Echoes

My brother would've been forty years old last Wednesday. Instead, he died from Acute Myeloid Leukemia six years ago.

The following is an essay written by my mom about my brother. She has agreed to let me share it here.

I held my son’s hand when he died that morning in May. His left hand. When I wrapped my own hands around it, his bruised fingers fluttered faintly and I felt his response. “It’s alright to let go now, Ric,” I whispered to him. “Don’t worry. We’ll be alright.” A ghost of a smile flitted across his face. I watched the muscles in his body, tautly held so long against the pain of the leukemia, release their tension. His labored breathing stopped, and I knew he was gone. I wept then, wept and held my son’s hand.

He turned thirty-four years old the day before he died. He had resolved he would not die on his birthday. It was his gift to me, as our birthdays were only days apart. The Gemini sign linked us, and together this day we shared a gift. From our home on the hill, we watched a rainbow dance over a green pasture. Then I saw my son’s face soften as he slowly scanned the room, turning his head to capture every corner. He looked at me, our eyes met, and I knew on a primal, gut level that somehow we would be alright. He grinned his familiar, lopsided grin and said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “There sure are a lot of people in the room, Mom.” Physically, he and I were the only ones there, but I felt what he saw. He would not be going alone when he left us.

* * * * *

I chose my son. He came into my life when he was ten years old. He’d been in protective custody and foster care for six years, and had scars to show from those places. We had three girls who wanted a brother, and since my husband had been adopted, it felt like a natural choice for us.

We fell in love with Ricky the first time we saw him. We knew he would be our son. This boy, with the horror stories to match the scars on his body, now reveled in his adoptive status. He knew he had been chosen. At last he had a real home. His joy was contagious. I felt my heart grow with him.

Two dozen years later, at his funeral, someone – gratefully, I cannot remember who – said to me, “At least he wasn’t your real son.” I was too numb to respond. I knew it was meant to be comforting, but “not my real son?” If he wasn’t real, what was he? Ricky was the son of my heart, as real to me as any child of my flesh. I knew for certain: he was real, and he was my son.

* * * * *

Three weeks earlier, in April, the doctors told us they had exhausted all treatment options. We were still numb from that news when Ric turned to me and asked, “Mom, will you ever be happy again?” I looked him squarely in the face and told him – for we had agreed months before we would be brutally honest with each other during this journey – that I could not see any possibility of being happy again. My son, this wise old soul, turned his distinctive hazel eyes with the golden flecks in them at me and calmly said, “My life won’t count for anything if you aren’t happy.” I had no words, for I could not lie to this boy, this man facing his own mortality far too soon. Happy? I wanted to rant and rave and break something, anything, to release my terror at the idea of life without him.

* * * * *

Life was never dull with Ricky. This lanky young boy with the bowl-cut brown hair delighted in telling me how he tricked his sisters by catching his farts in a metal Band-Aid can and getting the girls to open the lid. I remember when he broke his arm playing football, when he wrecked his bicycle and needed stitches, when his skin turned blue from playing in the cold Oregon surf, all the while insisting he was fine. I remember those times as a teenager when he grew so fast he couldn’t walk without tripping until his coordination skills caught up. The daunting amounts of food he could eat. The fear from learning he might be epileptic, and the relief when the doctor said it had been a mistake. How do you wrap your mind around your child’s terminal diagnosis?

* * * * *

We brought him home to care for him those last weeks. We set up a hospital bed in the living room, and Ric laughed that the bed was standard sized while he was not, and his feet hung over the edge. He laughed when I cried at the unfairness of it, the bureaucratic bungling. He laughed and reminded me of how I had spent hours massaging his feet in the hospital with what I thought was lotion, and one day a nurse asked why I was using liquid soap. He had the cleanest, slipperiest feet of anyone on the oncology ward, and now they were hanging over the end of the too-short bed.

Those weeks surprised me. I thought we would spend long hours talking about weighty matters, but what Ric wanted most was to watch one more NBA season finale. The Portland Trailblazer basketball franchise was only a few years younger than him, and he avidly supported his team. But the games were on satellite, and we only had a network antenna. I asked him, “You want to watch basketball???” “OK, Mom, here’s the deal,” he said, “The games give me something to hope for, and I’ve gotta have hope.” I called the satellite company. A man came and aimed a device at the sky and said there were too many trees and it couldn’t be done. Couldn’t be done? Couldn’t be done? I would cut down every tree on our property so my son would have hope. I had already heard “couldn’t be done” in the worst possible context, and this wasn’t it.
I would make it happen. I called my neighbor, a seventy year old retired logger. He quickly mobilized his heavy equipment: truck, loader, crane, crawler, winches, and chain saws. One sixty-foot tall Douglas fir tree fell, and the ground shook. No signal. He cut down another, then another, tears streaming down his face, until the satellite guy captured a signal and gave a thumbs-up. Ric had his basketball games. He’d felt the ground shake when the mighty trees fell. In his battle for hope, he knew there were other soldiers actively engaged with him.

One afternoon while Ric was resting the telephone rang. I answered it and a man’s voice said, “This is Bill Walton. Could I please speak with Ric?” Speechlessly I handed the phone to Ric. Bill Walton was the tall, red-headed center forward who had led the Trailblazers to their single World Championship against the Philadelphia 76’ers back in the glory days of 1977, when my little boy was nine years old. Bill Walton on my telephone? How had that miracle happened? I watched Ric’s face transform from tension into a loose, ear-splitting grin as he realized he was talking to his idol. Then he was asking me for a paper and pen, and wrote down Bill Walton’s cell phone number. When he hung up, he was still beaming. “Mom, Bill Walton said I could call him anytime, day or night. Bill Walton, Mom!” And my heart sang.

* * * * *

In the early stages of the adoption process, we took Ricky to visit friends. A local television celebrity lived next door, and casually dropped in to say hello. Ricky’s eyes got huge and his mouth dropped wide open. “You’re Ramblin’ Rod!” he shouted. Rod Anders, aka Rambling Rod, sat down with Ricky and told him all about his cartoon show, and invited him to be on it. Ricky told us the next day he would be the best son we could ever, ever have, if we would please, please adopt him. His joy, when we assured him he would be our son, was a tangible thing. It was his trademark. Like the time he laughed so hard on the Zipper ride at the County Fair that he swallowed his gum. When he stumbled across a skunk and got sprayed. The time he was home on a break from college, and my 6’4” son stood facing his 5’10” father, who looked up at him and said, “You’ve grown.” Without missing a beat, Ric poked his Dad in the belly and said, “So have you.” This boy – this man – lived joyfully. He wanted it to be his legacy. He had run his lap of life’s relay race, and was handing his baton to me. “My life won’t count for anything if you are not happy.”

* * * * *

In the hospital, Ric’s visitors had been limited because he could not risk catching an infection or cold. I knew my son had friends, but now I was learning how constant they were in staying connected. In these last weeks exposure no longer mattered, and on good days he held court. We carefully planned those brief hours when he would rally his energy to cheer his friends who came to cheer him. His room was filled with cards and photos, balloon bouquets, and banners scrawled with words and sketches. High school and college friends traveled hundreds of miles for a brief visit with Ric. They told stories, laughed and cried, and laughed.

