A Broken Shovel

Sometimes I want to write the truth but in doing so I might hurt other people. I've had a lot going on since last August and have had to self-censor my writing. I just couldn't write what was on my heart because it was either not my story to tell or because I was not allowed to write about it.  I'm going to try and tell my story without the details that might hurt others. Excuse the use of this swear word but really, it involves a lot of *shit.*

I recently got back from an adventure vacation with my oldest daughter and a dear friend. We visited some great spots in the Eastern Sierras and ate delicious meals. I should write a post about it because there were so many lovely places that you should go. But not today.

Today I'm going to talk about life. And how it is precious. I've been reminded several times in the past 6 months and today I had yet another *aha* moment while trying to reassemble a backpacking tool that I broke. I discovered it's kind of useless for backpacking but can be used when I go snow camping next season. In hard granite dirt it won't work. The tool is a small shovel for digging cat holes. For those not in the know, that is the polite way of saying a hole for poop. In the high sierras you have to frequently carry the poop out in a wag bag, which is not for dogs. It's for human excrement. If you are fortunate to be in an area to dig cat holes, count yourself lucky. My daughter had a heavy shovel and in a last minute decision I bought a lightweight one while we picked up our wilderness permit. But it broke within fix minutes of purchasing it and I knew when I got home I would try to fix it for next winter.

Anyhow, since my last posting on this ancient blog lots has occurred.

My job: it was my most difficult year ever. More difficult than my first year of teaching, which was my second most difficult year. My first year was tough because I have high standards, I was a perfectionist and never felt like I had "arrived" as a teacher (in time I learned one never arrives; if you feel that way you probably should move on to another job as you're either boring or not giving it your all and even when you are, it is a stressful being creative, balancing academic standards and doing what is developmentally appropriate for the age you are teaching, making it both challenging and fun, building relationships all while being current and fresh). This year was not awful with the kids or with parents (except maybe one who was challenging if I'm being honest). I can't tell you why it was awful but believe me IT WAS AWFUL. I worked during lunches, after school and on weekends to try and do what I felt was in the best interest of my students and help make the situation better. I lost sleep. I lost time. I lost workouts. I gained weight. IT WAS STRESSFUL. And I am trying very hard to hit the restart button for next year. I am taking a summer off, something I have rarely done. I know next year will be a key one for me and for our school. I know I need a more balanced life and I've started to brainstorm what that might look like as I begin again in August. I have ideas. I know it will be better.

My family: I love them. I have one member who celebrated one year being cancer-free only to have another member diagnosed weeks later. We were devastated and shocked. Both of them are role models to me for so many reasons. The one who is battling cancer now is someone I want to be more like in my life. She is humble, kind, generous, loving and a quiet leader.  She is spiritual but not preachy or religious and she has been my biggest cheerleader the past 12 years. I feel like time with her is HOLY. She is married to a man who is energetic and the two of them are constantly setting the bar of what I hope to achieve if I marry again. They put the other first, have great amounts of laughter and teamwork. They are not perfect but know how to say they are sorry. They love their families, live within their means and are making a difference in the world.

I think of her in my garden as we've spent time together working in it every year. I think of her when I'm in my little cottage because she has come over and we like being together here because it is almost like a doll house for us now that we are grown-ups.  And I think of how she is listening to her body and sleeping and being with a few select people only when she is able and I want to be like her. I want to make my home my safe haven and spend time here nesting and then going out in the wilderness for camping and hiking and biking and kayaking and then come home again. Home. I've learned I have a home that can be my respite.

My life: In one weekend in June another family member, my niece,  lost all of her belongings in a Chicago apartment fire. Everything. She and the others in the building were lucky to escape but I keep thinking about her and how that must feel. I think of her every day as I make various little decisions; which shoes or earrings or dress I want to wear. She does not have that choice or luxury of what stuff to wear or toss. It is all gone. We were all in a state of shock as we read texts about the fire in the early morning and then we flew down to my youngest child's graduation.

