids unattended as much as possible. Kids will be kids, right? And I'm sure the "oldest" ones are looking out for the youngers, even if the age difference is a mere 7 months. And who can't learn a valuable lesson from roasting stick gouges and carving knife lacerations? 

9) Alcohol 

10) Paper plates and plastic cups. These make EXCELLENT festive decorations alongside the six dozen glasses, 37 regular plates and 97 bowls that people had to scrounge for to save the environment and the stack of disposable tableware present. I'm proud of our social awareness. 

Note: dish washing party at my house tomorrow

11) Lots of food. I'm getting better about outsourcing and potlucking. Gone are the days of solo hosting. Plan on feeding at least twice as many people as you intended, plus several dogs, a small hole in the front yard that mysteriously swallows whole packages of hot dogs, and the fire itself, which has a voracious appetite. 

12) Alcohol. And love. Always remember that these are the memories that stick. Ankle deep in somebody else's poop, blowing into a faceful of leaf smoke, and lighting your hand on fire inside of a acetone soaked pumpkin (don't ask...).

But seriously. These are the nights we remember. Not the perfect awards ceremonies and the flawless executions of holiday rhetoric. It's the (literal) crap that we face in the midst of the joy, or vise-verse, that makes family family, and life good, and me thankful. 

Things That Are Contagious

Here's the thing: pretty much if you spend enough time thinking about, talking about, researching and worrying about a given illness, you can manifest the symptoms if you want to. Which is why most of my children are convinced that they have Ebola right now. Obviously they don't, but the things they do have are enough to make me quarantine the whole house and become a manic OCD cleaner sometime tomorrow after I wake up and have coffee.

A few days ago Aspen casually remarked how she had some sort of a bug bite or something on her forehead that was itchy and very annoying. Being the good mother that I am, I told her to take a benadryl and go to bed without even looking at it. The next day she said it was even more annoying and it hurt, and I told her to take a tylenol and go to bed again, because I am a REALLY good mom. Today when she said it both hurt and itched and the annoying factor was on overdrive, I finally decided I had the time and courage to look at it, and I really wish I hadn't. At this point I am fairly certain that she has leprosy. Or maybe Shingles. Which would make sense since I had a friend here the other day who had shingles and even though they were never even in the same room together, somehow, it mutated into an airborne virus and squirreled it's way around the rest of us and onto Aspen. But if it's leprosy, that would make sense too, since my parents are visiting and we reserve those times for the presentation of All of The Worst Possible Illnesses To Be Shared Among Family. 

Being an extra good mother, I started googling this very scary looking rash type sore on my child's forehead, and since my good buddy has had a massive infestation of spiders that could double as lap dogs, it seemed reasonable to start with spider bites. This resulted in the discovery of the recent death of a 10 year old boy in Montana from a spider bite. On his leg. That killed him. Dead. Whatever we are dealing with here is apparently lethal. I couldn't quite process this whole idea so I skipped to some lighter reading about Poison Oak and other common childhood illnesses that include coughing, snuffling, and Really Gross Scary Rash Type Things. By the time I was done and had eliminated all of the possibilities except A) leprosy, B) Spider Bites and C) Ebola, all I could think to do was to watch the Walking Dead and wish for a zombie apocalypse. Because then I would know what to do. I have taken the Facebook quiz like 8 times, just to be sure, and my survival is not in question. But rashes? Coughs? GIANT HAIRY SPIDERS WITH DEEP VOICES AND EYE CONTACT? I can't deal, y'all. 

Because I couldn't send the airborne-sightborne-thoughtborne viral rash to bed without some treatment, I had to collect myself enough to take inventory of the interventions that I could perform as a poorly equipped wildland EMT with 37 boxes of fix-it gear piled in my dining room. We started with a shower, when it could not be determined when she had last bathed, if ever at all. After that I whipped out a $75 tube of Zanfel and treated the potential crap out of the potential poison oak. Then we assaulted it with hydrogen peroxide while Aspen spoke tersely of stinging fizz and gritted her teeth. Because I was still paranoid, we hit it with some alcohol swabs (which induced more teeth grinding and scrunched faces) and triple antibiotic ointment, washed bedding, quarantined a suspect pillow pet (these have been known to carry numerous childhood killers) and covered the offending rash to avoid contact with anyone or anything. Aspen went to bed with a forehead bandage the size of a Hershey Bar and of course her sisters are now petrified of catching Ebola from her. Because that's what bandaids mean here. 

Even after all of that I sit here, every molecule of my body itching and reacting to the deadly, undiagnosed virus seeping into the whole house from upstairs. Because we catch things by osmosis in this family. It's how we roll. Like my throbbing feet that only hurt because my buddy has all these bone spurs and bunions and is about to have foot surgery. So I am sharing in her pain with her. Now that I know foot pain is a thing. I can acknowledge it and become part of the pain with her. I hope that means I get to share in the post op pain killers too...

Although with Aspen's forehead there is no doubt in my mind that it came from her dad's house. Because that's where anything we can't explain, justify, escape, or just don't like, comes from. I will go to bed dreaming of Dagny sized spiders and flesh eating bacteria. Again, I will take Zombies ANY day. Already this week we've missed a day of school for coughing and a half day for a dentist visit, which I still haven't heard the results of, since the only thing she remembered him saying was that the culprit tooth was a baby tooth and she should wiggle it more. Another thing to blame on dad, since he took her to the dentist and hasn't reported back yet. I would assume the dentist told him more than to wiggle her remaining baby teeth. But who knows. Maybe all the teeth gritting activities of the evening helped loosen the offensive baby teeth. Maybe the Ebola-Leprosy rash is related to the teeth. Maybe it's just a little spot of poison oak and I should just quit freaking out for a minute. But where's the fun in that? Or the justification to find safety in the remaining Netflix episodes of Walking Dead, and drink medicine out of a stubby brown bottle labeled Session Lager? 

If anybody is bored tomorrow, after we get back from the ER we'll be sanitizing the house with rubbing alcohol and a blowtorch. Feel free to stop by. 

Things About (Bad) Driving

Dear Friendly Car Insurance Company:

Recently, you sent me a thing-a-ma-jiggy to install in my car that would track my driving habits and potentially qualify me for a reduced insurance rate on my car.

Before you render judgment based on the feedback you receive from this gizmo, I feel that I should be allowed a chance to explain what you are probably seeing on my report.

First of all, you will notice a nine-hour period of driving on a recent Friday that contains numerous hard stops and sudden accelerations. I would like to point out that my oldest daughter is learning to drive, and given the size of my engine and excellent working condition of my brakes, that day when I let her drive all the way to Bend really shouldn't be counted against me. The times when the vehicle exceeded 90 miles an hour were her well meant passing trials, during which I may or may not have been unconscious in paralyzing fear. I feel the wear and tear to my tires and the amount of rubber we left at the launch of every stop we made is more than enough to pay for her driving education, and my insurance rates shouldn't reflect this learning experience.

Also, regarding the recent Tuesday morning when I am sure you noticed a particularly sudden stop, it was only because I had missed the turn to the closest Dutch Bros, and even you would have to admit that locking them up was a better option than an illegal u-turn at a busy intersection.

In the driving hours clocked after 2 AM, I would like to submit for your consideration that while many people drive at this time inebriated, or at least suffering from sleep deprivation, my own road hours were clocked in an attempt to avoid driving with a car full of awake children. This is a specialized tactic in travel safety, reducing in-vehicle distractions and avoiding the well known swerve-while-swatting-blindly into the backseat to separate fighting kids that is a continuous daytime driving hazard.

Please also remember that while traveling 12,000 miles in a month and a half might seem excessive on an average scale, I live in a very remote location, requiring a lengthy commute to groceries, irish dance lessons, doctors visits, family weddings, various sporting events, counseling sessions and of course beer runs. I would like it noted to my record that I have maintained religiously, the three thousand mile oil change regimen at a variety of northwest Oil Can Henry locations, since I don't have to get out of my car and they give me a free newspaper and pretend to like me (shout out to Carlos in Walla Walla!)

In regards to the Saturday before last, my sister drove my car, and I don't feel that I should be held responsible for her poor driving choices, lack of seatbelt wearing, or the cookies she spun in the walmart parking lot.

Finally, I know that on Friday of last week you will see another series of fast takeoffs and urgent stops, as well as that one time when I drove for about 6 miles with my emergency brake on. In this situation I had visited British Columbia and was confused by all of the road signs which are posted in Canadian.

I appreciate the time and consideration that I am sure you will give my appeal, and the adjustments you make to my policy accordingly. I know that you appreciate fastidious clients like myself who are also good communicators.

