The Second Coming (aka the Legend of Con Revisited… again and again and again)

Have I mentioned how eternally blessed I am? My husband is amazing… very male, but still amazing. My daughter is happy to be my friend, to spend time with me, and bead with me. My grandson is my joy. My dog pees on the carpet. Okay so every sunny day must have gnats – those would be the dog and my baby talking, pistol slinging grandmother.

My mother had been told dinner was between 2 and 3pm, it was her choice as to whether my grandmother would be coming. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I didn’t want her to come, it’s that she’s 91 and has good days and bad, and often spends the remainder of an afternoon in bed because her back is basically broken and she’s in deep pain. My mother is an excellent judge of what my grandmother can and can’t tolerate. So yesterday morning Ducky was informed by my grandmother, my mom had only just told her at 8am they would be coming to dinner. What the heck is the deal, it’s not like she had plans. The ham went into the oven at 12:30 at 350° and came out at 2:30 (20 minutes after it should have and the center was still cool) mom and grandma showed up at 5 minutes to 3. Next year I am telling her dinner is between 1 and 2 and not tell her I’m serving at 2:30.
Ack!

So we’re sitting there eating dinner and my grandma turns to Psam and ask her if she saw the article about her in the paper? Mom, Ducky and I all roll her eyes (I’m silently curious as to how much the story will change.)

Several months ago my Grandmother received a phone call from the “Niagara Falls” police department needing a bond to release her grand daughter for attempting to smuggle drugs over the border into Canada. Does my grandmother call someone in the family to verify? No, she ask if she can talk with her grand daughter. Sure, no problem.

“Becky, are you okay?”
“Yes, grandma, I’m fine, how did you know it was me?”
“I recognized your voice in the background.

The “Officer” gets back on the line and tells my grandmother that they need her to wire $4500 to them to secure her release and bond. Now this next direction from the “Officer”, should have sent bells ringing, but no nada, not my grandma, “Don’t contact your local police, we’ll deal with the issues here, it’s out of their jurisdiction.”

So my grandmother, accompanied by the armed idiot that lives down the street from her, go to her bank and retrieve a cashier’s check for the requested $4500 and go to the local drug store where she can wire it off. You did note that the idiot down the street was armed right? And that he walked into the bank with my grandma? Right? Armed? Riiiight.

Thankfully the wise man at the drug store alerted my grandmother to the fact it was a scam. Had she called to verify that her granddaughter was missing? In Canada? At home? No. At this point my grandmother and the armed idiot that lives down the street from her go home and my grandmother swears to not tell my mother. But someone did and my mom came into tell me. Ack!!

Fast forward to Sunday: Ducky and I go to do my grandmother’s wood and in the middle of one of my numerous treks from the wood shed to her wood chest in the living room she proceeds to tell me her story. At the end she tells that she would have called me “because you are knowledgeable about these things”, but you were at work. Folks, take my word for it that has never stopped my grandma from calling me for something frivolous before.

“Grandma, why didn’t you call mom?”
“Because you know more about this stuff than she does.”
“Excuse me? She’s always been your go to girl. That’s ridiculous.”
“Well, she would have yelled at me.” (by the way folks this is before I knew that the idiot down the street had walked into the bank armed.)
“That should have been a hint grandma.”

That same night my mom tells me that grandma thinks I should run a public service announcement to alert people to this scam. Sadly, the day after I found out we had a lead news story about the victim of a scam, a different scam, but nonetheless an elderly victim is out money – feeling raped - scammed. We run these stories constantly, I live in what has become the number one retirement community in the US (Google it - #1 Retirement Community), the retired and elderly (sometimes they are the same) are big targets of scam artists.

Fast forward to the following Thursday night dinner. Over hamburgers my grandmother tells me I should run a public service announcement so that people don’t get conned by these people.

“Grandma, I’m not running a PSA.”
“Don’t you care about me?”
“Of, course I care about you. But grandma we run news stories about this all the time, if you’re not going to listen to a news story why would I think you would listen to a PSA?”

Since then the story has evolved and my grandma as dropped her side arm slinging side kick, with no mention of the bank at all. She will only mention that she got the money to wire off to the con men if cornered – and then she will give some credit to the guy at the drug store. She is now pretty much a wise hero of this legend in her mind. Oh, and the phone call to check on Becky – well she now has made that call and of course Becky couldn’t answer the phone because she was a work.

I just roll my eyes faster and inwardly cringe when the topic is mentioned and the history retold, I mean reformulated into its’ latest incarnation.

How was your Easter?

Sith,
Cele

Talk Thursday: Sorrow and Its Source

I’ve not had near enough time… for anything it seems. I have a book I am to be editing, I’m avoiding it like the plague. Slow, boring, bogged down. Thankfully the author is an extended family member who doesn’t read my blog. Oh wait, Psam’s the only family member who reads my blog with any regularity.

In truth I’ve not a lot of sorrow in my life. My brother died (a day old) when I was in the sixth grade, it was the only time I remember seeing my dad cry. That, and worry for my mother, affected me more than David’s actual passing. Mom had made us a part of the anticipation and his arrival; being young girls Pinecone and I were especially anxious for his arrival. But then in the middle of the night (June 11th) my mother was taken to the hospital, where he was born (June 12th), and he died (June 13th.) That following morning my father told us he was not all right. David had been born blue, Mongoloid, and with at least one hole in his heart. Butch and Buddy don’t really remember much of that morning- even of that time; Pinecone and I remember the tears, the news, and the loss. My mother remembers it very differently, and strangely remembers nothing about David’s birth defects. Pinecone and I have discussed this since and both remember it the same.

For years my mother would always be sad on that day. My father never really mentioned it in my presence over the years. We moved to Oregon and while David was never forgotten, family sorrow seemingly passed. Mom always taught us that we are born with a purpose, maybe David’s was to bring us together, maybe we delude ourselves, a believer in reincarnation I will gladly remain deluded. David’s presence in death did something we in our living lives had failed to do; we solidified as a family.

That summer in 1969 we traveled back to visit my father’s roots in West Virginia, to find relatives, aunts, uncles, cousins I’d known of only by name and reputation. We journeyed to the small hamlet, Valley Head, where my father’s youth and formative years were spent. We met people from my father’s childhood who’d made a marked impression upon him and the man he would be come. I loved West Virginia, it was worlds a part from the LA where I was raised. We grew together as a family.

Over the years my mother would have a headache on the 12th and 13th of June. While she never said anything as to why, I noted the date, the past and made my mental notes. Every June 13th I check on my mother. For the past two years, since my father’s passing she’s not suffered the headache or worse- her mourning migraine.

My father had told my mother he was tired of breathing, he was tired of eating to stay alive, it was sucking the energy and life out of him. My father was dying from the ravages of emphysema. A two pack a day smoker for decades my father fought the addiction and finally kicked the habit. He didn’t want to die, he’d not made his peace, but he just had a devil of a time quitting. By the time he’d quit the emphysema was sucking away his life, his vitality, his energy. The handsome man, slowed, slept, and ailed, but never gave up… until it was just too much.