Someone asked me during those weeks if it wouldn’t be easier to lose a child suddenly, in a car accident, rather than slowly to a devastating illness like leukemia. How do you answer an impossible question? Twenty years earlier I had sat with a friend whose son had died in a car accident the day before he was to leave for college. It was horrible. Are those my only choices? How about (c) never lose a child at all?

Time turned a precious commodity when its boundaries came into sharp focus. Once I had time to kill. Time on my hands. When it was Monday I yearned for Friday. When I was fifteen I longed to be twenty-one. Time had been like an artesian well, always there in abundance, a never-ending source. Now I scrambled to find the controls. Slow it down! Form a reservoir to store it up! Give me back the wasted bits and pieces!

We talked. As the days slipped past there was a point when Ric realized hope would not be enough, and we talked. As he fearlessly faced his own mortality, we talked freely about living, and dying, and what we thought came afterward. “Live your life joyfully, otherwise my life will have counted for nothing,” he said. I promised, even though I had no idea what that meant. I promised, because I still hoped to stop time and keep him with me.

* * * * *

At his funeral we were surprised at how many people attended. We hadn’t known Ric had so many friends. We invited them to share stories, and they showed me another side of my adult son: his loyalty to his friends. The time he walked a girl home after they got off work past midnight, to ensure her safety. She lived four miles away, in a remote area. He delivered her to her family, turned around and walked home. One man said Ric was the only friend he would ever let dance with his wife. Ric never forgot his foster care years, and counseled friends enduring their own tough times. He saved the lives of two people who had talked about suicide. The palpable elements of authenticity and joy, lived out in his own life, spoke to theirs and forever changed them. He had built a solid legacy. It wasn’t just words for him.

* * * * *

One afternoon during that last week, Ric’s girlfriend came to visit, and I slipped away to a mortuary to make plans. It was a surreal experience. He wanted a service that would celebrate his life. I wanted him to live. There was a lag time between his acceptance and mine, but I knew I could not let him down in his dying any more than I could in his living. The mortuary experience somehow brought his heart and mine into alignment.

I sat beside him that last night, holding his hand and talking to him. He was heavily sedated but never alone. My husband and I took turns, grabbing naps and keeping vigil. We were both with him when our well of time ran out. In the process of releasing his remains and preparing for his service, I thought the season of receiving any more gifts from Ric had passed, but I was wrong. His body went through the cremation process four days later, on my birthday. On Memorial Day.

* * * * *

When he was young his sisters called him “Ricky Ticky” and “Ricky Ricardo.” In middle school he shortened his name from “Ricky” to “Rick.” After college he shortened it again to “Ric.” I told him I liked it, but if he made any more changes, his options would be initials only, or lengthening it back to his given name, Richard. “OK, Mom, here’s the deal,” he said, “It’s just a name. I know who I am.”

* * * * *

Ric had been specific about where he wanted his ashes spread: the Oregon coast. Victoria, British Columbia. The San Juan Islands. A year after his death we met with some of his friends in Lincoln City, on the Oregon coast, to begin honoring his wishes. It was late May, cold and windy. There was a dark, heavy, low bank of clouds stretched across the horizon. Each friend had a vial of ashes, and we stood huddled together, quietly talking and waiting. There was speculation that Ric probably had something to do with the fact that the basketball season for the LA Lakers, Portland’s nemesis, was going badly. I checked my watch - 11:22 am. We had come exactly one year from his death. At that instant, a hole opened in the sky and a column of warm, sparkling sunlight descended, only on us, like a spotlight. “Ric’s here,” one of his friends said in a hushed voice. I could see my own awe reflected on the faces of the others. And echoing the cries of the gulls soaring overhead, I heard my son, laughing.

Happiness Isn't Happiness Without a Violin-Playing Goat

Last week, I met author Dara Horn when she came to Bend to speak. I read her book, The World to Come, Deschutes County Library's selection for collective reading.

The plot is based on a real event - the heist of a million-dollar Chagall painting - broadened to imagine fictional characters to delve into the question, who would steal a painting from an art museum during a single's cocktail hour? The book contains other real persons and events from history, such as the writer Der Nister and the Russian pogroms, telling the story of art, life and death.

Think about what it means to say, "the world to come". You might think of the afterlife or heaven, depending on your beliefs. Another way to interpret the idea is the world to come in this life, from the decisions we make. Cheating on a test, who to marry, where to live, to go for a walk....all of those things affect our lives in one way or another.

Historical events, fleshed-out characters, and philosophical ideas, all wrapped up into one well-written book. My recommendation for you, should you choose to accept it, is to read The World to Come.

The Bees Are Buzzing in the Trees

A lot can change in a month. Observe:

Front path, April 8, 2008...



Front path, May 15th, 2008...



The bees are buzzing in these, our flowering cherry trees. The blossoms only last for a couple of weeks. The constant wind means the petals don't stay long on the branches. When they fall it is like a pink snowstorm.


My dad became a beekeeper after he retired from his career in law enforcement. He called them (bees) his "girls", greeting them when he opened the top of the hive, always carefully replacing the lid so as not to squish any if he could help it.

I tried to catch a honeybee in action, but wasn't successful. Being busy as a bee is a serious kind of busy.



Honeybees are in trouble. When you realize how important they our in the food chain, it is startling to read the hives are dying, and no one knows why.

At one time, my dad was president of the Oregon Beekeepers Association. One of the things he did was work with researchers at Oregon State University to find out the latest information about threats to the health of honeybees. The worst thing at the time was a thing called the varroa mite, which could devastate a hive unless they were treated with medication. Of course, nature being the always-evolving process that it is, the mites could become resistant to the medication over time. This is a serious problem as hives succumb to an insidious pest. Wild honeybees virtually no longer exist. Something like 97% of wild bees have died, so the only reason we have them at all is thanks to beekeepers who work hard to keep them alive and thriving.

Beekeeping is fascinating. From time to time I would suit up and join dad when he smoked the bees to calm them before taking off the lid to work with them. At first, it's unnerving to be so close to all that buzzing, but once you realize they are not after you and could care less about your presence, it's fine. The bees are gentle little things who are focused on gathering nectar and pollen, fanning honey cells, guarding the hive entrance, and feeding the newly hatched young bees. In other words, they've got enough to do without worrying about your scaredy-cat self. Please.

The closest I came to getting a bee in the shot is here. The bee is the blur seen in the lower left-hand corner.



My dad had five years of retirement to enjoy his grandkids, and his bees, before he died suddenly from an infection while being treated for Leukemia. From him, we learned a lot about bees and beekeeping, so when the news reports began about colony collapse disorder we paid attention. This is serious, as it affects everything we eat.

Honeybees are part of the food chain. We wouldn't have fruit, nuts, and crops without their (and other insect's) pollination work. Check out the Haagen Dazs website to learn about the problem and see what you can do to help.