Sincerely,

Liv

Things About My Life Right Now

I am going to work in three hours. It's 9:17 PM. You do the math. But somebody offered me good money to go to work at midnight, and far be it from me to shun the almighty dollar. I should be sleeping right now. But I have been trying to put the kids in bed and they think I am nuts for insisting that Everyone Go To Bed Early two nights in a row.

But that's how it is with teenagers. They all have opinions. They think they know stuff. Like when is a good time to go to bed. And they all want to hang out and watch TV shows with me. When clearly it is MY time to be by myself with my TV shows. When did they stop being 8 years old with early bedtimes and no viable opinions? And when did I start buying cars and iPhones and grown-up things for MY KIDS? Something is terribly wrong with this picture. How can a person who can't grow up possibly raise grown up children? It just doesn't work. Already I am playing out in my head the scenarios where I take my kids out to dinner, like my parents take me out, and they insist on paying. But here I am thinking - wow - now that their 18 I don't have to pay any more, right? Wrong. You never stop being a parent. Not ever. No matter how old and/or irresponsible your children get. My parents could speak to that one.

As one would expect, in a household of girls, and mostly teenagers, a day rarely goes by that isn't fraught with emotional turmoil and several crises of massive proportions, like a misplaced aqua flat, or someone having someone else's favorite shirt in their drawer, or somebody listening to headphones Way Too Loud. And always, of course, Doing It On Purpose.

A few weeks ago, on a particularly emotionally charged day, which may or may not have been a day when I Sincerely Wanted To Put My Children Up For Adoption, my sister went somewhere fun without me, maybe a thrift store or a yard sale, I am not sure, and she found a couple of adorable vintage tablecloths. Knowing that I was having a bad day, and knowing that she possessed one of the Only Known Cures for a bad day (i.e a vintage table cloth), she delivered it to my house post haste.

The thing about a vintage table cloth is that when you put it on a table, no matter how battered or ugly or even dirty the table is, suddenly All Is Right in the world around that table. There is happiness and joy and order. People smile. Because how can you not smile around a vintage table cloth? Maybe it's because it represents a better time, when priorities had to do with things bigger than missing shoes and noisy earbuds. Maybe it's because it ties us back to growing up and all of the people we love and the values that we adhere to. Maybe it's because all of the merry color overpowers the gloom of selfish fits and petty arguments. Or maybe it's just that it functions like a bandaid to cover the ugliness of day to day junk.

I could use a bandaid today. To cover a whole lot of fail. As a mom, as a person - a bright little tablecloth might have helped. Except it's lost. Somehow it got put away somewhere Very Safe, where no one will probably ever find it again. No bandaids for me. Just have to go on with all of my ugly showing. I guess that's why they make wine. So at least I won't notice so much. And dogs, who love you unconditionally, even when you are a jerk. Teenagers tend to tell you when you're being a jerk. And apparently I am being a jerk a lot of the time, because they tell me so. But not the dogs. Or the wine. They both treat me with unconditional devotion and care. Until I find the tablecloth, I guess that will have to do.

Things About Sundays

Here it is, Sunday afternoon once again. Somehow it works out to be my day off more often than not, which shouldn't be surprising since there is no school (hence no work) and the restaurant is closed for dinner (again, hence no work). But it always takes me by surprise that I have absolutely nowhere that I need to be. More surprising is the complete lack of children altogether from my house. It makes for an eerily quiet afternoon.

Last night after work, and a long Ambulance drive out to the boondocks for a nothing call, I went to bed with noble aspirations of Getting All Of The Things done today. But I woke up with even stronger aspirations of Staying In Bed All Day. Luckily, the latter hopes were dashed by a giant black hairy horse-like beast howling on my front porch. How he got onto my front porch and why he was howling still remain mysteries to me, but I let him in and decided to worry about it all later. We are having a 7+ day sleepover party with two of our best dog friends, Charlie and Stella. It's going really well, other than the grouchy words exchanged periodically between Truck, who thinks his only mission in life is to sleep on the stairway landing and say grouchy things to other dogs, and Charlie, who is much younger, bigger and more confused about his only mission in life, but feels certain it has something to do with sitting on top of my vintage record player to watch out the window for his people.

 Stella is a small hairy mop-like object who likes Dagny Very Much, and the feeling seems to be mutual. Their favorite pastime is fighting like two tiny Big Horn Rams, rared up on their back feet and punching and biting with tiny paws and teeth. Dagny is at a serious disadvantage in this activity, as A) her legs are much shorter and her punching distance reduced, and B) every mouthful of Stella she manages to grab is always primarily hair. She holds her own though, and this goes on for hours. Usually until Truck says something mean to both of them and they decide to take a nap on the back of the couch together. The other favorite thing for both of the visiting dogs to do involves foraging for unknown and as yet, unlocated treasures in the flower bed outside and then bringing half of said flower bed into the house to show off. Other than Penny, who is too fat to jump over the flower bed edging, the other dogs are totally unimpressed. As though they have already found ALL of the treasures to be had in that flower bed, so who really cares. Stella is so proud of her dirt acquisitions, that as soon as I swept up two cups of dried mud and at least one Pekingese worth of dog hair in the living room, she had to run through it three times to keep some souvenirs. Truck gave her a dirty look and continued to shed actively on the couch. Dagny successfully taught Stella that unwashable Pendleton Wool blankets are the best ones for getting mud off of ones paws, as well as sticking unwanted fur to. They have had a good time redecorating my Acadia National Park Blanket, which is foolishly made of black wool. I am pretty sure I am ready to give up this fight until next spring, when all of the dogs will be banished to the outside. (famous and false last words)

In addition to this endless entertainment, I am absolutely transfixed by a mountain of clean laundry facing me on the other couch. I am sure you think that I exaggerate when I say mountain, but seriously. Ten loads of laundry barely fit on the full sized couch, piled at least 4 feet from the seat. It is a veritable mountain. One that requires folding. And sorting. This particular mountain however, is cause for celebration, since 48 hours ago, every single stitch of clothing was piled on the floor in "Aspen's room" which is the space of the house where all family members throw anything they don't want, don't claim or don't know what to do with, and then protest loudly about the youngest child's messiness. Some well meaning friends of sisters came in and "cleaned" "Aspen's room" which resulted in ten load of laundry consisting of every costume piece, long missing bath towel, matched pair of socks and rejected hand me down that has ever existed here. I am waiting until the kids get home tonight to fold and sort the mountain, which is the best excuse I can find to avoid doing it right now.

Sunday might be my favorite day, if I had TV to watch football on. And friends to drink beer with. But this weekend they all abandoned me. As if I were nothing to them. So for all I know the Broncos could be losing a tremendous battle with the NY Jets and I am not there to strengthen their morale. Instead, I am avoiding eye contact with a mountain of laundry and a very muddy black horse-like creature who is pretty sure he wants to sit in my lap. My only escape is in the kitchen, cleaning out a refrigerator that tells the sad tale of a mother never home at dinner. It is time for the weekly ritual of throwing away fruit fly infested apple crisp, moldy corn bread, vegetable soup that NO ONE will eat, and all of the remaining scraps of top ramen and macaroni and cheese that seem to be the only edible thing in the house if I am not cooking. I need to sponsor some starving children somewhere to compensate for all of this waste. It really irks me. Apparently I need to leave detailed notes telling the children to EAT THE CORN BREAD that was once moist and delicious. I guess it doesn't go well with top ramen and olives right out of the can. The one piece of chocolate raspberry truffle cake that accidentally came home with the groceries the other night will need to be dealt with as well. To avoid future temptation. I guess since it's Sunday it's up to me to do it.

Things About Fantasies

Disney really has nothing to do with the disillusionment I face in this very real and often sinister world. In fact, Disney has yet to produce a love story that makes me swoon, much less a prince that I would even consider pining for. For that matter, until Sleeping Beauty came along with the dashing Prince Philip, there wasn't a personality to be found among the heroes of the animated fairy tales. No, I cannot, in good faith, condemn the Walt Disney studios for designing the dream  world that would come crashing down around my nineteen-year-old ears. 

That responsibility falls entirely on the silver screen image of every debonaire, crooning, tap dancing, damsel-rescuing hero of the black and white films that I cut my teeth on. Gene Kelly led me to believe that there are men who can move like angels. Jimmy Stewart made me yearn for a puppy-doggish awkwardly adorable romantic that would give up his fondest dreams to protect me. And Frank Sinatra. The biggest devil of them all. Lulling me into the adamant belief that the words he crooned so sweetly, so easily into my ear were every one, heartfelt. Of course he would do anything for me. Of course I make his heart sing. Of course he'd never stray... That man MUST exist. And how sure I've been that I would find him, ambling down a sunny sidewalk in a cockeyed fedora, with that adorable glint in his eye and every intention of showering me with all of the Big Screen, John Wayne-Maureen O'Hara passion that I could handle. Complete with swept away kisses and starry eyed whisper-sung promises of forever. 