Just prior to Christmas, Buddy and the Kiwi were home for the holiday, my father went to the hospital. We spent Christmas Eve and Day taking turnings visiting him, spending what final moments we could with a man we all honored, adored, and loved so much. The day after Christmas Buddy and the Kiwi went home to Georgia. Hospice had been called in and on December 27th my very tired dad came home for the last time.

That Thursday evening I checked in on my parents after work, kissed my father’s cheek and told him how much I loved him. He patted my hand and told me everything was okay; my mother kissed my cheek and sent me home. Ducky and I discussed it and I went back and spent the night at my parents.

Something crashing against the wall in the middle of the night woke me. In the den I found my father thrashing around, beseeching God to take him and end his exhaustion, he was ready to go home. He reached for my grandmother, he could see his dog, he was emotional as he described my brother David waiting there in the circle of family and light. He later thrashed about, cursed and railed against me and my mother; neither of us did he recognize. And then he slept.

Friday night my sister came from Springfield and stayed with my mother. Early Saturday morning something woke Pinecone. She walked into the den, held his hand, and watched him take his final breath at 5:30am. And he was gone.

While I have mourned my father’s passing in my own way, I’ve not had that crying my eyes out moment where I was drowning in the wells of sorrow and despair. . Maybe it was because Ducky’s younger brother was dying in Portland at the same time. He passed that night at 6:30, Ducky and I were there to say good-bye.

My father’s passing was a moment of release and peace. I miss him greatly, but I talk with him when ever I want. I light a candle and remember his handsome face, the smartest man I knew and yet he never finished the 10th grade. He was and will always be my hero. I remember the father who danced with me while I stood on his feet, told spooky stories about missing eyeballs and ghost disappearing at the bend of a lonesome West Virginia road, the dad who took me deep sea fishing, motorcycle riding in the desert, camping under the stars, and played horse-shoes at the Girl Scout Father Daughter picnic.

I miss my friend, but I know I will see him again; he will smile and laugh at all the silly things I have done since the last we were together. And I will thank him for teaching me that what I can see in my head I can do, for making me strong – loving – independent – loyal and loving. I will thank him for being my dad.

I have no sorrow for I am blessed, for I have hope, faith, and heart. And most importantly I have my memories and love.

Sith,
Cele

The Week of Eating Fabulously

February is always one of those eating months for me. First you begin with a series of birthdays and then you get the chocolately delights of Valentines Day and now you can get I Love You Peeps – life rocks.

Add in Miseray’s birthday on February 8th, Psam’s Birthday on February 12th and you’re in birthday cake heaven.

Miseray is a chocoholic… cubed. For years I tried to make her cake one step more chocolate than the year prior. I’m up to six or seven chocolate elements and am about maxed out – chocolate fudge cake, with chocolate pudding in the mix, chocolate chunks baked in – divide into three cake pans and bake. Remove from pans to cool and cover with chocolate chips – when the chips are shiny spread them out to create a filling layer. Then I make a French Silk milk chocolate frosting topped with chocolate sprinkles. Sometimes I make a chocolate mousse to swirl into the frosting. Personally it is too much chocolate for me, but she’s in seventh heaven – I’m sure the milk industry feels a spike in consumption during that week. Ducky calls this cake Death by Chocolate but there really is a Death By Chocolate cake that isn't my creation. I have entitled the three layer chocolate be all/end all – Miseray’s Diabetic Coma Cake.

Psam’s favorite cake is coconut. At first it was a cake my ex used to make for me. After he walked she said it was her favorite and I began making it for her. I have to say it’s a great cake – topped with cream cheese frosting and toasted coconut. It’s a lot of cake.

Now that the girls have made their own homes I still make them cakes. With no cake here Ducky has realized that I never got a cake – hey I’m a mom what can I say with all that cake in the house my butt had no problem growing an extra zip code in February. Monday night I came home to find Ducky hiding in the kitchen with a beautiful German Chocolate cake with a lone tea light lit while he sang Happy Birthday to me. It was incredibly sweet. Then he took me out to dinner for an awesome Cobb Salad. I’d show you a picture of the cake… mit tealight… but I ate it with French Vanilla Ice Cream… the cake – not the tea light.

Thursday night is girl’s night – one week I will meet Audrey for dinner, the next my mom and grandma. We met a Pomodori’s for San Remo Raviolli. Oh mi gosh it’s one of my favorites. Ricotta and Spinach ravioli in an amazing and rich cream sauce with sun dried tomatoes and prociutto. TO.DIE.FOR. They have other great things on the menu – Ravioli San Remo is all my eyes see.

Because I had to work all last weekend Ducky chose to take a drive today. It began with coffee at Pinecone and the Tooth Doctor’s where my adorable sister gave me a new dragon.


She tells me her name is Prunella PenDragon and I adore her.

I first hugged Prunella back in December during Girl’s Day out at the Lane County Holiday Market. I wouldn’t let myself get her because I was suppose to be buying for others and was actually resisting all urges (outside of lunch) for my usual self-indulgence. My sister rocks.

Miseray and the Brit were shopping; Psam had worked last night so she was in a deep sleep. Having eaten breakfast Denisious and Buttman met us for a quick chat and then Ducky took me for Mongolian Grill. See all I did was eat all week.

Then we drove to my next blog and indulged in Coffee Milk shakes. Life is good.

Sith,
Cele

Talk Thursday: Postcards of Our Life

I started this with one thought in mind and woke up to erase the whole thing and start anew. Thank you Fii, Psam, and Steven your responses to my last post are the reason. That and what my cousin is going through.

People who know what I think, know it’s all about the journey to me. Heck, I blog about my journey enough. As Psam was growing up I suggested she question everything she didn’t understand, that didn’t work for her, that she opposed. Believe it or not I think I got this from my mother.

The practice got Psam kicked out of Sunday School. Why? I believe and she can correct me, she questioned the Sunday School teacher when she said Mormons, Catholics, and Jews have a different God than “we” do. Is that right, Psam? I was livid, called the minister and asked him in my (I’m sure) best non-confrontational voice (yeah, sure) “What happened to our Father In Heaven being a loving and forgiving God?” And he said – I swear – “Where does it say that in the Bible?” There are very few things that make me see red faster than a fucking, flippant, ignorant reply like that. I will not get started on Bible teachings here. Especially paraphrased Bible teachings, but let’s just say, Psam never when back to that church.

Postcard number one – “Question Authority or Don’t feed the locals.”

When I was growing up my grandfather would bring me down to the beach (they lived in Balboa) and I would spend weeks there during the summer or weekends during the winter. It was awesome every morning my grandfather and I would walk from his house up the bay to the bakery and buy doughnut holes, walk out to the end of the pier and talk, eat the holes, and watch the fishermen and their poles. My grandfather rocked.

