Always choose the Hat

This past weekend like so many others, Marty and I went to the cabin. When I am at the cabin I keep up with my daily obsession of walking. Because I am at the cabin the collection of hats I can choose from is different than what I keep at home. Many of the hats are straw, all have a wide brim. There are baseball caps, sun hats and even a "Filson". When the Grand-kids come to the lake, they grab whatever hat catches their fancy. It is at the lake where they are willing to wear something on their head they would not for a minute consider wearing at home. The hats are gifts, thrift store finds, old favorites and family heirlooms. They are all important.

Then there is this: Over the years, without any conscious choice I have started a hat collection. I have them stacked in the front closet, the back closet, they hang from the knobs on the closet door. Twelve of them hang from a rack over the bar in the family room. One sits on the dash of a red Dodge truck.
I have the hat my brother Steve was awarded when he was "Top Gun" for West Metro Swat. I have a fire hat with the dates of Mikes life embroidered on it that I cry when I look at it and refuse to wear.I have the Mannheim hat my Dad left here at Mikes house that I never gave him back.  I have hats from Garden Lake in Ely, Black Mountain in Nevada and the hat Mike gave his dad from the Ponderosa Ranch. On the dash of Mikes truck sits his John Deere hat. Sweat stained, faded and stamped with Owner Original. In 9 years the hat has only been out of Mikes truck once when  my sister used it in  a photo shoot for Mikes sisters. When Mike died the fire guys left their Black Mountain belt buckles. Mike's good friend Patti, left her hat.

 When Mike died, the funeral home put together a video of photographs from Mike's career. The girls chose the songs for the background music. One of the songs was by Chris Ladoux called "This Cowboy's Hat". Mike was a huge Chris Ladoux fan and if a song could sum up in a small way who someone was, this is "Mike's song." The song tells the story of a young man that finds himself in a place and time where he is going to have to make a stand. "Well I was sittin in a coffee shop, just havin' a cup to pass the time. Swappin  some stories with this ole cowboy friend of mine. When some moto-cycler riders started snickering in the back. Started pokin' fun at my friends hat. One ole boy said hey Tex, where'd you park your horse. Now my friend just pulled his hat down low, but they couldn't be ignored. One husky fella said I think I'll rip that hat right off your head. That's when my friend turned around and this is what he said.......You'll ride a black tornado, 'cross the western sky. Rope an ole' blue northern and milk it till it's dry. Bull dawg the Mississippi, and pin her ears down flat.....Long before you take this cowboys hat." C.L.

This is what I know: In April I added three hats to the rack above the bar and one hat to the collection at the lake. All of them belonged to my oldest brother Mike. Each one of these hats is a memory of who Mike was. I have his "Damsite" hat from Pine River that he gave me when he entered Hospice. I have the "Double Zero" hat that his wife gave me as we sorted through Mikes things, I have the "Wildland Fire Hat" that my folks brought Mike from Boise when he was too ill to travel there on his own and finally I have Mike's fishing hat that he wore when he felt well enough to fish.
When I take my Son Mike's truck in for servicing, although there are items worth hundreds of dollars in the truck, it is a sweat-stained faded John Deere hat that I always check to see remains on the dash.
I have seen and heard stories of families coming apart over material things that were expensive, property that is fought for hard, money that is somehow thought it is either deserved or needed to make life perfect. It isn't and it won't. Surround yourself with what you need to keep yourself strong and then be willing to fight for it. There is a line from the Wizard of Oz..."You have always had the power." and you have. Your only need in this world are the things and the people that have made you who you are. The things that when you are challenged you will reply "You'll ride a black tornado, 'cross the western sky. Rope an ole' blue northern and milk it till it's dry. Bull dawg the Mississippi and pin her ears down flat....long before you take this cowboys hat."

I'd like to share an excerpt from the eulogy I wrote for my brother Mike. "The two Mike's of our lives now share the same address. I have my personal GPS locked onto the coordinates for Heaven, I will pray everyday for the rest of my life for the grace to arrive there safely. There is much I still question in this world, there is much I do not know. But I know this. There is not a single doubt in my mind that I will see both of them again. Not....one."

You will have many choices to make in this life. Build what is inside you carefully. Add only what you need to keep yourself strong and ALWAYS choose the hat.

till next time.

I will find my way back.

I sit at the dining room table and stare out at  the newly falling snow. The sky is dark gray and heavy. The snow is falling at the rate of an inch an hour. I am exhausted. Exhausted of this winter without end. I think about putting on the mukluks and heading out to shovel, I know the snow is light, fluffy, all I would have to do is push it back and forth across the driveway. I can't do it. I am riding a wave of  apathy that landed on me Monday night and has taken up residence in everything I do.