Instead I find myself morphing slowly into Buelah Bondi (with much worse cooking) in the version where George Bailey never existed. 

Lies, all of them. There are no Joe Bradys, no Mark MacPhersons, no Quirt Evans wandering the world in search of me. In fact - when it comes right down to it, they were all scoundrels in the first place. Delicious, enticing scoundrels; Requiring nearly as much rescuing as they offered - gamblers and outlaws and wolves. But such lovable ones. 

Really I'd be better off with Disney's original faceless Prince Charming. Safer. More predictable - happily ever aftering... And richer. 

But oh, the pinstripes and the promises that led me on the quest for my three piece clad antihero. My own Donald Lockwood to captivate - And Nathan Detroit to tame. Shame on me for not seeing them for the cads they always were, however handsome.

 No Disney, I do not owe my cynicism to the lofty ideals you bestowed upon recent generations. My pitfalls stem from a different era. One when a lovable bad guy or a troubled good guy really were the best you could do unless you wanted a Ward Cleaver, but that's just comedy. I learned that real love comes with a dark and mysterious side. Always the hint of a threat... Always a roll of the dice. 

And here I am. Like another cast off of the oft-married rat packers and silver screen showboats. But somehow, every time they start singing, Or glide across a set, Or draw a gun, mount a horse, prop their spit shined shoes up on a massive oak desk and light a cigar, I go all week in the knees again like an unteachable fool. I still believe in scoundrels. 

Things That I Am Sorry For

Yesterday I woke up with a head cold that I am fairly certain is trying to kill me. In fact, even though I had a quasi-job interview (that's a sort-of interview for a sort-of job) and ran a zillion errands in town, the only thing I really remember was the 15 minute nap I took in my car when I was waiting for a lady to buy some of my too-many pairs of shoes.

Being in a perpetual, possibly fever-induced fog like this has given me time to think about some of the things that I am (perhaps) doing wrong these days. The first one that stuck out to me like an arrow point right between my eyes was sending Aspen and the other girls to school mercilessly with this same head cold that has rendered me Absolutely Dysfunctional. What kind of a cruel person, lacking all empathy and understanding, would do that. Where were the Episodes of Five Mile Creek and the popsicles and hot tea and chicken soup? I am a jerk mother. That's just all there is to it. So I am sorry, kids. That I made you suffer through math and PE and even running hills in volleyball, feeling like a Yeti swallowed your entire head. I was wrong.

Also, my sister pointed out to me that I should probably quit writing blogs and write a book, after I pointed out to her that people keep thinking I am writing about them when I am not. If I write something negative or remotely connotative thereof, I know of at least Three People within my inner circle who will automatically assume it is about them and tell their henchmen so. Conversely, if it is shining praise and uber-niceties, an overlapping circle of three or four will assume that it is about them and that it is reverse-flattery, written with a stinging slap of self righteous judgment, which isn't usually true. I will say, to these 5-7 individuals, whom I May or May not be writing to/about, that when I am having a particularly hard time Processing Certain Things, I will write an oppositional view for myself. One about All of The Good Things that perhaps I am not feeling at the moment. I will write gratitude and appreciation to displace my frustration sometimes. Which I believe is a healthy way to deal with a bad attitude in myself. So to my fellow ego-centric readers out there: Sure, I am writing about you: IF THE SHOE FITS. If not, maybe I am ranting delusions on a fever ridden couch. But long story short, my intent is never to hurt or wound or insult or defame. I love you all. Even ex husbands. Mostly.

Another thing that I am sorry for is overcooking. Not in the sense of burning food. But in the sense of Way Too Many Leftovers and How Have I Still Not Figured Out That Three Little Girls Eat Nothing. I have thrown away so. much. food. lately. And it kills me. Every noodle and every leave of lettuce. I have to learn to cook for three people, because on average, that's what I am feeding. Or less. These teenage girls eat like birds and I am not sure that I have ever learned how to cook for less than 10 people. It's awful. The waste. Not to mention that anything I make industriously from scratch they turn their nose up at. If I kept a box of Lucky Charms on the counter continuously, I wouldn't ever have to worry about cooking again. So much for all of those Pinterest crock pot recipes. If there is enough food to cover the bottom of my enormous crock pot, I know I have cooked too much. It's sad really. I have all these lofty aspirations for fall recipes and deliciousness, dashed to bits by picky under eaters. Fine then... after our fourth "leftover night" of the week tonight, I will quit with the bulk healthy cooking and revert to boxed dinners and two portion meals. Because the only thing worse than wasting food is wasting Good Food.

And now I am going to take another nap, my third for the morning, and see if I can pull my head out of the Yeti's mouth. Maybe when I am lucid again I will write another blog, apologizing for this one. Probably.

Things I Can Brag About

I'm just gonna go right ahead and say it: I have THE best family. Not the "perfect family". Not the flawless, fight-less, infallible family, but I know with all certainty, the BEST family.

Last Sunday my younger brother got married to a girl that brought our family a lot of things that we were missing without even knowing it. Like MORE Courageous Honesty, a Masters Degree, and a Democrat. I love this girl. Almost as much as my brother does. And nothing could be cooler than all of us getting together for a party all about them, #benjamaia.

Actually, not true. Something WAS cooler - it was that we all got together and I stood back and watched my uber talented, totally dedicated, and completely selfless family pull off the coolest wedding I have ever seen. Every detail, and there were a lot - because Amaia is a detail person, was sewn up, often literally. It was gorgeous. Amaia did all of her own planning and arranging, from across the country, and delegated parts and pieces to my mom and sisters and aunt. And while they all got nods and thank yous and pats on the back while we were there basking in the glory, I couldn't get over how totally grateful I was to be related to these people.

I watched my Mom pull every little loophole taut and make things happen. All of the things. As if the cutting and sewing and cooking and shopping and decorating weren't enough, she had a spreadsheet for every moment of every event and somehow channeled my new sister's imagination through all of it. And I didn't see her lose it once, all weekend. She was composure and grace and stamina. She was the spine of the whole beautiful skeleton.

And my Dad. The faithful doer. Runner. Goer. Fixer. Make-it-happener. Never was there a better fall-back guy.

And my sister Em, with 37 little kids clamoring at her, sewed and cut and picked flowers and arranged flowers until the wee hours of every night we were there. She literally ran herself into the ground and earned a three day nap, which I am sure she didnt get, to create a spectacle that enthralled every guest.

And Phil. The understated brother in law. The quiet plodder in the background. I watched him lift and pack and clean and move and herd kids and run errands and figure stuff out when the rest of us were just done. Even after the wedding, he was the first one cleaning up and one of the very last to leave. And never a complaint. I have witnessed his gentle strength firsthand as he swooped in to pack me up and move me across the state more than one time. For not being born a Stecker, he sure makes his place indisputable.

Sanna pitched in. Picked up anything she could from mom. And Lindsey, creating and designing and printing and imagining all of the little details for the reception. And The Cousins. The Aunts. The Uncles. Throwing together a sweet rehearsal dinner because they could. Many creative and caring hands make light work. Even my own kids babysitting their cousins, albeit in a disorderly fashion - but nobody died. And some days, that's a lot. Especially when there are 15 kids in one hotel room along with pink and orange paint and a hot iron.

A lot of families do a lot of things. And you'd think, being people, being human, that in order to get along, we'd all have to be cut from the same cloth. But really, with similar roots, we've all grown up in a million different directions, living as many different ways from each other physically and philosophically, as you could dream up. And with all of that, and only a few little tense hiccups, we pulled it off again. One more notch in the memory belt of Feats We Have Accomplished because we can set aside Judgement, Hurt Feelings, Strong Opinions and even sometimes, Arguments, to make it all work out in the end.

I am proud of us - the people I am related to. We pretty much rock.

Things About Defrosting A Freezer. At Night. In the Dark.

Found out today that we have a cougar in our neighborhood. Obviously this is in addition to the middle aged female down the street who is dating high school boys. But this one is actually of the non-domesticated feline variety, with claws and big teeth and excellent vision in the dark.

So I decided at an extremely inopportune time of the day - right before I should have been feeding kids dinner and after rewarding myself for mowing the lawn with a beer - that the inevitable necessity of defrosting the chest freezer could be procrastinated no longer. Because 15 months of avoidance makes the next 12 hours IMPERITIVE in this process, apparently. I think it was a combination of the picturesque ice waterfall in the southwest corner of the freezer, and the fact that my freezer content is at an all time low, that made This Very Second the "right" and "necessary" time to undertake the ominous task.