On the other hand I didn’t fit into my grandmother’s scheme of things. Born to a life of privilege my grandmother gave me the impression life had given her a raw deal. (side note: My grandmother was raised by her grandparents, my great grand grandfather was Robert E.M. Cowie one of the founders of American Railways – he adored and coddled his granddaugher Fee, he made my great uncle Bob’s life hell on earth.) My cousin JeannieBeth was her favorite they spent hours beading together, cuddling, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company. I tried the beading on Saturday afternoons, but by Sunday my grandmother had more than enough of my company and made my grandfather’s and my life living hell until I was gone. My grandmother died one April day 17 years ago - I felt bad for my grandfather, for JeannieBeth, and my aunt. I know she’s at peace now.

Postcard number two – “Life isn’t fair, you just have to be fair.”

I’m no charming person myself, I have plenty of skeleton bones in my closet, tucked under my bed, buried in the back yard. I can name most of the ones in the backyard: my beloved Kya, at least one cat Bentley, Psam’s pet bird who danced when ever Wilson Phillips came on, and a bunch of snakes I buried in absolute fear (please don’t tell me they can dig their way out I am happy in this ignorance.) The ones in the closet and under the bed are different stories. They are the things in the past that I have hopefully grown from, but fear others knowing – especially my mom. They are the cruelties I wreaked on others because being mean was “funny at the time.” God, isn’t that pathetic? I would take back those moments in a heartbeat, apologize and use the rest of my life to make them right some how. The thought of those actions brings tears to my eyes and grief to my heart. But their memory and shame also makes me who I am today.

Postcard number three – “Where we’ve been is who we are.”

I have done some terrible things in my life, but I think I have also done some kind things, some wise things, some smart things. One of the wise things was to regret and to learn. Another was to embrace the people in my life and love them eternal.

Postcard number four: “It’s all about the journey”

When I was a kid I was envious of my friends who had great relationships with their cousins, all mine were either much, much older than I or lived very far away. So Judy, my friend from down the street, and I began telling everyone we were cousins, I think I was nine and she was seven. To this day she is still my cousin and while there is 1000 physical miles between us she is still in my heart and daily thoughts. When one of us needs the other is just a phone call away. Her mom, Aunt Mabel, is dying of kidney failure and suffers dementia. Jude is her support and care system, but because she’s not built for the extensive demands of 24 hour care and the ravages of dementia the situation and demands are eating Jude alive. She gets no help from her crack addict brother, but her somewhat estranged sister is coming in three weeks to help. Everyday I count my blessings and my own mother’s mental and physical health.

I give Judy all that I can and while the help I offer comes too late, my house will be her haven when her mother finally passes. I haven’t walked in her shoes, but I’ve done private care, it ate me alive. It ended with me taking my client to the hospital and giving up, I was shunned by the medical community in which I’d once worked. I pray for Jude, her mother and what they are going through together. While it was my sister who was with my dad at his final breathe, I got to spend quality time with him in the months before his death. And I was with him and my mom in the dark hours the night before his passing. By far it wasn’t enough. My heart goes out to Jude.

Postcard number five: “Communicate, Appreciate, and Validate your love and relationships” borrowed from John Edward.

See I’m not the unflawed person I make myself out to be. Ergo, my last postcard:

“Judge not, least ye be judge.”

Sith,
Cele

Surprises

Thursday afternoon I went to the post office. For most this is a normal everyday occurrence, for me it happens once in a blue moon – and yes I have a post office box. My rarity in picking up our post drives some people crazy. My husband because he misses his flyers from the men’s toy store, Sears; people who live and die over their junk mail; and probably those people who send me things that require either a phone call or a thank you note (I’m really bad at thank you notes.)

Thursday’s mail held three weeks of junk mail, credit card aps, a few bills, a book I ordered from Amazon, and a box – a big box that came all the way from Georgia. My birthday had come and gone and this box sat as a reminder of my 53rd milestone. My sister in law had packed it with a kewl partridge, earrings, cocoa, s’mores, a table runner, two Christmas ornaments that will hold pictures of Burp, and one of these kewl little tablets that I love to carry in my purse (ha, ha I hate carrying my purse, but if I am the tablet is a must have.)

The surprising birthday box required a thank you phone call and it had been a while since I’d touched bases with the Kiwi and Buddy. Sometimes, when I actually think about calling, the time difference keeps me from dialing. But I was well within my time limits. The first 45 minutes I chatted with the Kiwi, her accent is so cute but once in a while I can’t wrap my head around a word she says and the sentence is lost. Then I chatted with Buddy. Our lives are so different, but I miss them, I don’t think they will be returning to Oregon when he retires.

After hanging up I started thinking about my sister. Pinecone had left me a birthday message on my cell and I’d not called her back. Yes, folks the mail gets picked up more often than I call my siblings. The really sad part of this is I enjoy talking with my sister, she’s a hoot, and while our lives are very different she always feels like home to me. We discussed all sorts of things for over an hour… oh she called me. That happens often I will think about calling her and the phone rings. We’re connected that way.

Being raised independent has its features we were and are encouraged to make our own paths, our own families, our own traditions. But it also means that when you marry you hopefully meld your independence into your spouse’s family beliefs and traditions. My husband has a hard time understanding that Pinecone (or my daughter) and I don’t talk to each other at least twice a day or even twice a week. His family must get together every holiday, he chose Thanksgiving to do with his siblings and aunt (we are almost always the ones that travel,) and we spend Christmas at home, they are all welcomed but we do not travel. I don’t have to live in my sister’s pocket, I am comfortable with who I am, with who she is. I feel my sister with me all the time, and we are both happy in our lives.

But yes there are times when I miss my sister. This is funny considering I made her life holy hell growing up. But there were the times that we were a cohesive unit too. She has been there for me during my very dark hours and shared her brightest moments with me. Isn’t that what sisters are all about?