My mom and I rented a car and on Highway 5 we were hit from behind by an 18 wheeler minutes later.  We spun around and around and around and across several lanes. As I was spinning, my first thought was to try to relax as much as I could while trying to regain control of the car. I had learned in bike clinics to do this when falling and thought in a fleeting moment this would be helpful.  I could see cars swerving to avoid us in my rear view mirror and knew we were headed in the direction of the median strip. The second thought was, "This is not how I thought I would die." I thought we might die. We had another impact on my side and my window broke with glass pieces imploding on the inside. We stopped somehow facing the correct direction. I grabbed my mom's hand with mine and gave it a strong, silent squeeze. And then I said, "THANK YOU JESUS. THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU" (I was thinking of my niece and now us).

My eldest daughter summed it up by stating we were either the luckiest family or the unluckiest. My children's dad, a retired assistant chief for the fire department, shook his head in amazement and said how usually people do not walk away from being hit by 18 wheelers, they get run over. I had to recount what happened to yet another insurance adjuster two days ago and cried in the retelling of it. I guess I've learned to be grateful and realize it is not my time to go, my mom's or my niece's. Not yet. I must have really needed this drilled into my head and heart because a few weeks ago while driving a local freeway I was frightened by what sounded like a nearby gunshot. It was another 18 wheeler, the tire blew and flew on my windshield. Miraculously I remained in control and my window was not damaged and the truck swerved and avoided me. Okay, I get it. It really is not my time.

My children: My kids are okay. In fact they are more than okay. They have all graduated from college and two have launched into their careers. One has had a rough time this year. The saying that you are only as good as your unhappiest child is true in many regards. I think of my mom, my sisters and brother and friends who have had or have children struggling right now. As parents we want to fix it, and make everything better. But in short, we can't. It is up to our children. This is the hardest parenting lesson ever I think. We must let them go and find their inner strength.

I was recently up in Tahoe and one of my kids and I were having a miscommunication on the phone. It was upsetting. A few minutes later I looked out and there was a coyote who came right up to the window as I was thinking about our discussion. He was looking at us, eating a mouse or a scrap of food. This was not normal behavior, right up against the house's living room window. I had trouble sleeping and in the middle of the night I remembered a few years ago texting a friend who had found out his son had been killed in a drunk driving accident. Another child of mine was in a crisis mode and I was distraught, even more so for my friend. I was sitting in the exact same spot near the window where the coyote had visited and where I was sitting when the father and I were texting. At his son's funeral, the father had told all of us when we see a coyote we should say hi to his son. I believe that night the coyote visit was a pointed reminder of no matter how hard communication or the struggles are with my kids or how I am concerned for them, I need to be thankful that I have them and can witness their struggles. Our time in this life is limited.

My broken cat hole shovel:  I stood in my laundry room with my shovel and tried to reassemble it. It took time and a few innovations but after a great deal of persistence I fixed it. I remember a few years ago I had started to date a man and my bike tool kit fell apart. I jokingly said it was the key to my heart. He was patient and determined and fixed it. That man touched my heart, maybe even more so after we broke up because I recognized he was creating and living a new life after a nasty divorce. From what I can read and see he is in love and happy and evolving as a person.  It is a visual reminder that one can evolve as a person for the better, even at our age.

I thought of my life of late; my job struggles, cancer, accidents, struggles of my children and that the lesson I think I've needed to learn, I mean, REALLY LEARN is that I have the know-how that can fix a broken tool. I guess that means I have the key to my own heart. My time on Earth is limited. I will make the most of it.

Rich In Love

Growing up I would explain to others that my family was rich. They knew this was not true in a monetary sense. My mom was a nurse and dad was a probation officer. Together they had four children in less than five years and though they managed to take two weekly vacations a year there was not a lot of money left over for extras growing up. We were, however, rich in love.

How do I explain it? Our family was far from perfect. We fought. We had family meetings. We cried happy, mad and sad tears. As the fourth child and third daughter, I wore and received hand-me-downs. The oldest memory of a hand-me-down that I loved was my faded red “biggie” bike. It was a three-wheeled tricycle that I’m guessing I got for my third, fourth or fifth birthday. I loved it. It was slightly bigger than a traditional toddler’s tricycle, the size you would find in a kindergarten playground. I did not feel like I had missed out when I received that old bike. I remember mom and dad’s happiness as I jumped on it and began pedaling around our driveway on Wilson Avenue.