Never mind that there is a MOUNTAIN LION living in those trees right behind me. Nevermind that I am piling three boxes of semi-frozen, raw and slightly freezer burned meet right here on my back porch. Never mind that it is Dark. And Very Dark, and Slightly Frightening Outside, and all of those things.

It took me three gallons of hot water to realize that while the beautiful ice sculpture was gradually shrinking, the plug in the bottom of the freezer, even when removed, led to absolutely no where, so every drop of water that went in combined with every crystal of ice that had lovingly developed to embrace the s-l-o-w-l-y decomposing food in the morgue of my kitchen, and none of it was coming out. I consulted with the semi-resident-semi-expert, i.e. my little sister, to confirm the fact that tipping a chest freezer on it it's side would A) upset the freon equilibrium and prolong the wildcat baiting experiment I was running and B) probably hurt my back and disrupt several GIANT spiders that I have no interest in knowing exist anywhere, let alone between my freezer and house. This left me with nothing to do but scoop water and ice, in much the same physical movement as that weird routine that the PE teacher made me do with one of my SPED kids and a medicine ball earlier today. Shoveling water isn't nearly as easy as it sounds. It's slippery stuff. It took a lot of coercing to get it corralled and shipped out, as well as two dirty dishrags and an old roll of paper towels that some rodent or angry wiener dog had chewed one end out of.

End of story is a successfully defrosted freezer, with no Cat Encounters, and a back patio that looks like someone plundered Arendelle and took all of the fun out of Queen Elsa's ice age. Plus a few bags of random unidentifiable substances that are probably better off luring Cougars in to the mountain of trash that I have NO IDEA what to do with than being consumed by human beings.

All of this, combined with mowing a yard that more closely resembled a jungle, earned me more than one beer. And that's not even counting the day I had at the the job that I quit several weeks ago. I will never understand how stupid around-the-house jobs like this don't burn more calories than running. It's a total racket. Also, on a related note, I am eternally grateful that my scale broke and my only choice now is to quit looking.

Now that the yard feels semi-managed and the freezer will close properly, I need to see about getting it back up on the covered porch where it was replaced by a house-sized table saw that I can neither move nor use. If you know of anybody who wants one.... My freezer needs to get out of the rain. And snow. I feel like there are half as many hours in the day for what I need to get done. Before winter hits. Slowly, painfully, I am chipping away at my list of junk to get done. Pounding on that ice waterfall with my BBQ utensils until it gave way was like a metaphor for my life right now. I don't have the right tools, but I will figure it out. Without upsetting the freon equilibrium or, Lord willing, getting eaten by a cougar. Really the motivating force was the buried hope that underneath all of that, somewhere, just maybe, there was a couple scoops of leftover double chocolate fudge brownie ice cream. But no joy. Here I sit with a glass anticlimactic water and a trio of exhausted dogs from working mountain lion and freezer scrap patrol.

So for future reference: when defrosting freezers, pick a time when you have more than an hour to kill, or if you drank a bunch of caffeine and can't sleep. Not on a night when you're being stalked by a huge cat AND you know that they're gonna call you in to work in SPED in the morning AND when you already did all that junk with a medicine ball earlier in the day.

Things To Choose

This has been a summer of choosing things. And not always in a good way, like shopping for the BEST pair of shoes. More like the hard stuff, like feed the kids, or get another tattoo. That kind of thing.

All summer has been full of it. Choosing whether to suck-it-up and fight a little longer for one last breath of a dying marriage, or "cut the rope that kept you hanging from such pitiful amounts of hope"? Choosing whether to have the things I want, or be the person I am supposed to be. Choosing between having someone to be buried next to, or being able to breathe through the days and nights and maybe, hopefully, someday, cry a little less. A lot of the choices were hard things. With potential for greatness or despondence on either side. But not all of them.

There were good choices too, that were a win either way. Like Beer, or Wine? Or maybe Crazy Awesome Bachelorette party at the beach or my Next Avett Concert?  And no brainer choices, like forgive and love vs. carrying grudges and isolation. And the choices of Which Song to sing (or maybe NOT to sing) at karaoke, and whether to karaoke with new friends, or old friends, or cousins, or the ultimate option: ALL OF THEM!

I had to choose about my future. Based not on my past. Not on my fear. But on hope. On the future I know that I CAN have, with my kids. Kids that are getting old, by the way. I have had to choose to fight against them as they struggle alongside me to survive, or fight with them against the common enemy of fear and shame and guilt. I have had to choose to let go, instead of hanging on tighter. To let Somebody Bigger Than me fix all of the things that I was Pretty Sure I had handled, but didn't. And I am still choosing. Every morning, to wake up, and not suffocate in the Terror Of Choosing wrong, but to make the best choice I can see. Sometimes it's the one that doesn't make sense. Sometimes it's the only thing that makes sense. Sometimes it comes from outside of me, and sometimes the choice comes screaming from my core without question or indecision.

Like whether to slap my nephew's hand when he's picking his nose mid-wedding, or take the Best Picture Ever for future embarrassment. Or staying up til 2 AM three nights in a row, or just resign myself to Oldness. (Never. Or my name is Captain Hook.) Go play soccer with the high school team or milk the sore back excuse (I have never so gladly regretted back pain!)? Deal with the growing mountain of trash or try to fix the washer? Mop the god-forsaken floors or mow the ever-loving lawn?    Mend the fence or find the floor of my bedroom? Cook dinner, or delegate? Finish the bottle of wine, or... um, nahhh. No choice there.

I was talking to Somebody Sometime this summer, and we were discussing how you should respond to Real Crap when it happens to you in life. Like when your dream for a Happily Ever After is smashed into bits by a Big Jerk Who Lied, and you're only 19 years old. What do you do to fix that? How do you make the right steps to avoid the wrong steps later and how do you choose the right pathway out of that hell? I remember that point of choosing in my life. And for awhile, I tried choosing Out. I tried to give up. To die. I wanted to. But I was terribly unsuccessful, like with lots of things in my life. So then I changed my mind. I re-chose. And I decided to Kick Life in The Ass. Because I can. Because the alternative is just, well, depressing. And maybe it's been a long road of small and large choices along the way to all of that kicking, but I am still doing it. And I am still determined that I will come out on top of all of this choosing. I will win. And so will my kids.

I mean, how can these monsters NOT win?

Maybe for the moment I have chosen loneliness. And maybe I have finally come to the point where I can choose the thankless craft of parenting over My Next Avett Concert, or that tattoo that I have been craving since June. And maybe tomorrow I will wake up and realize I have been choosing all wrong, and start over again. But at least I CAN. Everybody CAN. That's the beauty of life, and of choosing. And what makes us the teeniest bit better than the fruit fly that cannot avoid drowning in my wine, compelled by instinct. (not that I don't relate to that specific instinct....)

All around me the echoes of my choices rain down on me. The memories and songs and sounds and tastes of the past, recent and distant. And it is a bittersweet thing. And I am thankful for every step of it. Every turn and twist and choice. I am thankful for how they have shaped my soundtrack, and my taste buds, and enriched this Ass-Kicking life. Even if they aren't still here right now, and who knows which options will come next, but I choose to be ready.

And for now, choose to listen to this...

Things I've Learned Lately

1. Leftover Chinese food isn't always a good idea. 

2. Kids can be taught to sew on buttons, but not to have good taste. 

3. If it looks like a pile of crap, smells like a pile of crap, feels like a pile of crap and tastes like a pile of crap, it's probably a pile of crap. (And why the HECK did I need to taste it to be sure?) 

4. If you buy enough pre-sweetened cold cereal, you don't need to cook any more. 

5. Sometimes quitting is the answer. 

6. Sadness can be so heavy. Like a million pounds. Almost impossible to carry. 

7. I need to work out. 

8. Sometimes you do regret going for a run. 

9. People still lie. All the time. Even when you don't think they do. They do. 

10. Sometimes the bootstraps wear out, and all of your "pulling yourself up" muscles hurt from the run you wished you hadn't gone on. Sometimes you just cling by your fingernails and watch them break off on at a time. And then you just have to come to terms with the fact that you can't. You just can't. And you close your eyes, and pray, and just believe. Believe. In spite of all the reasons not to. You believe that Somebody will be there to catch you. 

Things About Fire Camp - Again

This is dedicated to my buddy Christy who makes every fire camp feel just like home. In spite of the stinky feet. 

My brother asked what a fire camp was like. So I showed him some pictures. He commented that it was a lot like a military camp, and all of the Fire-Powers-That-Be would be giddy to hear that. But although they fancy themselves a para-military organization, I'd go out on a limb to say that you'll find a great deal more Patagonia, North Face, Starbucks Coffee and Internet Service at any given fire camp than you'd see in a military base camp. But I could be wrong. 