Sith,
Cele

100 Things About Me – 2009

1) I am peaceful,
2) Well maybe not if you’re one of my exes.
3) I’ve been eyeing a solar water fountain for my new garden since last summer
4) It is the only thing I wanted for my birthday
5) Well, except chocolate and that is a given.
6) I got a lot of truffles and a chocolate bear for Valentines day.
7) Let’s just smear them on my hips, that’s where they will end up.
8) For years, really years, I’ve only drunk Celestial Seasonings’ Bengal Spice
9) Now suddenly adore their Apricot Peach Honeybush,
10) A box of Perfectly Pear White tea is waiting, patiently to be opened.
11) What, suddenly at 53 I am embracing change again?
12) What’s that all about?
13) Wow, I didn’t come to snakes until number 12, that may be an improvement.
14) I have a freakish memory
15) When I was a child… er an older, I would make myself fall asleep by naming all the kids in my childhood neighborhood
16) House by house, street by street.
17) My favorite place to be is in my hot tub
18) Watching the stars
19) Hey, I didn’t say these were all facts you don’t know about me.
20) I am annoyed at the people who are perpetuating this economy
21) In the mean time I’ll keep shopping.
22) I have a Bassett,
23) He was named after a mellow, folksie music guy, Arlo
24) There are moments I hate him (my dog, not the folksie music guy) – which makes me cry
25) Really, he is incapable of being house broken,
26) He’s a retaliatory pisser.
27) I’m still not a vegetarian
28) I have begun liking my steaks pretty darn rare,
29) I will refrain from sticking Arlo on a spit and roasting him.
30) My dog, not the folksie music guy.
31) There are moments that I really miss my dad
32) He once put electric wire in his house because his dog couldn’t be house broken
33) He too, was a retaliatory pisser
34) It must run in the family.
35) I love the frosting on bakery birthday cakes,
36) And those really good mini cupcakes you can buy these days.
37) But we should just smear those on my butt too.
38) Despite the butt, 53 isn’t too bad so far.
39) BTW Natalie’s birthday is Tuesday.
40) Thank God my butt size is much smaller than my IQ.
41) Have you noticed there are fewer people who blog consistently over their out put of last year?
42) Sad, to paraphrase a folksie dude, “Where have all the bloggers gone?”
43) Being at peace with myself translates in to boring
44) I don’t mean to be boring, I just don’t get out much
45) I love it at home, with Ducky.
46) The last movie I saw in a movie theatre was Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull
47) I think the last movie before that was Second Hand Lions.
48) I told you I don’t get out much.
49) For vacation this year I think we are going to Vegas
50) a reunion of sorts for the people from my childhood neighborhood
51) You know how I say friends are gifts we give ourselves?
52) This year I gave myself the gift of renewed friendships
53) Such as Pammy, the girl who grew up the street from me
54) People are songs to me
55) Pammy is three songs: Angel on my Shoulder, Something Stupid, and Never On A Sunday.
56) And I am lucky she doesn’t remember what a bitch I was as a kid.
57) Last summer I put a courtyard around our hot tub.
58) This summer I have to pull it up and redo it….
59) There are so many waves in it you could hang ten on the south forty.
60) Last year I started a Teen Volunteer program at our local hospital
61) Five months later I may have our first teen volunteer
62) The speed of some progress is five slph (slug lengths per hour)
63) I may give up patience as my only virtue.
64) I am addicted to over the counter sleep aids.
65) Sad, but true, and I’m not likely to kick the habit soon
66) Addiction free lack of sleep is highly overrated.
67) I can get more work done on a Saturday air-shift when no one is there
68) Than in a whole day at work Monday through Friday.
69) Again folks, my name yelled loudly does not mean, “Come here quick my computer in put isn’t out computing.”
70) I cut my own hair
71) I burn out on hobbies
72) Except gardening, it appears.
73) My favorite flower is the Nasturtium and all it’s viney glory.
74) Jane Austin rocks
75) So does Duffy, Jason Mraz, and Five for Fighting
76) But Crosby, Still, Nash, and Sometimes Young
77) Is my favorite group
78) Followed by Cat Stevens.
79) I buy a minimum nine boxes of Girl Scout Cookies a year
80) One for each year I was in scouting
81) My favorites are Samoas.
82) I once had a monkey.
83) I phone flirt (everyone tells me so.)
84) I love deeply and forever
85) I can’t hold a grudge
86) Crap, I don’t want to hold a grudge.
87) I do at least two Suduko puzzles a day
88) Sometimes up to five or six
89) My best friend in childhood was my radio
90) As a child my half of the bedroom was immaculate; my sister’s really, really not so.
91) Today she is a better house-keeper than me.
92) Once, long ago, I was a negative personality
93) Not anymore (thank you husband number two)
94) Now I strive to always be cheerful and glorious
95) Some people find this grating – others love it.
96) You can’t please some people at all
97) But I still try.
98) In my fifties I am becoming a clothes horse
99) But all my shoes are still black
100) except my moccasins.
101) Wow, I only mentioned snakes once, that is truly progress.

Sith,
Cele

The Gifts We Give…Ourselves

In the end the best gifts we give ourselves are the family and friends we embrace and hold dear. The memories we treasure of moments gone past. A wise man, eons gone by, once said, “You can’t take it with you.” I’m pretty certain he was talking wealth, fame, and toys, because love you take with you.

For a year I’d planned a trip in April for my friend’s birthday. You know when you meet a person and they answer something in your heart; like you’ve come home? He is that kind of a person. While I’d never met him face to face, from our contact online I knew he was one of those special people who just fit perfectly into my life and my heart. I had wanted Ducky to take the trip with me, but in the long run I went alone…and had a great time. I spent the next four days in gleeful anticipation of the next event, next person I’d met, the next great adventure. Despite missing Ducky it was worth every moment and I collected a new friend or three a long they way.

Friends are worth their weight in silver and gold.

With the expansion of information on the Internet no one can really hide, unless they began covering their trails long before. In the year past I’ve reconnect with several long lost friends and miss placed relatives – a gift to myself. My father’s passing last December made me try a little bit more to reconnect; he’d successfully done so with several cousins/friends in the short years prior to his passing. I admired that he could chat with his cousins, on the other side of the country, phone for hours. In the earliest years they would meet up at the Furby family reunions in West Virginia. He made the effort to reconnect and then held them dear.

From the time I was two, until age 17 I lived on the same street, in the same house, with the same friends. I loved my neighborhood, my childhood friends remain dear to my memory even though we’ve grown and moved on to become other people. I moved to Oregon three quarters through my junior year. Few friends remained in touch. Okay really one, but through her I have been able to reach out to others. This year, hopefully, we will meet in Las Vegas for an “Old Neighborhood Reunion” I am excited and can’t wait. Yes, they will be different, yes they will have different likes/dislikes, passions and focus, but there is one thing we all have that is similar and that is our beginnings. We share many of the same childhood stories. Michael and I got caught at the age of five playing doctor. Sadly, in a fit of childish anger I broke one of the controls for his race car track (this still bothers me.) My mother taught him and his siblings to swim. And they would sleep over in our back yard on hot summer nights. My mother was his den mother, his father drove me to the emergency room when I split my chin on the edge of the bathtub. Childhoods intertwined.

Just a few months ago I reconnected with Pam. Oh the trouble Pam I could have gotten into…but we were pretty sneaky, well that and as we got older we ran in different crowds. She is excited about a reunion. And I am happy to rekindle a childhood friendship. Do I think that we’ll become BBF’s? No, but her renewed friendship I am enjoying. When I emailed her she wrote me back with wonder and joy and that was enough for me.

Over the years since Classmates and Reunion went on line I’ve searched for a friend or three, each escaped me. Until this year. Finally I saw one name I’d been searching for, we’d been somewhat inseparable in high school. I sent her an email and she replied fairly fast. We up dated each other on our lives and activities. And then she quit writing. I am happy to know she is well and thriving in Orange, but I am sad that we are too different to connect further. I wish her Godspeed and a full life.