Growing up the color red must have had some significance. I remember the summer my mom bought us each a pair of summer sandals. Mine were red leather Salt-Water Sandals. I proudly wore them one hot summer day and put them in the green check-in swim bag. The only glitch was that I did not check the bag in with the lifeguards. Instead, I hung it inside the locker room. Later that afternoon when I went to get dressed, the sandals were missing, having been stolen some time earlier. I cried. Mom and dad held a firm stance on the fact that they would not be replaced. And though it was a difficult lesson to learn, I understood. Even that experience added to my rich life.

I slept in a room with my two sisters until my oldest sister was in junior or senior high school. My parents later added on a new master bedroom. Somehow even this fact did not bother me. I had many hours of wonderful make-believe games that included playing “house,” “school” and more. I (mostly) didn’t mind sharing my room though it did make me a bit of a neat freak. I wanted to keep my stuff separate from my sisters. This neatness lasted years later, that is, until I was married and became the mother of my own three children. I distinctly recall a turning point in my life as a neat-nick. I was starting to get upset about my messy house. I decided my children could look back at me as being a picky housekeeper or they could have fond memories filled with childhood inspiring craft projects or forts in our family room kept up for a day or two to be admired and enjoyed. I knew from being raised by parents who unknowingly chose memories over maintenance which route to choose. Mine was a rich inheritance.

Another thing my parents’ prioritized money spent was for our sporting activities. Over the years we settled upon football for my brother and synchronized swimming for my sisters and myself. Though we often only saw airports and swimming pools while we competed, we did travel all over the United States. Dad was frequently a driver and chaperone, sharing coffee with our swim coach for long drives throughout the night. At the swim meets he was a timer. When mom chaperoned with others, they improvised a kitchen and mastered crockpot spaghetti that fed 8-16 hungry teenaged girls. We had many adventures and loads of stories to tell when our family would all eagerly await to pick us up at the airport. Being a reflective family we would regale one another with our stories upon our return. Our stories added to our families’ fortune.

My brother’s love of football allowed us to travel to watch his games while he played for both his junior college and college teams. I’ll never forget chanting, “We beat the slot machines!” after his victory against a Nevada team. Great memories, even when it involved the car stopping in the middle of the freeway while traveling filled our love bank. It was scary having cars zoom past us until we could get help, not easily summoned pre-cell phones.

Dad’s love for adventure was a monetary priority too. Somehow my mom and the other wives allowed their husbands the luxury of traveling over Valentines’ weekend several years in a row to go skiing. Dad would return from his trip with four small velvet heart-shaped boxes of chocolates for us accompanied by a much larger version of the Valentine’s Day box for mom. And there was always a card for her too. It was always mushy and always sentimental despite dad’s macho bravado. He was a softie in matters of the heart.

I remember bringing friends over the years to my house for the first time. There were many whom lived in much more expensive homes up in the hills or across the Valley. They were pristinely painted and landscaped and decorated with stylish new furniture. There were newer and nicer cars parked in their driveways. Even so, as I walked friends through the front door and into our living room I always felt proud to bring them inside. I felt rich. Yes, I knew it wasn’t monetary, even then. But in matters of the heart, my family lived abundantly.

We Are Family

Everyone has his or her own version of family. Mine, until recently, had included my three children, my immediate family and their children, as well as my mom. My dad died exactly three years ago, but he’s in the equation too … as are my aunts, uncles, cousins, their spouses and children. 

Biologically, my children’s dad and his family were part of our tree but since we separated and divorced  that part had been fractured. His portion of the family tree included all of his extended family as well.

The fact that that piece of the tree had been severed has always been difficult for me. I missed many of them, but especially the children, my nephews and nieces. In time, one of his siblings reached out to me via Facebook, as did most of his nephews and nieces. But it has not been the same.