Fire camp is divided up into several different areas. The layout varies depending on location but the idea is generally the same. You have the food unit, or mess hall, which is usually not too far from the crew sleeping areas, which are usually as far removed as possible from the overhead sleeping areas, identified by the name brand tent collection, which is usually close-ish to the Incident Command Post, or the ICP, which is the nerve center for Fire operations, and involves yurts or trailers for the incident commander, medical unit, communications, information, logistics, facilities, planning, finance and whatever other bureaucratic  nonsense they can think to slip in there. Like human resources, agency liaisons and resource advisors. It's like a circus with a bunch of high priced monkeys making work for themselves. Myself included. 

In the med unit, we treat everything from the sexually transmitted disease you brought from that last kegger at home, to the ingrown toenail you got from the boots that you bought a size too small. We are ready to deal with colds, diahrrea, constipation, fevers, vomiting, headaches, knee aches, urinary tract infections, Really Big Slivers, poison oak, poison ivy, spider bites, heat rash, high blood pressure, back spasms, etc, etc, etc... and of course, blisters. 

Feet are our stock and trade. Maybe some of us fireline medical people are repressed podiatrists, but nobody with a foot aversion would make it out here. I have seen the feet that nightmares are made of. I have also seen beautiful, soft, clean little feet with nary a hotspot that I am obliged to bandage "preventatively" for the lady in camp who has to walk All The Way to the shower unit every day. 

Oh yes. The shower unit. Depending on location, accessibility, and contractor, I try to space my showers out a couple of days at least. Us girls have it a little easier as we make up about 15% of the bodies-needing-showered and we rarely have to wait in line for our side of the shower trailer. I always feel sorry for the filthy boys standing in a neverending line for a 4 minute, probably cold shower in one of 5 stalls. Some shower units have nice private compartments with mirrors and stuff, where you can change and everything sans audience. Most of them have a few shower stalls and an open locker room changing area. Because who doesn't like to get naked with a bunch of strangers, right? If you are especially lucky, you time your overdue shower for when the shower truck runs completely out of water. Then you can stand there dripping for an hour while the tenders refill or get out with your soapy hair and try again later. That's always pretty special. 

The shower unit on this incident offers the added indulgence of shower curtains that molest you the whole time you're in the stall. You know, the plastic ones that are magnetically compelled to attach themselves to your naked rear end and wrap affectionately around you while you're washing your hair. It's pretty cool. Especially when you walk into the trailer and see a row of gently embraced bottoms behind the caressing white vinyl. I'd take a picture but with my luck one of the butts would be the Human Resources lady and I'd have to go through sensitivity training or something. 

Anyway, I've spaced it out so that I should only have to take two more showers before I leave this place. Which still seems like too much when you think about the attack shower curtains. 

I'm up to about my thirtieth day on fire this year, and I'm at the point where it is absolutely requisite to find humor in everything. Including half-showers, grabby curtains and the rookie commo guy with really bad diarrhea, running for his life across camp to an outhouse that I made a mental note to avoid for the duration. 

I sure hope HR doesn't find my blog. Being a medic I should be more sympathetic but I think I used up the last of my sympathy on the kid from Tenessee who got poison oak "down his britches" and needed to be wrapped in gauze everyday. His accent and southern colloquialisms were cute enough to make me willing to get close to the rapidly spreading rash and help him out with my mad wrapping skills. 

Things That I Don’t Like To Do

I decided that there has been too much sadness. And then on top of the sadness, contention. And more sadness. And it’s just too much. So before any more of it goes on. Or before I cry myself to sleep in fire camp for 100 reasons and one more night, I decided that it’s time to laugh. Laugh the way we used to about the Most Ridiculous Things. Wherever we can find the joy.

Working in the medical unit on a fire is a pretty boring job. Or at least everybody hopes it is a boring job because if it’s not, then somebody is hurting and probably, somebody is going to be in trouble. But usually it is a boring job, where we sit around, either in camp, or, more often for the majority of us, in a vehicle out along the black edge of the fire somewhere, listening to the radio and perking our ears to everything that sounds like “medic”, “medical”, “emergency” or “injured”. Those words come infrequently, unless you have 16 medics on a fire and an anal-retentive medical unit leader who demands three daily radio check ins, which results in no fewer than 44 over the air callouts of medics in various locations with various numeric designations. On this fire,  my paramedic partner Melissa and I happen to be Medic 8. Which my division safety officer, also bored, deemed reminiscent of “Medicaid” and refers to us as such now at every opportunity. The medical unit leader asked me which number I wanted and I said 7, but since it was taken, and he said that 17, 27, 37 and 77 were all out of the question, he finally relegated us to Medic 8 and told me to stop being difficult, which is truthfully my main occupation in the medical unit.

There is an unspoken rule in fire camp that the medical unit is also supposed to double as the comedy unit. I think it has something to do with laughter being the best medicine, and the morbidly humorous people that EMS attracts, and the fact that if the communication unit tried to be funny, probably people would end up getting hurt. Case in point was a medical “scenario” that some of the Powers That Be decided to run the other day without telling anyone it was a mockup. Naturally, all hell broke loose in the commo unit and out on the line, and a couple of people were reprimanded severely for driving too fast (in the wrong direction, perhaps) to a life threatening emergency scene that they didn’t know was just pretend. All in all, a terrible idea.

The other night one of the medic guys walked into the tent carrying a bag of ice. It was nearly bed time, and for the most part, ice acquisition occurs during the morning cooler restocking ritual on the way out of camp. One of the other guys commented curiously on the bag of ice he held in his lap and his witty comeback was:  “I was missing my wife.” It was well timed comedic greatness at it’s finest.

This morning, I got back from briefing, and my partner was finishing up an evaluation on a patient with a severe case of homesickness, which we usually treat with an inordinate amount of synthetic sympathy and gushing attention, which seems to bring patients around rapidly. Melissa asked me how the knife fight rematch at the meeting turned out, and I replied that the Other Guy won but I had been able to stop the bleeding after a few minutes. Her patient looked pretty uncomfortable and decided to go check on the physical welfare of his crew.

I am fairly certain no one in camp thinks us medical people are as funny as we do. But there is an odd amount of assorted overhead that lingers around our tent for an inordinant number of chapstick tubes and Kleenex packages. I am drumming it up to our hilarity, myself. And the single clean outhouse with a “DO NOT ENTER  - MEDICAL USE ONLY” sign that people in our inner circle like to use. So far we haven’t had any run ins with HR, which is pretty shocking considering our behavior.

Today, during another long and boring day on the line, my partner decided we were doing a “card workout”. At first I heard cardio and my instinctive response was no, no and oh yeah, heck no. But she pulled out a deck of playing cards and made a cute face. I had already refuted her fitness advances repeatedly on this assignment, but I had made the critical error of mentioning how great it would be to lose some weight before I die of morbid obesity; so miss bubbly 110 pound cuteness has made it her personal mission to remind me about the pitfalls of EVERYTHING I eat and challenge me to absurd death-defying workout routines. Like a “card workout”, wherein each suit of card represents a different exercise, and the number on a given card determines repetitions. For example, hearts are ten second planks, so the 10 of hearts is 100 seconds of planking. My first question was “why?” which she didn’t dignify with an answer, my second question was “the whole deck?” which she benevolently offered to cut in half for me, and by that time I was out of questions that wouldn’t just make me look belligerently lazy and totally pathetic.

I made it through what I would consider half of the deck – although by objective standards I guess it was the lighter half. It was apparent pretty quickly that 100 seconds of planks was only going to work for me if I switched sides, and she also had to settle for girl pushups due to some pretty lame excuses about a torn rotator cuff and nerve displacement.. I am not totally convinced she wasn’t hoping I would have a heart attack or something so she could use her rusty ALS skills on me. I turned the cards for her as she finished the deck, continuing to make lame excuses and point out obvious factors to justify my laziness, like our difference in age and how I really wasn’t going for the six pack look these days. Smartly, she tuned me out and made me feel guilty enough to join her whenever a diamond popped up and dictated a rock press up, since my rock was somewhat smaller than hers anyway, and my arms CLEARLY need the help. I am not sure why I listen to her at all, since she’s the kind of person who gets up before 5 AM to go running, and I think that is an idea straight from the pit, but sometimes she shares the celery from her lunches with me, so I put up with it. Apparently celery is on the approved list of foods for Liv. Snickers bars are not, so I had to sneak around to the back of the truck to eat it without judgement.