As I look ahead to 2009 it is with joy that I looked behind me during 2008. My friends are a true gift to me, whether they be childhood buddies, long lost cousins, or new found family they are my gifts the things I can take somehow from this plane to the next; they are the wealth I embrace to my soul.

Sith,
Cele

Happy Days After

I hope your holidays were everything you wanted and more. Despite the fates mine was pretty damn good, filled with love, joy, and most of my kids were able to come home the weekend before for a family gathering. Psam and Burp made it. Miseray and the Brit made it. Poor Seithfrye and the Bo-sox were snowed in Portland.

An early blog (not posted) that I’d written was depressing, negative, and really quiet morose. I don’t’ want to be down I want to be up, positive, and whole. Sometimes the plans we make go awry. Sometimes the plans we make are too intricate. Too involved. Too much. This year I’d really scaled back my plans and regardless they went awry.

Every year I make Kahlua for my family, friends, and even some of my clientele. I made no cookies, no candy, just Kahlua. Four batches in and the deadline for giving the first bottle, I’d realized I had not designed my label. In years past I’d just pulled up a former label and reworked it. This year I designed one in about ten minutes. The blues were pleasing, but it wasn’t until after I’d printed up 24 of them that I saw my flaw. The grey shadow of the Christmas tree is all wrong.

But they work. And really the blues are pleasing.

I put in long days leading up to Christmas day, my plans were falling far behind, and my stress level was mind boggling. Christmas eve day I could feel a meltdown coming on. I was emotional, fully stressed, and heeping more on myself. The answer. Chinese food. I got home from work at 5:30 and Ducky took me out for Chinese. The elixir of life. Okay that and some good love and Kahlua. I came home, baked my pies, and made the vegies for the stuffing and went to bed.

Ducky and I agreed years ago, we travel to his family on Thanksgiving, we stay home for Christmas – the door is open to all. Christmas morning was snowy, but not showy. Psam had to work Christmas night so I am glad it didn’t stick. My mother and Grandmother came for Christmas dinner. My big thing is doing stockings. Everyone contributes; your stocking is fair game anytime after midnight. As we opened presents Christmas afternoon with my mom and grandma I remembered their stockings (this was the first time I’d done one for each of them.)

Side bar: Psam and I adopted Henry on Christmas day, probably twenty years or so ago. She lives in the trailer park my parents use to own, had bought her trailer from them, and became best friends with my mom when her husband passed. Having no children of her own, and step and step grandchildren that want her money but not her, Psam and I wrote out adoption papers and the deed was done. Now she is apart of our family, our ups and downs, our holidays.

So back to stockings. I love stockings, and woah to my surprise at her exclamation and near tears that she’d never, ever had a stocking in her entire life. I mean really, I was floored. How can you go through life and never have been given a stocking? Stockings are for everyone, and then I thought back, my parents didn’t hang stockings, it was all for us kids. Well not in my house. Stockings are for everyone. Christmas is for everyone. So in the after Christmas sale I bought a stocking for next Christmas. Armed with my mom’s key to Henry’s house I will hang the stocking late one night while she is sleeping in her living room. I think that makes a pretty nice gift to myself, don’t you?

Now I need to go package up, and ship my Kahlua Kali.

Sith,
Cele

Talk Thursday - Bail Out

Talk Thursday: Bail Out

Through out my childhood there was always an inboard boat in some stage of construction jutting out of the garage; my father’s blueprints either tacked up to the wall or laid out on his draft board. On occasion my dad would let me sand on a section of fiberglassed hull or hold a board while he nailed or screwed it into place.

My dad’s boats are twined deeply into the good memories of my childhood. There’s a few bad memories too, like when my eldest brother, Butch wrapped me up in a sheet of fiberglass. Or the time I popped the clutch on my dad’s VW sending it into the garage, just left of the bow…umm, through the closed garage door.

And of course there was the time during the summer between sixth and seventh grade when we went Bonita fishing off Dana Point closer to Catalina. You know the heart of shark infest waters between mainland and the Channel Islands. My cousin Lenny (who from here on out will be called Snakeboy- for reasons not revealed in this adventure) lived with us, and he and Butch were the two who usually got to go fishing with my dad on the Sea Horse. But for some reason my dad allowed me to go along one Saturday morning.

Major, but applied digression. My baby brother had died the day after being born that June; suddenly family time was important. My mom has always said things happen for a reason, David’s arrival and departure from our lives was a family cementing for me. I distinctly remember weekends Pinecone and I spent with my dad camping, motorcycle riding, hiking, and fishing, while the boys spent the weekend with my mom learning the finer arts of cafeteria dining, miniature golf, or roller skating. The following weekend we’d swap parents. Those are cherished, focused times for me.

I distinctly remember leaving San Pedro that morning while it was still dark, the heavy tang of salt scenting the air, the harbor clock striking the quarter hour, motoring past the Queen Mary and feeling miniscule in comparison. We stopped to gassed up and buy bait at the breakwater before heading out to open water. The ocean was relatively calm and my father opened the hatch so we could stand up in the bunk and let the wind and spray hit us in the face as we made out way out to sea.

Dawn was breaking over the horizon when we first saw the flying fish off our bow, seemingly keeping up with the Sea Horse as we flew over the waves that morning. Flying fish made me search for dolphins in front of us, sadly I never saw one. Those first two hours were fantastic. Then we stopped so we could drop lines and begin fishing. I remember baiting up, letting my dad show me how to cast and being envious because Butch and Snakeboy could do this themselves. Then we sat, and the ocean rolled, and I heaved, and heaved, and heaved again. Someone, with a kindly heart gave me saltines to settle my stomach… I’d call my aunt Dot a bitch if I didn’t love her so much.

Note to the Unwared: Saltines and Seven Up do not settle your stomach on a rolling sea, it just gives you more to heave…

A lifetime later the sun shone, the fish were biting hot, and I finally quit puking. It actually was a great day, egg salad sandwiches rarely tasted better, and I caught a big ass Spanish Mackerel. A fish called such because when landed it slaps its body about with unequalled enthusiasm, sounding much like a pair of castanets, very entertaining and musical. My dad accidentally hooked a seagull and then let it shred him as he gently unhooked it amid claws and savage pecking. Snakeboy hooked the first shark of the day, a blue about 6 or 7 feet long, freaked out and dropped his rod and reel over board. Luckily, both rod and reel were retrieved and the shark allowed to escape.

Right before my dad discovered the strange noise coming from the bilge and the sump pump. Yep, the loud gurgle meant we were taking on water. The sump pump had burned out…about 15 miles out to see between Dana Point and Catalina. It’s a weird feeling to see land to the west and then to the east and know you can’t swim that far. Did I mention sharks? Because they live pretty vividly in my memory, so does the empty, three pound Folgers coffee can he thrust in to my hands with instructions to bail—fast. My dad used empty coffee cans for everything. Butch, Snakeboy, and I bailed as my dad and uncle stowed away the gear, lifted anchor, and headed for port and dry land.