The University of California Davis and Pennsylvania
State University are both researching the problem.

Beekeepers do what they can to keep their hives alive and pollinate for farmers and fruit growers. How long this will last, no one knows.



And so, for my dad, I will do what I can to help the honeybees.

Happy Mother's Day

I don't know about you, but I get into ruts. It seems to happen during a long season of unchanged weather. Around here, a sunny day does not necessarily mean a warm day.

In the past week or two, I've gotten out of my routine and went outside to do some gardening. The grass and weeds invaded the flowerbeds and it doesn't look good. I have grand plans to build a rock wall across the front of the house, providing a wind, noise, and animal barrier between us and the street. For now, I must stick to the small projects. Accomplishing one thing inspires me to do more.

I didn't do any work yesterday. For one day, I can sit on the couch and watch "Sex and the City" in the middle of a sunny (but kinda chilly) spring afternoon and not feel guilty. That's my kind of present.

Non-Update Update

Don't feel like writing much. I received an extra writing assignment for a more newsy kind of article, plus my regular column is due next week. I have many ideas started, but nothing finished. Deadline: Monday. *gulp*

I'm off to the library to add to my collection of library books which sit around my house waiting to be read. Hey, at least I can read them if I wanted, because there they are.

Teach Now, Reap Later

OC is playing softball for the first time this spring. There are two games per week come snow, rain or shine, but no practices. She takes one gymnastics class per week for an hour. All of a sudden, we are going somewhere nearly every night. When I imagine if I had more kids, I don't know what I would do. Drink more heavily to numb the cold weather that is spring softball in central Oregon?

Which brings me to ask, what do you do to motivate your kids to do what they're supposed to do? I feel like the town crier, and a redundant one at that with as many times as I have to repeat myself to see any action. "Five o'clock! Time to tidy up!"

I wrote on notecards her chores, bedtime routine, and expectations and posted these on the fridge. The idea is to give her the power to complete what she needs to do each day without being asked multiple times. This way, I am not Taskmaster Mommy. If she chooses not to do them or to leave them incomplete, then we move on to the next paragraph.

I created a smiley-face/frowney-face reward/consequence system. For ten smiley-face stickers earned after completing everything for the morning and one for evening, she pulls a reward out of the reward jar. They are things like, a trip to the ice cream store or baking something special together. The consequence happens after only three frowney-faces, and are things like cleaning something.

What I want to know is, what are you doing to motivate your kids? Does it work? Kids are different and respond to different incentives. So far, this seems to be working. The down side to it is that it's something we have to do every day, twice per day.

The idea I don't like is giving a reward for what should be done normally every day. But then again, this is time to teach good habits.

Unlike SSRI's and a good bottle of wine, won't be necessary to use forever.

Dreams Are For Suckers. Allow Me To Introduce Myself...

There was a time when I had a recurring dream about an ex-boyfriend. Nothing erotic, mind you. In those dreams we would be somewhere together, the location was always changing but there we were, talking. For hours! This was very satisfying because it was something we didn't do, which I always wanted to do. After a dream like that I would wake up feeling fantastic.

Last night, the dream was about my dad, and the house where I grew up. My dad died five years ago, and the house was smashed by a tree two or three years ago. Talk about never being able to go home again.

The worst thing about losing someone you love is that the whole world doesn't stop with you. Jobs still need hours put into them, kids need your attention, bills need to be paid, etc. Everything else happens while you feel as though nothing can ever be accomplished again. Your job? Who cares! Your kid? Well, yes you take care of them as best you can. Bills? Who needs lights and heat when your life was just ripped apart and will never be the same and you can't hardly breathe much less get up, go to work, and write checks to the electric company! Those acts seems so meaningless in the face of human loss.

It's been five years. It's gotten a little easier, day by day, to resume normal activities and deal with the hurt from the loss(es) - my brother died the year previous to my dad's passing - and move forward so it doesn't hurt quite so acutely. Eventually, the hurt is not the first thing to knock you down when you wake up in the morning, but it's still there. It becomes manageable.

And then, one night my stupid brain goes off to LaLa Land then I have to feel as though it happened last week, and I can't even go out for coffee because I can't stop crying (yet) because now I'm thinking about my dad, brother AND grandfather. I think about how I'll never see them again, my husband will never meet them, and my daughter will never know them like I knew them and all of that is really, really hard to swallow.

The attitude I have about death, normally, is that it's not an ending. It's a beginning for another life, whatever that may be. These two successive nights of dreams have challenged my ability to be hopeful about the idea, and instead has sharpened the feeling of loss. Memories are a double-edged sword. On one side is this precious gift that can never be taken away by falling trees or blood cancers. On the other, they are sharp reminders of what was - and will never be again.

I've been okay with that for the last few years, but I'm not okay with that right now. I'm ready to have those dreams of unrequited love where Brad Pitt and my old boyfriend both reject me YET AGAIN, they don't even want to talk to me. Then, they walk off together into the sunset. That would be much more preferable to any other kind of dream, thank you very much.

SSRI-Induced Dreams and Self-Reproach

In my dream last night, I went to my grandfather's funeral wearing only a bra and underwear. What's more, the open casket was viewed in an underground tunnel. It was already halfway through the service did I realize that it might be a tad bit disrespectful to be at a funeral dressed this way. I didn't mean to be disrespectful at all, especially to my beloved grandfather (who died in 1991, by the way, and to whose funeral I was fully clothed). What happened was, I was completely inept at choosing an outfit, and when I ran out of time, I didn't get dressed at all. It had everything to do with my failures and nothing to do with an outward expression of feeling to my grandfather.

What could it mean? I thought about that this morning as I walked back from taking OC to school. Could it be that I do the most horrendously inappropriate, hurtful things inadvertently, only realizing so after the fact? The results of which hurt others, sometimes irretrievably?

I have really got to pay more attention.

On this same walk back from school - it's only three blocks, but a lot can happen in a short time - I ran into a dad and his 2nd and 3rd grade daughters. They are our neighbors on the next block, and we run into one another quite a bit but we've never gotten our kids together. I don't exactly know why. He's a single dad, and I feel uncomfortable with that. Not in a judgy way, in a man-woman way. I don't know why that would be, but since I do inexplicable things I am considering all possibilities.

Anyway, he was nice enough to ask if OC could join his girls at the park sometime. OC would love that, so I said yes, and said how nice that was to invite her. My little only child will be delighted to play with others.

Two seconds later, a woman I met at a birthday party last week came running by with her jogging stroller to take her daughter to school. We exchanged hellos, and I felt the warm fuzzies that came from realizing I am getting to know people! Other parents, whose kids can play with my kid, and of whom I can ask advice and go for coffee. This is great. As long as I don't mess it up by leaving the house half-dressed. And so I says to myself, "Good luck with that."

Good News, Bad News

The good news: The "Sound of Music" is a great, timeless classic with a great story and full of wonderful songs. We all three watched it this weekend.

The bad news: Every one of those songs playing in a continuous loop in one's head after viewing the movie.

Anachronistic

I found a photo and realized I didn't post it back on St. Patrick's Day.