Seven summers ago my kids, their father and I moved out of our home at the base of Mt. Diablo. It had an ideal setting. Our children had had the perfect neighborhood to grow up. A creek located behind our house was hunting ground for frogs, bugs and included a rope swing that was a perfect balance of being both challenging and thrilling.

Rock City was a short car ride up the hill, which included caves carved into the giant rocks and trails explored. We had neighborhood Easter egg hunts, sleepovers with other families on a regular basis, a fourth of July bike parade, movie nights, barbeques and the game “Sharks and Minnows” at our local pool.

As they got older we allowed them to walk or ride their bikes to and from their friends’ homes or the pool as long as they carried their high-powered walkie-talkies to stay in communication with one us. They were a short distance to the middle and high school.

They had friends nearby and they felt supported by the community. We camped in our backyard in tents or under the stars. We had family birthday dinners, holiday celebrations and hosted a good majority of them for both branches of their family tree. 

When their dad and I decided to divorce we both would have liked to keep the kids in the house but we financially could not afford to do so. We sold the house and eventually moved our separate lives into separate homes. 

Mine was a condo located in a different kind of neighborhood. I will say it was an adjustment for nearly everyone. A big one for my children was the girls shared a room again now, after having just getting their own. My son's network was still intact, but no longer within walking distance. 

I’ve since heard, on the day I moved in and my sister and sister-in-law drove into the back of my little alleyway. My sister cried looking at our new abode. My sister-in-law in her protective nurturing way told her to buck up for my sake (after a sympathetic hug, I’m sure) and put on a good face for me. 

I never knew. 

On the day we moved in my children were at their dad’s and I was busily hanging pictures, arranging furniture and deciding what should go where. My big protective brother and brother-in-law were helping, as were friends from the old neighborhood.

A teacher and her spouse lined every cupboard in my kitchen and bathrooms. I think of them every time I open a door. Another friend’s husband moved in the heavy stuff along with one girlfriend and her husband, whom I had just befriended when she heard of my impending divorce and move. 

She had brought over Matzo Ball soup, milk, bread, a gallon of milk and cupcakes with pink frosting the day she heard we were separating. I was teaching full time, caring for our three kids and packing up our belongings for the eventual move that would follow six months later. She and her husband helped me label and sell and discard nearly every item that had accumulated from my 17 year marriage. I was touched. They had five children of their own and barely knew me. I call her Saint Laurie who swears. 

Another girlfriend, Susie,  and her husband, Randy, took my newly formed family of four under their wing. They’d come over and play board games, a sense of normalcy for her boys, my kids, and myself at the time.

I remember the first Christmas when life was so raw she surprised me with two wreaths from Restoration Hardware for me. I’d been eyeing them but was living within my more-meager means. It was a sweet generous gesture and only one among many that I’m making mention, serving as a touching example of her kindness and strength and love.

The kids and I were still in our home at the base of the mountain and it felt partially empty without their dad. We finished out the year and continued through the spring. In June, the school year ended and so did our time in that magical setting. 

Just as my local siblings had helped me move into my home during the summer, my sister Laura flew out just as we began our first Thanksgiving in our little condo helping me in a different fashion. Somehow, without making me the least bit sad or sorry for myself my sister guided me through the difficult waters of transition.

By then life had settled down but the holidays proved to be a daunting task. What had always brought me joy filled me with a sense of dread, facing all of the decorations for Christmas, yet again. Only this time out of our house and into our condo.

My sister set about matter-of-factly taking me to Target to purchase a few items. I bought another wreath, covered with cheery silver bells. It made a soft tinkling sound that was just so every time the door was opened. We bought a live juniper tree, which has survived heat, cold, and neglect in the seven seasons that have since passed. It still sits on my porch as a testament of a sister’s love. 

This summer, our seventh in our new little home, I can quietly reflect on our surroundings. We may not have a nearby creek, a neighborhood pool or even a backyard for starry sleepovers. We do have the convenience of being able to walk to the movies, the grocery store, the pharmacy or enjoy the most interesting people watching at the shopping center. 