It kind of sucks to know how sore I will be tomorrow for my half-deck workout, but it passed a few minutes of a very long day and alleviated a little bit of the Snickers guilt. I would love to pretend that exercise was My Favorite and that it Brought Me Life and all that jazz, but I will have to contend that the Snickers bar was far more satisfying than the 5 burpees I flopped through.  I read a Women’s Health magazine today and it is always disappointing when I set the issue down and remember that I am not lithe and in yoga pants. And I set all these goals in my head for when I get home, knowing full well that daily pilates will be replaced with cleaning Aspen’s bedroom and substituting in Special Ed at the school. It’s never as easy as it should be. But maybe it’s gonna be a whole lot easier this year. I think so. Especially if we remember to laugh. And avoid Burpees.

Things That I Read III

Now, here it is… the moment all of my bookwormy friends have been waiting for… the annual Fire Season Book Revue III!

This season started out a little wobbly in the reading department. I have been with a partner the entire season, which always cramps my reading style, and then to add insult to injury, I was also stuck in camp for a week, where reading was nigh unto impossible, although I did skim my way through a couple of books about back pain, and how to fix it, 8 Steps to a Pain Free Back and The Egoscue Method of Healing Through Movement. Both have interesting but almost contradicting recommendations. I decided to take bits and pieces from both to heal myself. I would like to assume that this is the reason that my back has gotten a whole lot better – but I think it might have something to do with certain weights being lifted off of my shoulders, some careful exercise and also some inactivity.

When I finally just decided to give my partner the cold shoulder and delve into my books, my first priority was a book that my brother Gabe gave me for Christmas that I had been anticipating reading for over six months. And by anticipating, I mean feeling guilty for not having yet read…

The Lies of Locke Lamora by Scott Lynch was one of the longest reads that I have waded through since high school, with the exception of Atlas Shrugged. This is a book that nearly defies genre, although I think it technically falls inside of the fantasy/sci–fi-ish realm. It is the long and winding story of an orphan named Locke and the misfortunes that befalls him as he makes his way through life riding the successes of thievery and confidence schemes. Told in a voice reminiscent of an enlightenment era author, the story rings of Dickens, Shakespeare, and Tolkien, with a splash of modern humor and language thrown in. The book was long. And not a merrily-skipping-through read. If I was able to tune out the clamoring radio (having a partner helped with this) and avoid distractions (having a partner did not help with this) I was easily sucked in and transported to the Italianesque homeland of the anti-hero and his comrades. The author delivers descriptions in enough detail to create an intimate imagining of his medieval world. It was a good story. A great twisting plot that went on and on… almost enough to make a series of books, which I understand the author has produced as well. The characters, unsavory as they may have been, drew me in, and I am curious enough to look up the next book and make sure that they survive. This book is NOT for the faint of heart reader, and isn’t conducive to superficial and distractible reading. But it is worth the chewing through if one has time, imagination and inclination.

Born To Run by Chris McDougall – This book was actually a surprising delight. I only started to read it because I had forgotten to grab my other books before I left camp and I happened to have the digital copy on my iPad. I was just bored enough to read a book about one of my least favorite subjects: running. MacDougall is a writer for Men’s Health Magazine, and a good one. I thoroughly enjoyed his quest to find out why he was not able to run without falling victim to one or more of the many common afflictions that plague a vast majority of modern runners. He follows a winding path through the anthropological evolution of man into the runner (or non runner?) that he is. Through a series of interconnected rabbit trails, Born to Run outlines the lifestyle of the Tarahumara, an ancient Mexican tribe of trail runners, as well as chronicling several colorful real life characters who have made a lifestyle of running ridiculously long distances. In the book you are also acquainted with a condensed version of the history of long distance running in the US, and all of the big names associated with the sport for the last several decades. Being a non-runner, myself, but also being a wanna-be anthropologist, the book actually inspired me to look at running in a different light, and maybe try it someday. MacDougall even goes briefly over the history and evolution of the modern running shoe, and all of the ailments that go along with it. Without making any proclamation in defense of a specific approach to running, or for that matter, life, the author does a great job asking question, posing several plausible answers, but mostly, inspiring the reader with his sense of humor and aptitude for great storytelling. If somebody can make running sound appealing to me, you know he must be good.

Still Life With Crows by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child was a scary murder mystery. It was all of the creepy things rolled into one. Like Goonies meets True Detective and a little bit of Sherlock Holmes. Bouncing from one character to the next, it took me awhile to figure out who the bad guys actually were. Of course, being an excellent self-proclaimed-plot-discerner, I was on to the answer well before the last chapters. OK, maybe towards the end, but still… Pendergast is an eccentric-to-the-point-of-creepy FBI agent who lands in town to investigate serial murders that haven’t even happened yet. He recruits a high school reject goth to help him, and they trip over local bungling, if well intentioned, law enforcement as the bodies start to drop. Gruesome detail and suspenseful scenes play like a movie in the book. And I am somewhat surprised the 2003 novel hasn’t been filmed yet. It’s good, and original enough that I am sure Matthew McCaughnay could do something magical with it. In the end, a lot of people die. But not the “real” bad guy, which is interesting, and also politically correct I suppose. I liked it. I read it in one day straight through. My partner was fairly certain I hated her since I didn’t utter a word from 8 AM until 3 PM.

Murder in Caney Fork  by Wally Avett - Obviously I ordered and read this book because it was written by an Avett. The boy’s uncle, to be exact. But even so, it was a good read, entertaining, and short. What Mr. Avett lacked in fluid fiction (he’s a newspaperman by trade), he made up for in interesting detail. The plot was predictable but told from a different point of view than one would expect. The story was rich with World War II era southern culture. Highlighting carefully the racial issues still plaguing the area as well as the clash of modern and historical lifestyles that struggle against each other to survive, and the necessary balance of legal integrity and vigilante justice that it took to get by back then. The characters were believable and well developed for the most part. And the food descriptions made me want to run home and fry up a chicken right quick. I liked the story, of course, that it was set in North Carolina, around what I would like to imagine are the roots of my favorite boy band. If you want to read it, I’ll loan it to you. Or order your own copy to support a newspaperman who finally got his story printed.

The cool thing (as if there’s only one) about my book reviews every summer is the sure bet that nothing I have read has ever even blipped your radar before. Totally random weirdness that I pulled off of a shelf. Or a 15 year old buddy gave to me. Or whatever. Your life might never have been enriched by these books if I hadn’t thrown them in your face without rhyme or reason. You’re welcome. And I am sure you’ll want to run right out and get them. Or not. But at least it’s not the 37^th review for the Maze Runner or something. At least I am original.

Things About Hopelessness

All of this stuff about Robin Williams. About how sad. How impossible. How one of the funniest people alive could be overtaken with the darkest shadow of despair. The disease. The selfishness. The question that we won’t be able to answer until the other side of time about whether depression is a fatal disease or a mortal sin. It makes me sad. All of it.

I have struggled with depression for years. Even as a young child I remember feeling like whatever Thing was overtaking me was more than I could bear. I remember crying hot tears into my pillow and wishing there was a way out. Thinking I could just stop breathing and holding my breath until I nearly burst. When life got real, as I got older, it got worse. I tried different medications. I went through different highs and lows. I do know, without a doubt that my depression was linked to my hormones. And now that I have begun to tame that Ugly Beast, I haven’t been sinking as low. But I can taste it like it was yesterday. The moments in time when going on seemed like the worst possible idea. When everyone around me could only benefit from my absence. I can feel the pain in my chest of just KNOWING that I didn’t want to take one more breath.  I made more than one plan. Succinct and efficient. To have the least dramatic repercussions on my family. Disappear into the woods, an “accidental death” of hypothermia or drowning or maybe even a car wreck. I considered everything. Who I didn’t want to find me dead.  The cleanest way to go. What I didn’t want anyone to deal with. I worked it all out. I remember chanting to myself, over and over again: “it’s a lie. It’s a lie. It’s a lie. Wake up one more day. Just one more.” Somehow, every time, I did. Sometimes I fought the fight with myself for days at a time. Sometimes, I reached out for help. Sometimes, I was told to deal with myself. Or that I was crazy. Or to take more drugs. Sometimes, I got a hug. Or a look in the eyes that said “stop it. we need you.” Somehow, I always found my way out of the shadow. I know how powerless I felt to get away from the lies and the weight of the impossibility of moving ahead. The senselessness. The uselessness. The utter hopelessness.

Every day isn’t sunlight and roses now, but every day I find things to be thankful for. I am not in pain. A debilitating pain that ruled my life for more than 2 years is gone. And the shadow is gone. Maybe only for now, but God willing, for the rest of time. I am thankful to be here. For the second and third and sixteenth chances that I get. I am thankful I can tell my kids “stop it. we need you.” If they ever need to hear it. Or hold their hand if the shadow overtakes them. But most of all, to UNDERSTAND. I get it. I know those last thoughts. I know that desperation. And some Grace Unseen has stayed my hand every time. Even against my will..