As you can see, we know how to party.

This was the view from my front door on April 8th.



The flowers are as confused as I am about all this.



It is snowing as I write this.



At least we have each other for warmth on wintery spring days.

I Can Read Your Mind

When is she going to stop talking about her cat, already? Does she have a life outside the feline realm? What about that reference to 78 library books, could that be true? If so, what are some of the titles? Would she be able to recommend anything?

Hi. I know I've talked quite a bit about my cats lately. What can I say, I am a fool for their unconditional love. I do have a life outside of the cats (no I don't), and it's filled with adventure (liar) and celebrities (librarians).

Yesterday morning was an adventure. OC didn't want to go to school, and that is highly irregular for her. She stayed home Wednesday because she felt sick, and I could tell she wasn't feeling well although it was rather nebulous. No vomiting, a slight fever (99 degrees) that lasted a few hours, that's it. She hydrated with water and juice, and ate well all day while soaking in daytime cartoons on PBS and "The Sound of Music". (Hey, every once in a while my Netflix includes titles other people in the family want to see. Get over the shock.) I couldn't see a reason to keep her home again yesterday. But, she was REALLY upset at the thought of going to school. She cried, insisted she was too sick, kept saying "no, I don't want to go, no..." But she had lots of energy and was crawling around on the floor playing, so I decided she had to go. There was no reason to keep her home.

It turned out she had anxiety over the possibility of throwing up at school, and that was what scared her the most. Her teacher assured her she could leave the room to go to the bathroom without asking in an emergency, and that if she felt she couldn't make the bathroom in time that she could use the garbage can. This reassurance seemed to help. I stayed in the classroom for about twenty minutes to make sure she was allright. She stayed at school all day without incident.

Kids!

I really felt for her. I felt like an ogre, taking her to school over her protests. I wondered if there was some other reason she didn't want to go, such as a schoolyard bully. There wasn't. Just some good old-fashioned anxiety, the same kind that mommy has.

Genetics!

I mentioned books. I am absorbed in the fantastic The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins. From the back cover:

Generally considered the first English sensation novel, The Woman in White features the remarkable heroine Marian Halcombe and her sleuthing partner, drawing master Walter Hartright, pitted against the diabolical team of Count Fosco and Sir Percival Glyde. A gripping tale of murder, intrigue, madness, and mistaken identity, Collins’s psychological thriller has never been out of print in the 140 years since its publication.

This highly readable classic, the existence of which I only recently discovered, I cannot recommend emphatically enough. If you have read it, please don't tell me how it ends as I am only about halfway through.

Now, if you'll excuse me, my cats want to sleep on a warm lap and I have a book to finish.

Chickenlegs Fit for KFC Advertisements

The shininess of my upcoming jury duty may be wearing off. I know it is likely to be less an exciting adventure in civic procedures and more like a mind-numbing sojourn into the dark underbelly of citizenship duty, but what can I say? The offer of free wifi and lunch money buys my enthusiasm. It didn't hurt that I was already enthusiastic about the idea, hence the low incentive threshold.

I am resigned to the fact that my number probably won't get called, that I probably won't be a part of an interesting trial, that I will probably spend a lot of time for it to come to naught. Oh, well. Maybe I will finish one of my 63 library books. At least jury duty will keep me from going to the library and checking out more library books. I have a sickness.

As for Dakota, he is one fantastic-feeling kitten!


There is, however, something embarrassing about having your legs shaved, if you are a cat. Please ignore the lower section of the tote bag hanging from a doorknob which obscures the view. I need photography lessons, or something.


The bandages are from the I.V. In a strange coincidence, the vet outfitted him in the colors representing the Minnesota Vikings. That fits well with a certain someone (husband) football fan in this household, although I'm pretty sure Dakota is oblivious to the fact and cares not.


Sable barely noticed his absence and in fact, enjoyed not having to fight over the daily raw meat nugget. There was sniffing an "Oh! It's you!" moment upon his return because Sable has the memory of a goldfish and we love him for it.


He is healthy and happy, I can only imagine, to be rid of the plaque on his teeth and the fur mats which plagued his undercarriage.


Levels of indifference wax and wane, as if vollied between fluffy heads.




Welcome home, kola bear. We weren't the same without you.

The Rrrr Jrrr Watches a Movie or Two

I've recently discovered the delicious humor of "30 Rock". Rrrr Jrrr was my shout out to Tina Fey's awesome show. Do you watch that show? If you don't, you must rent season one immediately.

In other movie news, I watched "The Prize Winner of Defiance, Ohio". Wow. I am grateful that I did not have to boil the diapers from 10 children on my stovetop like the main character. What an amazing woman!

My Great-Grandma Squeezie boiled the diapers from six children on a wood-fired stove on their farm in eastern rural (or, rrrr) Washington. My grandma, whose real name was Naomi and stood all of 4' 10" tall, butchered her own chickens and rabbits, and endured an alcoholic husband who beat the entire family. All I can say is, I can't imagine the kind of fortitude it took to survive, year after year. By the time I came along, long after the death of her husband, she was an always-smiling and laughing woman whose favorite thing to do was sew doll clothes. She used to give me all the pennies in her purse.

I imagine she was probably happy to go to the supermarket to buy packages of meat, and maybe most of all, to be WIDOWED! Anyway.

The woman in "Prize Winner" had an alcoholic husband, but what I liked about the movie was how it wasn't all so easy to categorize people as "good" or "bad". Obviously, theirs was a hard life and mostly due to the husband's drinking, but he wasn't so easily just the bad guy. He did horrible things, true; but behind those acts was fear, and because this was portrayed along with his mostly feeble attempts to try, he was also a sympathetic character. Kind of. This made the characters three-dimensional, and so made the movie interesting and real. The woman was not a saint, but she did have amazing fortitude. That's what made the movie so good.

"Twelve Angry Men" is not on my Netflix list, and perhaps this would best be saved after any possible duties of the juror kind?

The Rrrr Jrrr....or, The Rural Juror

When I picked up the mail this morning, I tossed it onto the side table without looking at it. It wasn't until this evening when I noticed the envelope addressed to me from the Deschutes County Trial Court Administrator. I knew immediately that my civic dream had come true. I have been summoned for jury duty!!!

I know this is an unusual reaction. Most people groan and hate jury duty as it totally messes up an otherwise perfectly calculated daily schedule, usually involving some kind of work-in-exchange-for-money scheme. Not me. Why? A little math will help to illustrate.

Jurors earn a per diem of $10 for the first three days, $25 per day after that, plus $.20 per mile. THIS IS MORE THAN I EARN AT THE MOMENT. So, as you can see, during my two-week stint, if I need to report every day I have the potential to earn....let's see, $30 for the first three days....$50 for two days plus $125 for the entire second week. That's $195 for two weeks worth of civic duty, not including mileage. Plus, there is free wifi in the jury room, and jurors and would-be jurors are invited to bring their books and laptops!