Mt. Diablo, ever the constant, is a bike ride distance from us. There is Snake Park for playing hoop with the guys and filled multiple lacrosse and soccer-filled memories or late night talking sessions for each of my children and their friends.

And I’m not entirely naive, I’m sure there have been some make-out sessions too, they are, after all, adults or nearly grown. And though the friendships formed in the old neighborhood are still intact, we have all formed ones in this neck of the woods. Sometimes it involves a further walk or a car ride, sometimes it doesn't, they're right here. But the point is, we have a support system. We are loved and we love.

Many of our friends have moved from the old neighborhood, some from our new one have, too. And though we have not moved, we have moved on.

I walk into my cozy little condo today and feel safe and loved. The carpet upstairs needs replacing and like all homes there are glitches. But it’s mine, ours. There are antique tin geese and watering cans and ticking striped pillows, lots of pillows.

It is a bit of a chick's pad, much to my son's chagrin but there is a respectable TV for his sports to be watched and a decent collection of iTunes music for my youngest and a fridge to be raided for my oldest.

I look around and have happy memories here too. 

My version of family has changed over time as well.

What was once seen as severed, their dad’s side of the family tree, isn’t. It’s still there. He and his family are still there. And there has been a graft which now includes his wife and her entire family. The strains of divorce that had taken their toll on our three children, their dad and myself are healing.

WE are healing.

Anger has been replaced by love. We’ve come full circle. I can say, with complete honesty that I love their dad. And his wife. In time, more repairs of strained relationships will heal. 

So from where I sit, my version of family now includes my three children, my immediate family and their children, and my mom. My dad, as mentioned earlier is in the equation, as are my aunts, uncles, cousins, their spouses and children. Only now, my version includes their dad and his wife.

We are a family. 

The following was chosen by my family to be put into my dad’s memorial program years ago. It states perfectly how I feel about my version of family today. 

“Our family is a circle of strength and love. With every birth and every union, the circle grows. Every joy shared adds more love. Every crisis faced together makes the circle stronger.” — Anonymous

My Son, The Chicken

My family has a sense of humor, even, in death.

Nearly two years ago, my father lost his 2-1/2 year battle with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. He had fought a gallant battle and withstood three rounds of chemo and 81 radiation treatments. Our family had chosen to view his cancer as a “teacher” and cherished all the time we had with him. Every holiday, birthday and event took on a new, more purposeful meaning.

For me, the term, “rank it” became more relevant. Traffic bad? It would receive a ranking of “2.” Get upset with someone? Perhaps that would receive a “3” ranking. Dad’s cancer? I gave it an “8.” It received a higher ranking because we knew he was dying, it would be a terrible loss for all of us, but it did not receive a “9” or “10” because dying is, after all, part of the circle of life.

When he had died, we really put a lot of thought and meaning behind each of the items involved: the wreath we displayed with red, white and blue flowers symbolizing his time in the military and our family’s love of celebrating the 4^th of July each year. The program had his coaching motto on it: “Play Hard. Play Smart. Have Fun. Be #1” and photos, and expressions of our love and our senses of humor too. We held a Memorial service one day (with students, players, coaches and childhood friends and family), a religious service at church on another (with whomever wanted to attend) and lastly, we held a burial service with the immediate family on a third and final day honoring and celebrating this wonderful man’s journey through life.

At his military service, there was a 21gun salute. Taps were played. We had to leave the cemetery while his casket was lowered into the ground, as is the tradition. During that time we headed into Old Sacramento to eat lunch. My mom, three siblings and their families, as well as my children and I were all in attendance. We reflected, as we often do, on the past week’s events. We were emotionally drained but content that we had really honored our husband, dad, grandpa and coach.

To kill a few hours, we walked throughout the town of Old Sacramento. It was very hot, even for an August summer day with the thermometer approaching one hundred degrees. We went in and out of shops and chatted amicably. At one point my son and I found ourselves in a very large store standing amidst a vast array of detailed costumes. Halloween was not something currently on our minds as we perused the aisles. However, at one point we stood in front of a large chicken costume. It had a realistic rubber chicken mask, a furry yellow “suit,” red leggings and giant rubber chicken feet. We laughed when we looked at it.