Once we were moving we stopped bailing and enjoyed the ride. We had plenty of fish (my dad loved to fish, hated to eat fish) for my mom’s roses, a great memory, and I can honestly say I’ve had to bail out a boat or sink.

Snakeboy lived with us for a year (our seventh grade – we’re the same age) before he returned to his mom in Ohio. That trip was the last time I went out on the ocean in the Sea Horse. I later learned to water ski behind it on Shasta Lake. Butch now is land locked racing Sprints in Sioux Falls. My uncle died in the 1990’s from lung cancer and cirrhosis of the liver, I don’t think he and Snakeboy ever had the relationship they had that year. My dad quit building boats after we moved to Oregon, he started building Ultra-lights instead, and yes he did build an aquatic one…which he crashed into Siltcoos Lake on it’s maiden voyage..no bail out was going to help it.

Boats, planes, and people pass, but memories remain, glorious and golden in my mind.

Sith,
Cele

Talk Thursday: What Now?

Deal with it! The great words of Sid. I’d been frustrated by Angie’s Talk Thursday topic “I’ve Got What I Wanted, Now What?” and that just won’t do. Why the frustration? Because, besides world peace and the safety and health of my family I really have no wishes, and that’s not bad.

Why? Because I’m that lucky. After three marriages I am married to a man who loves me back. My daughters are humanly wonderful, my grandson is the sunshine of my life, my dog stinks, and I have a great job. There is really nothing more I want. I am a content homebody with wonderful family and friends. And I will tell you a secret that only Ducky knows, I don’t have any fantasies.

My philosophy on fantasies is that once you put your fantasy into play it’s reality with cold hard clay feet. Fantasy rarely live up to their reality. And then what do you have? No fantasy, just mud.

Shocking, I know – EVERYONE has fantasies. But everyone else is also trying to keep up with the Jones, and when they buy the biggest flat screen on the block, Jim Bob Jones will just buy a bigger one and we end up with plasma screen envy. In my reality I would only envy that they can donate plasma and I can’t.

My sister has had a hot tub forever. I’ve always wanted one. In fact Ducky and I spent half of our first date in my sister’s hot tub. Then Ducky’s sister got a hot tub. And I thought darn they beat us to it (we’d been promising each other a hot tub for years.) We did finally get one this spring, and there folks ends my keeping up with the Jones. Thankfully the hot tub wasn’t a fantasy, it has been everything I expected it to be…and will be all year long…the cool life on the Oregon Coast.

Living at the north edge of the Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area it would be logical for us to have Quads or ATVs, but we don’t. Ducky’s sister and bro-in-law have ATV’s and a toy hauler. They are fun, they are spendy, and they can be used for a whole five months out of the year. Okay, some people go twelve months, but I am a fair weather person – to me a cold, rainy day is made for my woodstove, cocoa, and a good book – and later my hot tub. If Ducky really wanted an ATV I wouldn’t give him arguments. But to buy one just because they have one, I can’t go there.

I am content. Oh wait, I want more flowers. Lots of flowers for cutting, giving, smelling, and dead heading. Flowers for spring, summer, and fall. Flowers that will give other people flower envy. But your toys and keeping up with the Jones. Sorry just not my style. And I will deal with it.

Sith,
Cele

'tunias and Hummingbirds

I know, colour me boring, another middle aged woman who loves gardening. So predictable.

I set a pretty aggressive goal for myself this weekend, plant fifty plus dollars of annuals and perennials on a weekend that was already full. Voila! Goal accomplished. The Tulips have been dead-headed, and the first wave of ‘tunias planted in their place. My plan this year is to plant new ‘tunias every two weeks, so I am planting spars so I have room to fill in.

I also bought more Lupin, more snapdragons, some sweet alyssum, and some French Marigold. I love gardening, even though it starts out with three weekends of weeding in one garden. That’s a lot of aggression worked out.

Every third weekend we have Burp for the whole weekend, therefore our middle daughter comes on Sunday afternoon to pick him up. This week Psam brought her new boy friend, a very likeable guy, home to meet us. He had no qualms about meeting Ducky, but I guess he was pretty scared of me, so I feed him lots of pop, charmed him, and then became very weird looking when I thought I saw a wasp nest…. Or something… in my butterfly bush. I guess I became very animated when I realized… Oh Mi Gawd there is a hummingbird nest in my butterfly bush.

And sometimes when you are watching it, a portion of it will begin to quiver. So incredibly kewl. Psam noticed this at first when she saw it moving just below the neck. By the time I got there it was beating in the middle, this afternoon towards the bottom. I am enthralled. Of course from a safe distance for the nest.

And just for Tewkes, a peek at my shampooed baskets.


Sith
Cele

Gone, But Never Forgotten

We live all of our life to pass away. Yesterday morning (Saturday, December 29th) at 5:30am, my father passed from this plane to the next. Later that evening, 6:30pm, my brother in law passed. It’s been a rough 2007.

My father was my hero. My father was a constant inspiration to my siblings and me. My father was my first boyfriend. We went on dates, we fought, we made up, and we always loved each other. My father helped carry me along on the days when it seemed to hard to do it myself. And I knew when I grew up I'd marry a man just like my dad.

When I was five my father played hooky one afternoon from work and took me to the racetrack. It was my first time, the first of many, and I remember it as clearly as if it happened yesterday.

We were seated up in stands, my father was intent on the track, race form in hand, his tie loosened at the collar. I was being swept away in the fervor as each race began and ended. Until one race found me standing up, jumping as high as five-year-old legs can, screaming, “Go Joe, go!” My father leaned over and asked me which horse I was rooting for? I pointed out the horse of my fancy and my dad happily said that was his horse too, and continued rooting with me. For the rest of that afternoon he helped me chose horses to pin my hopes on.

Later years would find us sharing interest in Indy and formula one racing. A tall man my father worked in the pits for my Aunt Dot, a childless woman my father worked with, and who owned midget racers in Southern California. Usually my father would work the pits, my sister or brother and I huddled under blankets in the bleachers, hands wrapped around steaming cups of hot chocolate as my father worked on the cars. Several times my father would sit in the cockpit of a car and race himself. I’m sure it was just for the thrill, but it was a passion he shared with us kids.

Another was fishing. My father hated fish, but loved to be out on the sea in a boat he built with his own hands from blue prints tacked on the garage wall. As I was growing up there was always a boat in some stage of construction, either in the garage or on blocks in the yard waiting its turn in the water. Later that passion turned to planes and flying, and the laughter that would be evoked when my father would relate a crash in his ultralight, saved by the fate of landing upside down in the Rhododendrons that line the Florence Municipal Airport. Yes, crashes, plural.

My father was an adventurer, he gave that passion for adventure and travel to his children, and with any luck we have passed his lessons and passions on to our children. My father was a storyteller, with a silver tongue and a gift of gab. My father was far from a saint, but he was honest, forthright, and plain. My father has now gone to a much gentler place, free from pain, where he can breathe deep and walk unimpeded.