I can write my column, post to my blog or read one of yours, or, read one of the 78 books checked out from the library in my name. Getting paid to do any of this will be considered my Christmas bonus at this point. Plus, courtroom intrigue!

I realize that I may not be called, much less chosen, or that if I do, it will likely be a small-yet-important case involving stolen tires or overdue library books. I don't care. I've wanted to be called for jury duty for as long as I can remember. Some people are just like this. (Or maybe it's just me.)

Cross your fingers I make the grand jury!

For the Love of Fluffernutters

Kittens. Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em. Am I right? I believe I am.

Dakota must suffer numerous nicknames, some of which are Peaches Cheeks, Kola Nut, and Pooky Bear.

I have lived with these two furballs for 14 years. They have lived with me everywhere I have lived since moving out of my parent's house.

Sable sez, I am prettyer than u. Now, pet me now. Tanks!

They are not so much kittens and more 72-year old geriatrics.

Sable got sick last fall. Diarrhea, twice a day, mostly on the carpet. I took him to the vet three times in the last three months of last year. I went through four types of dry food before I found one that he both liked and agreed with his GI tract. I tried different types of wet food and cleaned up a lot of vomit before I found one that he could tolerate. I've given him two different antibiotics twice per day for weeks on end, and vitamin injections once per week. I switched the litter boxes from scoopable litter to shredded newspaper, which must be changed twice (or more) daily, and regularly washed with soap and water.

After a while, I moved their bedding into the kitchen and put up a toddler gate blocking access to the rest of the house (and carpet). I had to put both of them in the kitchen, as it was the only access to food, water and potty boxes.

The range of emotions I have experienced in that time having to do with that cat could furnish a theme park with enough roller coasters to satisfy the most discriminating 7th grader.

I don't know what I would do without those two cats. They have always been there, sometimes to the exclusion of people.


It's been a long haul for us. Sable is eating and pooping normally now, but he has aged a lot since his illness. At many low points points when he was sick, I was ready for him to die and put us all out of our misery. As soon as I had that thought, I felt bad about it. As tired as I became of cleaning up everpresent messes, I still loved him.

Dakota is quite healthy and even runs around a bit after using the litterbox before settling in to his 23-hour nap. He is the most personable of the two. He's the one who wanders around the house looking for me so we can snuggle, or just hang out with me. If I'm reading something, he finds a way to settle down right on top of the book, or in the middle of the newspapers which are spread out on the floor. When I'm sick, he wants to lay down on my stomach by way of letting me know that everything is going to be okay. He is so relaxed. One of my favorite things about him is his chilled out attitude. He is no scaredy-cat.

Sable is a scaredy-cat, but he's so pretty. He's solitary and happy to be on his own, except for a vigorous, once-daily petting and appreciation of his beauty.

I know it is near the end of their lives. In many ways I can't believe they've lived this long. I had a cat in my childhood who lived to be 12, and for some reason I thought these guys would die around the same age.

Yesterday, Dakota went to the vet for a dental cleaning. I had avoided it for two years because the anesthesia was pretty hard on him. However, I noticed one of his teeth had a problem, and I began to imagine a raging infection which would kill him. The vet was fantastic! She assured me of their up-to-date methods and techniques, of the gas anesthesia which is much easier on the system, and how much better he would feel without a toothache. His bloodwork came back very good for a 72-year old, and at this very moment I'm waiting for a phone call to hear how it went.

I'm not ready to lose them. I know it's crazy. After losing people several years ago, I know this is not the same thing. I know they're just stupid cats. The thing is, they are SO NOT just stupid cats. Everybody poops, and everybody dies. Knowing this is one thing, but it still feels bad. It's hard to lose a friend no matter what form those friends take.

I don't know how much longer we have together, so I find myself picking them up more often and, much to their chagrin, kissing their furry heads like it's our last day together. I can't help it.

Chernobyl, reduced to a mere Three Mile Island

I had a meltdown last month. It happened after I received the results from the third math test of Math 95.

Before I tell you that grade, let me tell you that the first test grade was a 96%, the second an 89%. I felt I had done well on this third test and furthermore, pressure was building (inside my own head, caused by my own self) to get an A. This was Intermediate Algebra, the kind they offer for free in high schools all across America, but here I was paying for it like a chump. A not-particularly-bright, grade-sliding chump at that.

I did not want to face telling my husband and family, who have been nothing but supportive and encouraging, that all I got was a B. In the first math class I've had in 14 years. Who had the plate of High Standards with a side of Unreasonable Expectations? Oh, right. That is me.

My mom is in college right now, too. She always gets A's. If she can do it, then so can I!

I do not have a crazy schedule, filled from morning to night with a 40-hour a week job with school on top of that. I have one child, one husband, two elderly cats; I take care of the house, cook dinner, and I have ONE CLASS. There are people who have much more on their plate who get really good grades - like A's - who work 50 hours per week, and who do so as single parents!

I got an 86% on that third test. Hence, I melted.

I melted because I felt I had worked harder than ever to prepare for the last test and all that work deserved more than a B. I had made many silly mistakes, like not checking my answers on the calculator, missing a negative here and there, and flubbing two questions to lose 8 points on those alone. All I could see was my grade sliding down the scale farther and farther in direct proportion to the harder I studied. There was a lot of homework every week, but I didn't put it off until the last minute. I did all the homework that was required, plus the homework that wasn't required.

Except for the sliding grade, I actually enjoyed math this time around. I was learning something. That was not my experience in high school when math was free. The story does have a happy ending.

First, they make a pill for the type of anxiety-induced blathering I tend toward. I used to take them the last time I had a round of uncontrolled anxiety. They worked. Why did I stop taking them? Second, final grades came out last week. I am happy - and slightly embarrassed, now - to say that my final grade was an A.

My whole family earned that A. They were quiet while I did my homework. They watched the laundry pile up and ate leftovers while I did my homework. They muddled through Sunday afternoons with bike rides and playing baseball while I studied at the library. My husband answered many math-related questions while I did my homework. Then, they listened to me have a meltdown because of a B on a test.

(Note to self: a B is a good grade!!)

My mom told me that she has in fact, earned other grades besides A's, especially in math. If math is not my major, then why was I so worried about it? I don't know, because unnecessary anxiety and ulcers sound like a party I don't want to miss? Point taken.

Math 111 started this week. This time, I've got something I didn't have before: perspective. I take 20 mg of it every night.

Homecoming

The only thing that exceeds the ability to purchase organic, gluten-free food products is to obnoxiously discuss doing the same. Insufferable nonsense. In the weekend calorie free-for-all, the calories won. Between the Dublin Mudslide AND Magic Brownie flavors there wasn't enough yoga in the world to combat those forces of delicious evil.

Family life has been restored. What makes me appreciate a little time alone is to have that alone time gloriously wiped out with the return of my daughter and husband.

It was Saturday afternoon and we were about halfway home when she decided to plan her triumphant reunion with the cats. "I will bring a few things with me from the car, but not all because I can go back out for the rest. Then, I'm gonna go wait by the door and run in place - because I'm too excited - while you open the door, and then I'm going to run inside and hug Dakota and then hug Sable!"