Troy jokingly said, “Mom will you buy that for me?”

I hesitated.

He sensed my hesitation and said, “Look, it’s on sale!” Sale meant it was not the originally priced $200 but a “mere” $115. That’s a hefty price tag for anyone, but for a single parent and teacher with one child currently in college and another two soon approaching, an expensive costume was not in my budget. And yet…

Inside my head I found myself thinking that this chicken suit would make a great costume for Troy. He could use it for Halloween, and pull pranks and have fun while in his leadership class during his senior year of high school. He could then take it to college for further amusement.

I looked at him and found myself saying, “If you put it on right now and walk through downtown Sacramento I will buy it for you. You can go up to grandma, your aunts, uncles and cousins and tease them.” I started laughing at this ridiculous idea, hoping he’d do it, as we all needed a little comic relief in our lives at that point. I remember thinking, how can you put a price on a great memory that was about to be created for the entire family?

“Okay,” he eagerly replied.

I purchased the suit and handed it over to him. We walked to the back of the store near the dressing rooms and he changed. Well, he didn’t actually change, he put it on over his gravesite attire. He was sweating before we even stepped out onto the wooden planked sidewalk in the blistering heat. I was laughing really hard at this point but remained far behind so any family members would not associate he and I as a mother/son combo, or should I say mother/chicken?

First, he walked down the hard wood. He lifted each rubberized chicken foot high into the air and dramatically placed it upon the ground (which with his six-foot two inch tall frame was really quite realistic, I might add). Complete strangers were chuckling as he traipsed along. He began to bob his rubberized chicken head forward and back, forward and back, forward and back as he approached the crosswalk (I could just imagine his clucking!). It just so happened my sister and mom were crossing the street from the opposite direction and headed towards Troy the chicken (a.k.a. my son).

He approached them and did a shy sort of wave at them. They both looked and laughed at the gangly chicken standing before them. He then bobbed his head forward, back, forward, back which encouraged further laughter from the pair of spectators. I loved being able to see the two of them laugh, especially my mom. Troy the Chicken continued to entertain them and then I let the cat out of the bag, which caused them to laugh even more so. We decided to leave Troy to further torment others while my mom, sister and I collected ourselves like a game of sardines across the street. We had a great vantage point for viewing Troy with other members of our family. Soon we were joined by my brother, his wife, my other sister, my two daughers and others. Off into the distance we saw my brother-in-law Dan and my nephew, Ryan approaching Troy the Chicken across the street.

First a bit of background: My nephew, Ryan, HATES people who dress up like characters. He finds them annoying as all get out. Dan, my brother-in-law, has a sense of humor and full belly laugh that my kids and I imitate just to make ourselves laugh. Well, the pair of them were approaching Troy who again did his shy, timid wave as they walked by. Ryan and Dan did not respond. Troy the Chicken then passed them by but immediately turned around so he was directly behind them. In fact, his rubber beak was nearly touching the backs of their heads. He tapped them with his beak. They turned around and looked at him. They were not amused and chose to ignore Troy the Chicken and continue walking. Troy then pecked at them again and when they turned he gracefully flapped his furry "wings." Again, no response other than looking very irritated.

Meanwhile, my mom, brother, sisters, sister-in-law, nieces, nephews, daughters and myself doubled over in pain, chortling and choking. We had tears streaming down our faces as we were spying on the father/son combo with Troy the Chicken who had now once again begun his chicken walk with his gawky stride.

He continued to follow closely behind the two of them. Just as my nephew looks like he's been pushed to the point of punching my son, Troy the Chicken, he stops. My son had pulled back the rubber mask to reveal his now sweat-soaked flushed face. He had a giant grin spread across it and the looks of surprise turned to immediate amusement from both Ryan and Dan as they began laughing out loud. They then noticed the rest of us across the street and joined us in continued laughter and the retelling of the episode which had just unfolded before one another.

Somehow, it seemed the perfect memorable ending to a "new kind of normal" day without our husband, father, grandpa and coach.

The cost of amusing family with Troy the Chicken? Priceless.