I will miss you so very much, but you will ever live in my heart, in my memory, in the smiles of my daughter and nephews, and their children. You will ever walk in my dreams, whisper to me in the wind, and hold my hand in the dark of night. I will never let you go and I pray I will never let you down.

Dad, I love you

Later that night Ducky’s younger brother died after his nine-month battle with lung cancer. It didn’t come as a surprise, but it, like my dad’s passing creates a loss and an ache that will be a long time in easing.

Gwynn was a gentle man with a massive heart and a love for his partner, his children, and grand children. He fought for each extra day of his life after the doctor’s told him his cancer was incurable. He spent time with his siblings, his children, and his grandchildren building memories to take them through the rest of their lives.

He had two wishes for the end of his life. First to make it through Christmas, and second he wanted a white Christmas. On Christmas morning Ducky called Gwynn to wish him a merry Christmas, as they discussed health, the holidays, and life in general. During the call Gwynn suddenly stopped and after a moment pause said in wonder, “It’s snowing.” That was the last conversation Gwynn and Ducky shared.

Yesterday morning Gwynn suffered a major heart attack in the hospuital. Last night after the family drove from various parts of Oregon and Washington to gathered at the hospital, the nurses removed Gwynn’s life support. Forty-five minutes later he was gone.

Our tears flow like our memories. But unlike our memories the tears will dry, our wounds will toughen, and our pain will ease. But they shall ever live in our memories and our hearts.

Sith,
Cele

If Tomorrow Never Comes

My father has been surviving emphysema for 35 years now, the last 10 have been pretty painful to watch, and endure, I know someday soon the disease will win. My parents were told by their physician three weeks ago to contact hospice services. My father said he’d be around for the New Year, they could do it after the holidays, and then went up and fixed a hole in his roof. I kid you not.

My brother in law was diagnosed with lung cancer, which has moved into his brain and lower regions, back in February. He was given three months tops. Though bouts of chemo that have done very little, but help the cancer grow and metastasize, he has endured and battled and lost his hair but not his will to live, work, and survive. I know cancer will win this battle, but he plans on being here through the holidays.

At 4am Sunday morning the phone rang. This usually means in my household that my radio station is off the air and I need to go to work. This Sunday morning it struck fear in my heart when I heard Ducky’s youngest sister’s very calm and quiet voice on the other end. Handing the phone to Ducky I went back to bed. It didn’t register very well when he walked back into the bedroom to tell me our nephew was dead. I was certain he’d misspoken and meant his little brother, but no he’d meant Wapiti.

Give us credit, neither of us said, “But I just saw him on Thanksgiving and he was fine.” Apparently after a heated argument with his wife, in which the police came and escorted her and their teenage children and grandchild out of the home, he began drinking. Considering the evening’s course of events, I believe he’d been drinking far long before the evening unraveled in rage, horror, and blood.

The police had escorted the family from the home at 9:30 Saturday night. Returned at 11 after Wapiti’s oldest daughter had called worried he was suicidal, please check on him. Returning to the house they were met by an armed Wapiti. The confrontation ended in a shoot out and Wapiti dying on his living room floor.

I’ve obviously have shortened the course of events, for several reasons. The first being I was not there. What I know is that a very nice guy is now dead because of events he started. A wife and three children are hurting because he could see no light at the end of his tunnel. His brand new granddaughter will never get to know the wonderful grandfather he would have been. He was a nice guy.

Saturday afternoon Wapiti will be laid to rest in Portland. Far from his family – and take my word for it – this outrages is paternal family. I love most of my husband’s family, well there is this one sister that pushes all my buttons with her woe is me attitude, lifestyle, and ranting (but that is a different story) but I am having a hard time with their reasoning. They don’t hold a person in their heart. I mean they probably do on some minor level, but they think “he’s going to be up there in Portland, far away from family and lonely.”

Excuse me, he’s dead, sadly dead. The do not talk to their loved ones past, they do not light a candle in remembrance. No, they take Christmas trees to the cemetery and sing carols.

I hope I’m not offending people with this tirade, but if you loved them in this life - hold them in your hearts in their passing. Celebrate their life, the person they were, and the spirit they are. In all honesty, I don’t get funerals (although I will attend and I will cry, because I hurt too,) and yes I, realize funerals are basically for the living.

Strangely on Thursday as we were driving to Eugene for family Thanksgiving festivities we had a conversation about letting those we love, admire, cherish, and value know each our feelings every time we see and leave them. I strongly hold to this practice, I never want to have regrets that I
1) never got to say good-bye and
2) that someone I cared about didn’t know how I felt.

Wapiti underscored the message of our conversation – he called each of his children Saturday night and told them that regardless of what would happen that night, he loved and cherished them deeply.

In the words of the medium John Edward, please validate, communicate, and appreciate those you love because tomorrow does not always come.

Sith
Cele

Happy Father's Dad, Late

My dad has always been my hero. A handsome hero, with whom I always butted heads, And yet today he is still one of my best friends. My father taught me that there is nothing I can not do if I can imagine it in my head. It is an ideal that has served me well through out my life.

Raised in the Blue Ridge Mountains of West Virginia to a mean, good for nothing, alcoholic farmer, from a good family, my dad probably shouldn’t have raised above his beginnings. I am so blessed he did. My dad has never forgotten those beginnings. Wears them like an albatross at times and hates the phrases “you might be a redneck” and “hillbilly.”

a really cute picture of my
dad at age 6 should go
here but it wouldn't load

The baby of eight children, my father was oft times raised by an older sister who also made well of herself despite the performance of her parents (she is my favorite aunt, an eclectic character of esoteric thought and beliefs.) My grandparents often left their children to fend for themselves. I kid you not, once when my father was about four they left the four youngest children (the other four we off to their own lives) alone at home for over a week with no food in the house, save a pot of soured beans. My dad once told me of a time, my drunken grandfather beat a mule to death with a chain. He was not a pleasant man, and my grandmother (for whom I am name) followed my grandfather wherever he went. My father, in turn, does not drink to excessive. I think his limit was about four beers a summer, never more than two at a time.



I remember my dad taking me to my first horse race. I’m not sure but I think it was at
Santa Anita. I remember him wearing a white shirt and a tie, his flat top hair cut, intently watching each race. I was about five and at one point so impressed with my surroundings and my father’s intentness at each race I jumped into the frenzy.

With the start of each race I would start shouting for my horse to go faster, screaming, “Go Joe, Go Joe.”

My father leaned over to me and asked which horse I was rooting for? I remember pointing out some mount from the field, and my dad saying, “Good choice, that’s my horse to.”

My father never graduated from high school, shit, high school ended at the tenth grade. This sits hard on my father, who suffers from anxieties over his belief he is unworthy, because he is unschooled. Rubbish. Regardless of the tremendous strides and accomplishments my father has made, he doesn’t feel he meets the mark.