I understand this need of hers to plan. I find I do my best work when I visualize myself doing...whatever it is. I never thought I would be one of those people - the kind who need a wacky TECHNIQUE in order to do anything - but one of them, I am.

(It works, too. I'm pinching your head! I'm pinching your head! Hahaha!!!)

My husband had gone camping with some friends. In the snow. By the time it was Sunday, I had begun having thoughts about a group of people found frozen to death in their tents when he walked in the door. I married a crazy man, I have come to realize.

OC carried out her sweet homecoming plan, although I don't remember any running in place. The cats did not share her exuberance, but then again, they never have.

Check it Out, Martha: THIS is Living

It's Friday night, and it worked out that I am home alone. My family has gone to do other things and I have 24-plus hours to myself. This is a good thing when you get to be my age. So. What to do?

Yesterday, I went grocery shopping to stock up on supplies and it seemed as though I was buying things as though my parents were leaving me home alone, albeit with a few upgrades to purchasing power: organic gluten-free rice and bean chips, all natural Breyer's ice cream, a couple of types of Ben & Jerry's, myzithra cheese to make Spaghetti a la Homer, etc.

I went for a walk this afternoon. I would have gone running but I'm trying to heal an old injury in my leg and if I had gone running all that would have happened was I would be spending the evening hobbling around like an older-than-what-I-am year old. I walked for as long as I could stand it but it was absolutely freezing outside. The wind was relentless! Back home I went after about 20 minutes.

I had a healthy dinner, then, broke open the chips and ice cream! (Yes, unbelievably, this got me excited.) Except, since my walk was so short I could feel the calories enter my body and immediately meld to my thighs and butt. Ick. I did a few sets of push-ups and sit-ups to offset this unsavory occurence, followed by a smaller dish of ice cream of a different flavor. Then more push-ups and sit-ups.

When I was 16, I don't remember feeling that I had to immediately exercise away the calories. But then again, that was a long time ago. Maybe I'm not remembering correctly.

This is For My Mom

I know that everyone and their mother will have already seen this because it was linked from an uber-popular blog, a blog which I love. But, my mom hasn't seen it and so I link to it in order to share the joy.

It is the most hilarious bit of parenting advice in the form of visual aids I have seen, possibly, ever. Prepare to wet your pants. It is that funny.

Taking Things Too Far

I watched a video recommended by another blogger which was about life from a dog's point of view. I liked it so much I watched another one by the same people, Futureshorts.

The moral of the story is: Be careful when you think you have a great idea for a practical joke. Holy cow! Observe.




This is the video about the dog. Very sweet. I liked it, and I am a cat person.

Here, Hold This For a Sec

I feel like the weight of the world is off of my shoulders now that my math final is done. Call me Heracles - or Hercules if you prefer the Roman version - because I've just tricked Atlas in order to give back to him the earth and sky. Ancient mythological sucker!

What will I do now? I don't know, let's think about that. I could read a book without thinking about the homework I should be doing instead. I could knit the hat I started for my husband back in aught-seven without thinking about the homework I should be doing instead. I could watch whatever Netflix has sent without thinking about the homework I should be doing instead. I could write, anytime, and now that I mention it I really need to do that since I've been late the last couple of times with the deadline. Editors don't really like it when you do that. I could do anything now that I've sent the homework monkey packing.

It's spring break! I'm a college student! I should be planning my trip to Cancun or Cabo, packing lightly and then drinking heavily. That is not my reality. My family might object to such behavior. And now that I think about it that's not my idea of fun things to do while Mexico. That list would involve much more reading and sitting by a quiet swimming pool than it would loud partying with strangers. That's what being a grown-up is, I guess, sedate activities while fully-clothed.

That's not to say that being a grown-up is boring. Right at this very moment, I'm trying very hard not to panic because there is no coffee in the house. I need to go deal with that crisis before my head explodes. I've either got to take a shower NOW and go buy a cup, or take a shower NOW and go buy some beans and then come home and make it myself. The former is probably more realistic because I don't have the kind of patience required to perform a multi-step task involved with first buying coffee and then, making it myself. Who am I, if not Paris Hilton's more astute younger sister? Except, the Hilton's have people to do the coffee buying and at the very least, the dealing of the no-coffee-in-the-house-crisis, for them. No, I am more like Paris Hilton's second cousin twice-removed's husband's love-child, having to get by on her own wits to figure out these kinds of things and rise above them. Speaking of which.

Sprinklings

I live a non-journalist's life. I look for the texture of ordinary things.
----- Nuala O'Faolain

Bless This House
Bless this house, o Lord, we pray.
Make it safe by night and day.
Bless these walls so firm and stout,
Keeping want and trouble out.
Bless the roof and chimney tall,
Let thy peace lie over all.
Bless the doors that they may prove
Ever open to joy and love.
Bless the windows shining bright,
Letting in God's heavenly light.
Bless the hearth a-blazing there,
With smoke ascending like a prayer.
Bless the people here within...
Keep them pure and free from sin.
Bless us all, that one day, we
May be fit, O lord, to dwell with Thee.


This evening we celebrate St. Patrick and kindle memories of our too-short stay on the Emerald Isle by stuffing our pieholes with baked ham, colcannon, champ, and soda bread. Dessert? Traditional girl scout cookies.


Irish Marriage Blessing
May God be with you and bless you.
May you see your children's children.
May you be poor in misfortunes
and rich in blessings.
May you know nothing but happiness
from this day forward.


A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.
----- Oscar Wilde

I am not young enough to know everything.
----- Oscar Wilde

The only thing to do with good advice is pass it on. It is never any use to oneself.
----- Oscar Wilde


An Irish Prayer
May God give you...
For every storm, a rainbow,
For every tear, a smile,
For every care, a promise,
And a blessing in each trial.
For every problem life sends,
A faithful friend to share,
For every sigh, a sweet song,
And an answer for each prayer.


Every action of our lives touches on some chord that will vibrate in eternity.
----- Sean O'Casey


Irish blessings and prayers are sweet and hopeful. I especially like this one:

May the blessing of the rain be on you—
the soft sweet rain.
May it fall upon your spirit
so that all the little flowers may spring up,
and shed their sweetness on the air.
May the blessing of the great rains be on you,
may they beat upon your spirit
and wash it fair and clean,
and leave there many a shining pool
where the blue of heaven shines,
and sometimes a star.


Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.
-----Samuel Beckett, "Worstward Ho", 1983


Vladimir: That passed the time.
Estragon: It would have passed in any case.
Vladimir: Yes, but not so rapidly.
----- Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot (1955)


The Ireland I now inhabit is one that these Irish contemporaries have helped to imagine.
----- Seamus Heaney

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

For Your Information

Hello, Dutch Brothers barista. If I wanted you in my car, I'd ask you out on a date. As it turns out, I don't, so when the music inside your place of employment is at the volume that it requires you lean out of the window so far as to invade my personal space as I sit inside my vehicle, I'm just going to go out on a limb here and suggest you turn it the hell down. Let me also add that while I applaud your efforts to correctly interpret my very important beverage order, my appreciation dives in direct proportion to your proximity to my person. You seem nice, but no, I don't want to chat about my day or what I've been up to. I just thought you would want to know.