Maybe it is a disease, or maybe it is a sin, but either way, it is real, and either way, I know how much I needed help. Someone. A rock. Some words in my head. “stop it. we need you.” Christians and atheists and Buddhists and Muslims all commit suicide. No demographic is entirely exempt. No age category or gender. We are all susceptible to this shadow. Wherever it comes from.

There is something as human beings that compels us in life – all different expressions and directions, but it moves us to be something. Looking at the life of my great grandmother, and thinking about the intense desire to Be Important that almost suffocates me, I start wondering if she had that. Really, in the big picture, she wasn’t that important. She didn’t change the course of history or birth the future president. But she is important to me, two generations later. To my cousin. To my kids, she is a legend. I wondered what more she could have done to be “globally important”, and really, who, after all, is “globally important”. I thought about great writers, and the impact they have on generation after generation, but I wonder if some of our greatest pens are big nobodies on the other side of the world? So even great writers have a limited effect. Which is overwhelmingly disappointing for me. I mean, I get pretty stoked when I see that I have readers in Canada and for some reason, China. But to write words that would be repeated around the globe for several generations? There’s a lofty aspiration. It’s a lot for a girl who wasn’t sure three months ago if she could face another day. But planning to write for an Entire World is much more exciting than being dead. It just is. And I would rather be overwhelmed with that objective than by a shadow that I cannot control. And getting words out has worked better for me than any drug I have tried. So I will keep spouting my answerless questions. You can read them or not. But every word that I type takes me a few letters closer to where I am supposed to be. Out of the shadow and into the Bright Sunlight of Hope, off to impact the world, even if it is only my own little one.

Things That I Should Explain - FAQs

OK folks, here it is:

Josh and I are separated. As in, living separately, in different places. Not together. No longer a family unit.

To avoid as many awkward conversations and inquisitions and reprimands as possible, I now present for you, the …

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS ABOUT THE SEPERATION OF LIV AND JOSH

1)   But, WHY? You are so perfect for each other! You love each other so much!

Yes. We do love each other. Or at least I would like to think so, in our own imperfect ways. And if you really believed that we were perfect together, and blissfully happy, and so much in love, then: GOOD JOB US! We worked hard to contain our drama and keep it from slopping out all over everybody. But it was messy, and it was ugly. And for every public proclamation there were a thousand fights. All of our perfect fits were also our potential competitions. Our mutual brokenness left us unable to heal each other. But considering we made it three years together, and considering that we’re both highly opinionated, highly intelligent and unbelievably stubborn, and considering that three years is a long time to live with anybody, I’d say we gave it a good go. There aren’t too many people in this world that I could live with for three years and not kill or be killed. But three years seems to be enough.

2)   But you can work through it, right? Get help! Get Counseling!

We did. We’ve been to a couple different counselors, along with family and friends helping us sort through some of our issues, and guys, there are a LOT of issues. All of the big ones. Money, Kids, Jobs, Moving, On and On and On. And we never ever seemed to find ourselves on the same side of any issue.

After several months, or maybe years, of failed and increasingly contentious dialogue, it’s time to call it.

3)   Whose fault is it?

Both of ours. We both messed up. We both failed. Lord willing, we will both grow and learn from this.  

For all of our good intentions, neither of us could fix this one.

4)   Who’s idea was it?

I guess I will have to take credit for that one. I just couldn’t see going on any further, wasting any more years, hurting and destroying each other. All six of us were suffering. It was unhealthy, and it was getting worse every day.

5)   Is there no hope? Is there anything we can do?

As long as there is breath, there is hope. Right now, my hope is for us to learn to communicate kindly with each other, married or unmarried. And if you want to do something, we are always welcoming prayers. Pray for the Best Thing for all six of us. Pray for grace and kindness between us.

6)   What did you do wrong?

I guess this is the question I ask myself every day. And I did a lot of things wrong. I didn’t give Josh the respect that he so desperately needed. I was defensive. I was selfish. I was independent and stubborn.  And if I quit doing, or start doing, all of those things, I think we are past the point of it helping. And it has to be a two way street. Because nothing says DANGER like a one-way street and a semi-truck of emotion careening recklessly out of control.

7)   Will you still be friends? Do you talk?

YES. It is my fervent hope that we will be friends always. It is my belief that we have given each other years of our lives and if at all possible we should remain in contact. I understand this isn’t always a reality, but I would like for it to be, eventually. Plus he’s kind of a big deal to the kids. And they would miss him a lot if he just disappeared.

Of course, all of this is one sided, and please don’t hesitate to get his two cents on the situation. I care deeply about Josh. He has been a big part of us. But we can’t go on like we have. So here we are, and it sucks. For all 6 of us. I had a heart to heart with my kids and I saw how much it hurts them. And I don’t have the words to say how sorry I am for that hurt. To them, To him. To me. I am sorry that we couldn’t fix it, and that we couldn’t fake it anymore.

Things About Getting Lost

I would assume that growing up, the idea crossed every kid's mind at least once that they must be adopted. For me, it was usually once a day. Even though my walk is unmistakably my dad's, and my mouth is without question my mother's, but still... something about me just didn't fit. Lately it's been occurring to me that maybe I wasn't adopted, but maybe I wasn't actually SUPPOSED to be here at all. Maybe I snuck my way into the universe like some cosmic accidental joke that God played on my parents. And then all three of them were like "well, Jeez. What are we gonna do with this one?" Nothing has ever quite worked out the way it "should have" for me. I have been coming to terms with the fact that I won't ever have a 60th wedding anniversary, or a burial plot next to someone. And that's ok I guess, since I really want my ashes scattered somewhere really fun, so people can remember me every time they hang out there. But I still think that maybe I just don't fit into this life quite right. I am a square peg in a round universe. Maybe, just maybe, I am SO accident prone that I have unintentionally missed every rendezvous with death that has been appointed to me. I showed up late, true to form, for all of the stellar alignments that would return me to my rightful place in the Order of Things.

All of this crossed my mind as I was leaving Walla Walla yesterday. Walla Walla is the epicenter of my existence. The place that destined me to birth, if such a destiny was in the first place. The beginning of it all. I was there for the memorial service of a great Uncle/Cousin named Solomon Frank, whom I remember meeting as a little girl, probably between Easter Egg Hunts and visits from The Real Santa Claus, who apparently lived across the street from Grandma Schiffman in 1983. Solomon Frank was triple related to me, since at least three Schiffmans married at least three Franks, and both lines crisscrossed repeatedly in a somewhat Appalachian fashion. Volga Germans, the Franks immigrated INTO Russia (I know, right?) under the reign of Catherine The Great and set up German colonies along the Volga river, and then crossed over to the US when Russia started thinking maybe German-Russians shouldn't be a thing after all. Staunch Lutheran Reformationists, this family, getting all mixed up with the ever-imbibing Schiffmans, hard drinking Germans with a penchant for all sorts of vices. I was there with my parents and my Aunt and Uncle and clone-cousin, and we had some interesting conversations about what made us the person(s) that we are, which is quite nearly the same, and a repetition for all intents and purposes of our great grandmother Francis Hawk. Who was neither Frank nor Schiffman, but threw in her own dash of awesome for the perfect mix. Francis was a woman ahead of her time. She was on stage with Adam West, the actor who first portrayed Batman on the big screen. She helped excavate and curate the historical site of the Whitman Mission, an amateur archaeologist after my own heart. She was a photographer, an artist, a mountaineer, a mother, an a journalist for the Associated Press back when they were worth their mettle in World War II. My cousin Hannah and I have (often unintentionally) pursued almost the exact same exploits. It's a little bit eery.