Example, through out my childhood there was always a boat in the garage in some stage of construction. From the upside down frame of a hull to the itchy spider web of fiberglass, to the almost finished product that was moved to the front yard my dad was building. The Three D’s (Debbie, Dale, and Denise,) the Four D’s (& Darryl,) the Sea Horse (my dad loved racing.) My dad had a boat. A boat he built himself, on evenings and weekends. When the boat was finished we went fishing. Till he sold it and built another.

When I was a junior in high school my dad quit working for Southern California Edison, cashed out his stock and my parents bought a trailer park in Oregon. Always strapped for cash in those early days he cut firewood, picked moss, sold and serviced as a propane dealer until they modernized the park and it became a viable business.

Boats were a thing of the past, now it was planes. For years there was an ultralight in some phase of construction in the garage. The hull became a fuselage, sometimes made of wood framing another time made of foam, duly wrapped in fiberglass, sanded with love. Painted, polished, flown, and on at least two occasions....er counting the water landing I guess three...crashed.

Today my dad, my hero is in the advanced stages of emphysema. We have been blessed with extra years with him for which I am grateful.

He is now grounded, but I know he still longs to soar in the sky. And I know someday all to soon he will with his own wings. Until that day dad, I hope you know what a special angel you have been to me on this earth. Thank you for the laughter, the adventures, the debates, advice, conversations, friendship, tears, and love. Most of all thank you for not holding my idiocy against me and for allowing me to become me.

The Picnic

We had a family reunion of sorts this weekend. Ducky’s family is usually pretty close. But now in some respects they are closer, sort of. Ducky’s younger brother was diagnosed with 4 stage, small cell lung cancer in April, it has made things much more immediate. Saturday we trekked to Portland and met in the Mount Scott Park for a “wonderful” picnic. Younger brother is looking good; despite the chemo not being nice to him (of course have you ever heard of chemo being nice to anyone?) He’s not lost his hair, he’s only lost two pounds, and his energy level isn’t too bad (but the reality is it’s stage four lung cancer that has spread to his brain.) It was a long day and you could tell after four hours in the park, with too much family, the activity was sucking the energy out of him.

Younger brother had sown his wild oats in his younger day and the picnic had a two fold purpose. The first being family, the second being family; it was an opportunity to introduce siblings and families to his daughter, Em, and her three delightful children. We taken Ben, two of our girls were able to join us, Robby (Ducky’s older/younger sister) took Boo, and the day was filled with laughter, pictures, and food (well if you can call store bought, mass produced potato and macaroni salad food, let a lone good.)


Two things grabbed my attention during the course of the day. First off Younger Brother’s two sons, couldn’t make take the time to come; despite the fact the two sons had, themselves, chosen the day for the picnic, they had a month to save and prepare for the picnic. Nothing was being asked of them, but to show up. Both had financial excuses. Bullshit. If my dad was dying I’d walk to Portland to see him if that was my only option. Shit their sister came the farthest, all the way from Spokane, for the day.

The other thing that grabbed me was for all their closeness as a family (they don’t fart without letting each other know – and then it is in front of everyone) they are divided. A day spent in the park as a family group was still broken into individual family clusters. Robby didn’t talk to me (not a problem – that’s a whole story in of itself) but she didn’t talk to Younger Brother’s wife – Tech, Em, or Ducky. Sisters, spouses, and children sat closed against the rest, ate by themselves, talked among themselves. I had to wonder why they came?

My parents raised me to be very independent, a fact that has been questioned by others, I relish that independence and rue it at the same time. My siblings are flung to the four corners – Dale is in Sioux Falls racing sprints, Darryl goes where the Air Force sends him (next up Augusta), and Dee is only 70 miles away in Thurston. My family has, maybe, one get together a year, usually when my baby brother is in town.

I hate talking on the phone and I rarely call my sister. Strangely enough, when I am thinking about calling she will call me – yes this makes me feel worse. My oldest brother understands. My baby brother – a total phone person – accepts this, but has a harder time with it. Despite that distance and lack of phone calls, they are forever in my thoughts, always in my heart. I will take vacations to spend time with Darryl and his wonderful wife Tee, and baby. When we get together we aren’t splintered into individual family groups, we ebb and flow. Dee and Tee together they are dynamite and highly entertaining, beware playing games they both cheat – boldly and badly.

I love my family, our independence, and love for each other. I love Ducky’s family, enjoy (most of the time) being with them, while feeling left out most of the time – they are a supportive and loving group, but fractious.

Families are different as snowflakes. In the words of John Edward – please communicate, validate, and appreciate those you love. For what we have today may not be here tomorrow.

Sith

Arlo The Tank

Four years ago I was mourning the loss of my beautiful Kya, a Rhodesian Ridgeback that had been my constant companion for thirteen years. During that time I knew I’d soon be seeking a new friend to fill the lonely times when Ducky was away. A friend to be lazy with, a friend to walk with, a friend to cuddle and share my popcorn with.

On April 10th 2004, my mom and I took the day off and drove the 200 miles to Ridgeway to pick up my new best friend. The breeder had named him Tank. The sort of name you might expect for a Mastiff, Bull Mastiff at that, but kind of a peculiar name for a Basset. Until you hear his story. Expected to litter on February 12th, the breeders weren’t too surprised a few night early to hear the bitch making a bit of a commotion from their family room. From the vicinity of couch interior they could hear a puppy crying. That’s right inside the couch. No that wasn’t Tank, how do I know that? Because Tank was firmly stuck in the birth canal and couldn’t come out by power of the bitch, the owner, or himself. 35 miles later the Vet unstuck him and Tank entered the world, followed by six more puppies. As you can guess he was huge from moment one.



But see, he’s so damn adorable. Oh well most of the time. He took almost four months to house-break. Ducky was almost to the breaking point. He only tried to chew up a few shoes, no bras, or furniture. But, beware the socks on your feet. To this day, three years later, he will snatch them right off your unsuspecting feet. He delights in sock snatching, which between him and the ones Ducky loses in his recliner, we are missing socks. One of his favorite things? To sit with his back to Ducky and have him rub his feet on his back. They were made for reach other.

Happy Birthday, Arlo!

Now when you stop to think that he is a normal healthy three year old Basset, I will let you in on a few…er…Basset/Arlo facts.

• Male Bassets tend to weigh 65 to 70 pounds. Arlo weighs 83
• All Basset Hounds KNOW they are lap dogs. Arlo is well aware of this fact.
• Bassets do not like baths. Arlo is no exception.
• Bassets are stinky dogs. I have a hard time smelling him, Ducky doesn’t.
• Hounds howl – I use to have blood hound that was the definition of this hound fact. Ducky had to teach Arlo to howl. I’m jealous of this little feat, Arlo won’t sing for me.
  Bassets are just big dogs on little legs.
• Arlo can reach almost anything on a counter you don’t want eaten.

Arlo loves ice cream on Friday nights. It maybe Saturday, but he will get ice cream.
Happy Birthday, Arlo.