Furniture store clerk: I love your store! However, I do not love the way you chit chat with me while I'm trying to look at your fine goods. I have a seven-year old, I do enough listening as it is. I'm happy to listen to my seven-year old, I draw the line at spending inordinate amounts of what should be happy shopping time listening to a stranger go on and on when I can see perfectly well for myself and prefer to do just that in peace and quiet. When I have a question, you have my sacred word spoken on a stack of Bibles that I will approach you and ask. Until then, please, for the love of god, shut up.

I saw a truck today which seemed to be an installation company of decks, patios, landscape, and sannas. I'm guessing they meant to say sauna, but who knows? Maybe there is some new thing called a sanna and while I don't know what that is, I want to find out. If they did in fact mean to say sauna, somebody didn't get their money's worth at the sign shop.

Occidental Tourist out.

The First of Many

Guess who said what this morning in the following conversation, as OC and I discussed her choice of clothing.

"Are you wearing your play jeans?"

"Yes."

"Do they have holes in the knees?"

*impish smile, which means yes

"You look like a.....a....what is the word?"

*thinkthinkthink

"Give me a minute. I'll think of it."

*thinkthinkthinkstupidbrain

"Your minute is up."

"You look like a...why do I want to say flower, or muffin?"

"...teenager?"

*checks thesaurus

"A guttersnipe? Tatterdemalion? I've never heard of those. Wait, muffin was close. Ragamuffin! That's it. You look like a ragamuffin. Oliver Twist. Please sir, can I have some more?"

"Whaaaaat?!?" takes bowl away

The girl thinks quickly, I'll give her that.

Science Friday

Your Love Element Is Metal

In love, you inspire and respect your partner. For you, love is all about fusing together for one incredible life experience. You attract others with wit and a bit of flash. Your flirting style is defined by making others want and value you. Greatness and optimism are the cornerstones of your love life. You may let go too easily, but you never get weighed down by your past. You connect best with: Earth Avoid: Fire You and another Metal element: will control and smother each other.

What Element Is Your Love?

I would guess my husband's "love element" to be fire. Maybe? Have a nice weekend.

Administration

I've added a poll in the margin. To clear matters, I am fishing for respondents who are regular attendees of Girl's Weekend with me. If you are not, please do not mess with my mind in this manner.

In other news, school is hard. Now, I will eat cookies. Good bye.

Oh the Things You Will Read

It's Dr. Seuss week at OC's school, like a lot of schools, which is great because it's fun to reread Green Eggs and Ham. I read it twice this morning to two different children. It's a great book. And now I'm good for the year.

OC wanted to go to a Dr. Seuss event at the city library this week, so off we went, and on a school night! How crazy. There was a Dr. Seuss movie - "Horton Hears a Who" - and a Dr. Seuss craft - Cat in the Hat headband - and a few songs. The story goes that Dr. Seuss didn't give his permission to have a certain poem put to music and so someone changed it enough to be original and called it something, something Waltzing with a Bear....something. And there was actual dancing with a stuffed, life-size bear. OC loved it. Especially the cookies and milk afterward. That's my girl!

After the party, we went to the children's section of the library which she had never seen. She's been to the Redmond library many times, but not the Bend library. I know, she's a deprived child. We found the section of books in her reading level, and she gasped, and I quote: "Oh, my gosh! I am seriously going crazy!"

No lie. That's what she said. She began grabbing at books, gasping again when she found the Magic Tree House and then the Weather Fairies series; thrilled to see many, many new titles. Bend is a bigger library and so there were quite a few more books to choose from. We left with a couple dozen paperbacks.

OC needs to be reminded again and again to do certain things. She easily loses focus, talks a lot, and really, really hates to quit playing something fun when bedtime sneaks up too quickly. But she likes to read. I'm completely thrilled that we share this trait, along with our eye color and overdeveloped sense of excitement over Girl Scout cookie time. I hope it sticks.

Over the Pass and Through the Snowbanks

These pictures are from our trans-state trek earlier this month. I added captions, but every one reads some version of, "Snow Piled Higher Than the Car + Haulin' Semi Truck Drivers On Your Tail + Hey, Look It Started Snowing Again = Fantastic Road Driving Adventure". That is, if your idea of fantastic includes white knuckles and stomach bile.


Lookit! All the pretty snow!


So the snow is higher than the car, it's not like there's ever been an avalanche which fell onto passing cars or anything. Wait a minute, didn't that happened in Washington? Must think happy thoughts.


Drifting, ghostly wispies never hurt anybody.


Oh, look, it's starting to snow. I should mention that it was really easy to take pictures and drive at the same time. The camera was sitting on the seat next to me, I just turned it on and held it in one hand while I steered with the other. We were traveling about 15 mph so there was plenty of time to pay attention to the road. Besides, it's not like I was taking pictures of what was behind us. Plus, I am a woman, we can multitask like that.


Why am I reminded of the Donner party at this moment? Weird.


The Donner party never had multiple snowplows go through and plow a mile-deep path for them. Hmm, maybe we will survive this after all. I always tell OC that I'm going to eat her up with a spoon, but now with the whole Donner party thoughts that crowd my min, that idea taking on a totally new connotation.


Snowplow #8 in the 1 1/2 hours from Detroit to Sisters. Hooray!


Who am I kidding, I get to travel with her, all smiles and optimism. Cannibalism is not an option. Life is good. Oh, and we were stopped when I took this one.

We made it through - much gratitude - but I do NOT want to do that again anytime soon thankyouverymuch.

Two Fer

Yesterday started off with a bang. Literally. I'm not talking gunshot, I'm talking a brand new jar of organic tamari soy sauce crashed down from the overhead cabinet onto my coffee mug, shattering the whole mess. This was BEFORE I had a chance to take a sip of coffee, as what caused the crashing was my reaching for the turbinado sugar which was on the shelf next to the soy sauce.

Good morning!

And then today. I'm putting dishes away and a grab-it bowl decided to be rebellious and defy its name when it crashed to the floor and shattered into a million pieces.

No one was hurt, not like last time. I am definitely beginning to feel like I should not touch the good china. Which will be easy seeing as though I don't have any good china.

I am a Central Oregon Blogger

This week, I had the chance to smile and nod at some other local bloggers. I would say I got to talk to them, but what happened is more like my wimpy voice that blends in to background noise and renders me unhearable meant I did a LOT more listening than talking.

Photographic evidence exists of my not-entirely-mute, but-kinda presence.

I met some bloggers who I read but didn't have a clue what they looked like until now. Boy, did some of them surprise me. Examples include BOR who as a matter of fact, has a real face and not one made of food. It seems Shannon's camera adds a hamburger and fries where they would not be normally.