Anyway, I left Walla Walla and foolishly followed SIRI's directions off into the wheat covered hills of the lower Palouse. I was lost in thought as I travelled a couple of different two lane, winding highways dutifully, disregarding a curious note that they were oddly named roads, but trusting the painted double yellow to not be destination-less. After about 45 minutes SIRI told me to turn on to a gravel road. Sensing immediately that this was it, her final play to do me in, I disobeyed. As far as I knew, I didn't need to take a gravel road ANYWHERE between Walla Walla and Northport, and it was obviously nothing more than an attempt to shake me. Nice try, SIRI. I continued on the two lane for another 20 minutes or so and then it ended. Well really, it turned into a gravel road. Which was disconcerting. The gravel road was well maintained and pointed int the general direction of the Columbia River which gave me some peace. I reassured myself that I wasn't in a hurry, and since I was already looking at backtracking at least 20 miles I might as well try it. SIRI started sputtering about having no service and Proceeding To the Route, which apparently now was off in the middle of a wheat field somewhere. I followed the gravel for 18 miles and at last there was a tiny little farm town. I knew a highway had to be nearby. Until I got close and realized that the tiny farm town was actually just a huge farm. With lots of campers. and no highway. I tried taking the road through the farm and it was fenced off  in the direction that SIRI insisted was the way to Northport. South facing, interestingly. She's vicious. I took the only road out and started thinking about that family that got lost on the forest road in Oregon and the dad starved to death. I figured my odds were slightly better because there was lots of wheat around, plus all the fire snacks I brought home, and if I ever overcame my pride and the hint of terror that the farmhouse might be the den of a serial killer, I could always ask for directions. Fortunately, after another 20 minutes of driving too fast on a gravel road, with no cell service and no radio reception, so basically, running for my life, I ran into WA State HWY 261, which I didn't even know existed. For the record, it is my personal belief that HWY 261 is actually a roller coaster. hiding in a witness protection program after a few too many suspicious theme park deaths. I survived that road/ride with only a touch of carsickness and then raced my gas light to the nearest gas station, which it turns out was NOT in Washtucna. I met a nice family of healthy black widow spiders living in a public restroom provided by the Washtucna Lions Club. (Note to Lion's Club - get in there with some big boots and a shop-vac STAT!) Once again, narrowly escaping the death that has been pursuing me since my unintentional inception. Somehow I got to Ritzville alive, and remarkably, ahead of schedule.

All of that near-death-defying experience made me think about accidents, the unfortunate ones, and the serendipitous ones, and how a wrong turn can be the thing that makes your life what it is. The extra bends and turns and the little bit of uncertainty that makes your heart beat a little bit faster. Knowing for certain that there are a LOT of wheat fields out there that you can't see from the highway. A lot of stuff to see and know, that you can't reach from a direct route. It's ok sometimes to get off course, both to see the sights, and to know that you won't die. Not at the hands of a serial killer or a black widow or starvation. And that it's ok to go with your gut - sometimes you wind up on a questionable gravel road, but in the end, it all works out.

Things About Failing

A wise woman recently sent me this: 

"If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. 

If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. 

If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 

It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 

Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 

It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails."

Granted, the words weren't hers originally, but given that she gave birth to me and raised to adulthood (I won't attempt to use the word maturity here) without killing me, she can definitely take credit for mastering them. 

The last line was kind of a slap in the face. Because you guys, LOVE DOES FAIL. I am living proof. Either that, or I have to own that I have never truly loved, because I've failed a heck of a lot. 

Unless... Maybe... Perhaps... The "failures" weren't actually that. Maybe love didn't fail, if we learned. If we grew. If we CHANGED. 

Because really, That's what it's about. Learning. And more importantly, changing. 

"If I speak in the tongues of men and angels...fathom all mysteries and all knowledge..." All that knowledge. All that Rosetta Stone. And for nothing, if it doesn't CHANGE YOU. 

"If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing..." All of the hard work. The sacrifice. If it doesn't transform us, it means squat. 

Us humans are good at DOING. But I think sometimes we suck at BEING. I know I do. I am professional sayer of The Right Things. And performer of The Correct Actions. But do I love as well as I can? Do I have the motivation in my performance that changes me and touches the people around me? Or am I a one dimensional screen of reflected images? A resounding gong? A hollow echo with no substance? 

I don't even know for sure. But I know, like the original author of those words, that one way or the other, my life will bear the fruit. I can't help but feeling like the richness in my life of true friends as well as chosen and unchosen family is far more than I deserve. Really I doubt anybody could be good enough to earn what I have. And I certainly am not. But I'm thankful. And I will continue to seek a love that changes me. A three dimensional, earth shattering love. Otherwise I really have failed, and I'm not ok with that. 

Things About Love. And/Or Trails.

Back before Every Human Being became a vandal, they used to put really cool signs along forest trails, carved out of wood, saying politically incorrect things like "Dead Indian Highway" and stuff. Now, since we've all realized how cool those signs look in our cabin-themed dining rooms and shot full of bullet holes, they have been replaced with carsonite posts dug into the ground, covered with cheap designation stickers, directing and delineating and defining. 

Today, day 9 on this really boring and fire-less fire, we got to go running out into the woods after another non-fire around a section of the Pacific Crest Trail, criss-crossed by various other local trails, with new carsonite signs and some remnants of the throwbacks. 

I stood staring down one of the trails, imagining what places it might lead to. What adventures and waterfalls and caves and pristine mountain lakes it might know. What bears and chipmunks have crossed it. 

Trails are funny things. Until you've been down them, you don't know where they go. And if you ask Some People, once you've been down one, you've been down them all. Kind of like most of life. Some of us have the curiosity to chase down one more trail because it MIGHT end differently than the last three. Or we might decide that one trail was more than enough and we've had our fill of adventures and waterfalls and caves and lakes and bee stings and blisters and poison oak and ingrown toenails and slivers. And we might never hike again. Or maybe we'll steal the signs and hang them in our dining rooms as a momento of That One Trail. Or a reminder of our poor choice of terrain. 

I think love is like a trail. And every love is different. But maybe has some of the same scenery. Or maybe it feels the same because we aren't looking hard enough. We're staring at our scuffed up boots and thinking about our blisters. And we're missing the laughing creek next to us. And the Tallest Sugar Pine Ever. And the skunk watching us from under the huckleberry bush. 

Maybe some trails are so harsh that we can't ever endure another one. Maybe some trails kill us. Kill our joy. Kill our curiosity. Kill our love. 

Because really love isn't a thing that we get from somebody. It's something we carry with us. It the thing WE give to somebody else, or withhold. It's the arrow that points us down the trail. It's the curiosity that keeps us hiking. That keeps our mind off the blisters and the sunburn. Love is the energy that motivates us. No body, no trail can take it from us, unless we let them. Because the adventure is ours. Maybe we choose to share it with the wrong person, maybe it gets a little beat up. But if you dig deep enough you can always uncover it again. Very few people who have the opportunity to hike forest trails for recreation have endured enough real trauma to paralyze them completely. Most of us have scars. But almost all of us have everything we need built in to us to stare down the next trail and WANT to go. Because our love, our passion, our ARROW is ours. Not the ones we share it with - they can twist it, try to break it, but we can fix it. Put the sign back where it goes and lace up the boots one more time. Hike off the muscle cramps. Push through the fatigue. Follow your arrow wherever it goes. 

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=kQ8xqyoZXCc

Things That Shift - like priorities.

Sometimes all of the things you thought were important, really aren't. I had a list of 37 billion things to do this morning. I had an hour and a half of waiting on a certain Irish dancer to compile my lists and get organized. 

But then I saw it. And at this point, it's gone beyond "I should do this." And even past "I NEED to do this." Right up to the point of "I'm doing it. Now." With the last $30 I borrowed (before my big juicy fire check), with hands covered in green paint and a smashed finger. With the list of things I need to do squished back in my brain behind the Importance Of Remembering. 

Next December is 20 years from when a sweet and innocent 16 year old left us. For no other reason than it was Her Time. Through no act of malice. No drunken foolishness. No thoughtless risk. Just... Accidentally.  Like Junha. It just happened. In spite of all of our protests and anger and sadness and debilitating grief - Erin Christine Hoops, 16 and beautiful, giggly, intelligent... She left us. 

I was pregnant with Halle when the accident happened. The next year, I had a little red headed blue eyed girl and I named her MacKenzie Erin, because it was beautiful, like her. And to remember how short life is. How fleeting. 

Almost 20 years later and every time I come to that intersection I remember. And it makes me think. My MacKenzie Erin is 17 now. I have been able to have her for a year more than Chris and Gail had their Erin. Things aren't perfect. She's not perfect. But she's here. And she's beautiful. And we can sort through the imperfect, as long as she is here. Which is more than enough reason to stop. To set aside my list. To get my hands green and smash my finger. To remember. 

We only have the days that god gives us. And all we can do is our best. And when our best sucks, or wears down, we get to get up and do it again. Put on a fresh coat of paint. Green and alive and reminding. 

And when it's all done, suddenly the things that seemed So Important, and big enough to sink me, are really not. Not the list of things for the marriage counselor. Or groceries for the kids when I leave for my next fire. Or Radar's long overdue puppy shots. It's all easy cheese, really. Compared to Forever. And No More. And The End. 

 I drive through Kettle Falls a couple times a week, and every time I think of her. I'm sure I'm not the only one. And it seemed important that Someone Knew that that Green Cross on the corner still matters. It still teaches and reminds, just like Erin Christine does, that we have A Whole Lot to be thankful for, and we'd better quit wasting time. 

PS - my haphazard (as per usual) paint job is not enough to salvage the brittle plywood for long. I'd like to find somebody with better resources than me to help me with a more long term fix... If anyone has ideas?