Chubby Mommy, who is in fact, not so much with the chubby and is sweet to talk with. Beware if you tell her to come to jury duty despite nursing a newborn! Asses will be kicked. Of course, it was great to see Jen, who had her picture printed on the cover of the Source! She knows more about the happs with coffee shops in my town than I do. Something is wrong with that but so far it's not bugging me because when she knows = less work for me. She mentioned some other blogger as being her heroine, a blogger who is not me, which I'm pretty sure is some kind of wild oversight.

I met this woman almost one year ago, and she is still lovely. I wonder if she is planning to do that walk again this year?

And I met the most gorgeous pregnant woman, Shannon, who organized this little shindig. I hope she had fun. I had fun meeting everyone.

It makes being in a new place that much better when you have the chance to make friends. Like, duh.

The Family That Skis Together

In an attempt to get out and go skiing more than once this year, the family and I headed up to Hoodoo last Saturday. I have not heard people rave about skiing at Hoodoo - probably because Mt. Bachelor is nearby and a perennial favorite. I wasn't expecting much, so when it turned out to be probably the best day I've had skiing ever, I was surprised.

Hoodoo has an area called Easy Rider, which has the gentlest slope I've ever seen with a chair lift. Easy Rider could be called Chubby Baby Cheeks, as gentle and soft and edible as it was. I've been to four ski resorts in my entire life, so I've seen at least four chair lifts, if not five. I know of that which I speak. OC and I spent a good hour on Easy Rider, experiencing a state of relaxation like never before while attached to waxed projectiles of possible death or at least very real danger.

Normally, my ski day starts when my body produces a good healthy sheen of anxiety-produced sweat, about at the moment we arrive at the mountain and my mind makes sense of the information that I am about to be attached to extremely slick rented objects that will hurtle myself down a slippery hill at high rates of speed of which I am barely able to control. Also, that of my innocent child. A nagging worry soon follows which makes me imagine that my leg is about to be broken, or god forbid, OC's, and these are our last moments as fully-functioning human beings. This is when I cram everything down into my stomach and instead, bravely put on my gear and hope for the best.



It must've been good to start the day off slowly, for after a few runs down Over Easy and Hesitation, the skiier in pink also known as OC adopted a new battle cry. "See you at the bottom!" She called out to us as we ate her dust down the mountain.



Me, eating said dust.

As a parent, there are things that are inevitable and best to accept rather than dwell upon them. One of those things - among the many and various - is that at some point, your child will smoke you at something. Whether it's skiing, basketball, height, or Civil War trivia, you cannot fight it. Instead, let the defeat wash over like a soothing, chamomile-scented bath. Think back on how chubby and cute their little baby bottom was. It doesn't seem so bad after that, because after all, you were the one to raise and encourage that little behind to grow up and do so well at whatever it is.

This is much preferred over a bumper sticker announcing the achievement. Trust me on this.

Don't Mess With the Schedule

I'm really, really tired of complaining about the snow, of talking about how much of a pain in the arse it has made getting around. There are so many real problems in the world. My adverse weather conditions issues are so minor and silly compared to real problems in the world.

Now that we have some perspective, I give you this:

The first math test of this class was scheduled for Thursday, January 31st. I would take the test, then spend the rest of the day packing for our family's sojourn to Depoe Bay, where we have sojourned as a family since the mid-1980's. Friday, we would leave and it would be stress-free and fun, because it's vacation! That WAS the plan. What actually happened was, well, a picture would tell you all you need to know:



S!N!O!W! Thursday morning I woke up to snow, and the test was cancelled because the college was closed. I emailed the professor. I had no choice but to wait until Friday morning when I could check the status of the college. Luckily, I had the option of going to the testing center to take the test out of regular class times. That is what I did on Friday.

Except, when I got to the testing center at 8:55 am, there was no test there. I had to call the professor at home - luckily, she had given out her home number, otherwise, screwed! - and she trekked up to school right away and brought the test to me.

One hour later, the test was done. Eleven hours later, OC and I were hanging with these people:



You might recognize some of the women from previous posts. These are my girlfriends from way back. I went through school with them and we've known each other for something like.....holy crap, 28 years, is that right? I'm asking you like you know.

The guy in blue on the left walked with me at our 8th grade graduation. The guy in white on the right was also a classmate. That's such a formal word, classmate. This situation calls for a synonym.



A synonym search revealed the alternative options are:

day pupil
school boy
school girl
school kid
school lad.

Classmate it is!

Speaking of school girl, here is another one.



There are a lot of stories surrounding the people in these pictures. Such as, I used to smoke cigarettes at the halftime of football games with the school girl, above. We were cheerleaders, which explains why we only had halftime to get the smoking done. A friend from the first picture used to borrow her mom's car - unbeknownst to her mom - when she was 14. We grew up in a small town, most of us lived several miles out of town. One day, she accidentally ran over one of their guinea hens because they usually got out of the way. That was a tough one to explain away to her mom and step-father.

Good times!

It must be said that I took pains to pack lightly for this vacation. I managed to accomplish this when it came to clothes (the black duffel bag contains outfits for EIGHT DAYS, people) but, being gone for such a long time necessitates many shiny objects to pacify my attention-deficit self. The other bags are full of knitting projects, books, math homework, laptop, thank-you notes to write from Christmas, extra shoes, games, art projects, and OC's toys.



My mom came to visit, so this was the view in my rearview mirror:



What did we find to do on the Oregon Coast? Grandma took OC to the aquarium so I could do my math homework. We visited a tea shop which has a hedgehog in residence. I have never seen a hedgehog before, and now that I've seen one I'm thinking it's not a bad idea. Just look at this adorable thing:

It's Mrs. Tiggywinkle!


Not really. It's a boy, and his name is Horace.



OC loved Horace the hedgehog. Of course, she also loved their two dogs and their cat.

It's funny how much our routines matter to us, and how flummoxed we (some of us) get when they are disrupted. That was the underlying issue to all this kvetching.

I was glad to have time with OC outside of our normal routine, where I worry about getting to school on time, having enough clean jeans for her during the week, homework, and all the other hundreds of things to do with daily life. Distance from that plus spending time in such a peaceful place which overlooks the Pacific Ocean felt fantastic. I think OC enjoys the escape as well. Talk about creating memories, who's going to forget that hedgehog???

This week's weather: not a snowflake in sight.

Central Oregon Blogger Meet-Up

If you have a blog and you live in Central Oregon, you might be interested to know there is a gathering scheduled:

February 21st
5:30 pm
Blacksmith, 211 NW Greenwood Ave, Bend

I will be there, what else do you need to know?!?

RSVP shanlee at gmail.com

It Seems I Cannot Stay Away From Library Internet-Linked Computers

What is my deal? This time, it's because I'm on vacation and while I did bring my laptop, I don't have wireless internet card installed, blah blah blah. I am a sucky techie.

I'm here to print out my next week's homework for math class, except it's not been posted.

How's the vacation, you ask? Oh, great. Getting here, now that is a long story. A long, long story which includes mountain passes closed due to avalanche, two long-ass drives, and math homework. It barely qualifies for vacation at all except for the fact that I am not at home and I don't have to clean a darn thing. Good enough.

More later. I need to wash my hands after this.