Then there is this: Last week I had the opportunity to fill in for my daughter and take my youngest grand-daughter to pre-school class. Although this is something I very much enjoy it is an outing filled with dangerous mine-fields. The way the class works is this. You arrive at school and "play". The Parent and/or Grandparent inter-acts with the child in whatever the child chooses to do that day. At this I am a rock-star. My Grand-daughter cruises around the room with a built-in playmate....me. We set up the play-house and my grand-daughter arranges the furniture while I sit on my hands and make an effort not to re-arrange what she has done. A sofa in the bathroom? Why not. We move on to the crafts of the day, which are all very clever but again my need to over- involve myself must be monitored. After devoting roughly 2 minutes to each of the crafts we again find ourselves in the toy area putting together a 15 piece puzzle that she gives up on and I struggle to finish. She is  in her element. This is her place. She loves showing me everything she thinks I know nothing about. For both of us tho, the clock is ticking. The class ends in a way neither of us is looking forward to. The students break away from the adults and have "snack" and "independence". The adults move to a different room and have "parenting" discussion. I know for my grand-daughter this is an area of stress. She has told me continually on the way in to school. She has asked for repeated re-assurance that I will not leave the building. She asks where I will be, do I know how to find my way back to her and wonders if I would just "stay and have snack with her". She has no idea just how appealing that idea is. In my job of "role-modeling" independence tho I assure her I will "find my way back" and then I leave with all the young parents. The parent discussion group follows the same rules of every single grief group that I have attended. What is shared there is sacred, not to be discussed outside of group. The difference lies in perspective. Although I have been to grief groups that are occasionally visited by someone who is 15 or 20 years past the day they wish they could forget, for the most part everyone there is on a level playing field of pain. When I attend a parent meeting as a guest a generation older I spend the entire time trying to be quiet. What I could  add to the discussion, these young people have not yet lived.

This is what I know: Five years ago when I first attended a "parent discussion" group the topic of discussion was "Keeping your children safe". I cannot even tell you how hard I had to work to keep my mouth shut. Mike's death was not even two years old and that topic to me was all about" missed opportunity's, what ifs, and what the hells". The young parents were thinking of safety on a day to day, inside their houses and cars way of thinking. I was thinking of it in a "doesn't matter what you do, you can"t" kind of thinking. The group was rather large and I was able to avoid the teachers eye for most of the discussion. When she focused in on  me, I claimed "no comment". My second go around with the Parent group was two years ago. On this day the topic was Parenting Technique and how you support your spouse with the decisions that are made on a daily basis. Again, a generation gap. I listened to stories of Co-Parenting, a term of today, not widely used in the 70's and 80's. Marty and I co-parented by him working his ass off 12 hours a day and me making and doing every parenting decision alone. Again, I claimed "no comment".
The topic of the parent group this past week was "keeping your marriage sound" and because Valentines Day was right around the corner, what do you do to honor your spouse and Valentines Day itself.  This was the one parent meeting where I was not going to get a free "no comment" pass. Due to extreme weather conditions the group that day was small. The parent group consisted of me and one other Dad. The bright side for my Grand-daughter was that because the group was so small we remained right in the classroom where she could and did keep her eye on me the entire time. The classroom teacher is a wonderful woman that I actually worked beside for many years. I know her well. The young Dad was a man I have known for several years, someone I have dealt with on a Professional level and have nothing but respect for. For whatever reason, I got called on to go first. For the briefest of moments I debated going with something easy and made-up. Something about time together and focusing on each other, maybe throw in some flowers and candy, because I write and it might be true, talk about poetry and long heart-felt discussions. I did none of that. I took the road of truth. My truth. When asked about keeping our marriage sound this is what I said. "In October, we will be married 40 years. We hold on. We don't quit." Regarding Valentines Day I said," I am not a big believer. I buy a card that will never say enough." Although I imagine these aren't the words the teacher was hoping to hear, the young dad was nodding his head and saying yes. I like to think that sometimes experience trumps Hallmark that maybe if young couples knew that all the cards, jewelry, and candy in the world won't be enough to save you on the days when "it doesn't matter what you do, you can't" come into your life, maybe then just maybe they would focus more on learning to "hold on" and "not quit".
There is a quote in the 2010 movie "The Kids are All Right" that probably should be placed on a Hallmark card but for obvious reasons will never make the cut. I am going to advise you of a language alert. Proceed at your own caution. "Bottom line is...marriage is hard......just two people slogging though the shit, year after year, getting older, changing. It's a f*****g marathon, okay? So, sometimes, you know, your together for so long, that you just...You stop seeing the other person. You just see weird projections of your own junk. Instead of talking to each other, you go off the rails and act grubby...." End Quote.
The apathy that has settled over me these past days is hard. it takes me back to the days when every thought I had was filled with pain. I have learned to "sit" with it. I no longer manically try to forge ahead.
Last week I watched the video on-line that has gone viral. The little guy in his car seat, eyes closed, weeping to "Say Something" by A Great Big World. For me, this child is the hope of every generation. Someone who feels the words of heartbreak and is willing to "sit with it". When his Dad asks him if he should change the channel, the child whispers "No". When asked for a signal he is all-right. The child goes with two thumbs up.
I have a one year window of attending more parent groups and then my youngest grand-daughter will head off to kindergarten. I sometimes wonder if the parent discussion would be better served by having the pre-school kids as part of it. We would all sit down together and rather than sing the name song we allow the kids to show us how to "sit with" emotion. They will show us how when over-whelmed we are not to turn the channel and that  it is OK to cry, with two thumbs up.

till next time.

"Good-bye is just Hello, traveling across the wind" Freebirds.

 

 



It is cold today, the wind is blowing straight out of the North, an occasional snow-flake flys in the air. It is late November and for some reason every year the song "Maggie May" by Rod Stewart enters my head and won't leave. Change out "it's late September" with late November, there is something I've gotta say to you and there is someplace I'm supposed to be. For me this is the season of Good-byes.

Then there is this: This fall my brother Steve retired after a successful 32 year career in Law Enforcement. At Steve's retirement party, in late August hosted by the city in which he worked, I was fortunate to be a speaker. There are two excerpts from my talk that day that I would like to share with you. The first is as follows:
"I don't think it would be an exaggeration to call my brother Steve a private man. Possibly even reclusive. It is interesting that he chose a career that is so very public. Steve was born to be a police officer. He is the best of what the profession should be. I am not sure anyone has a purer sense of right and wrong.  He may be one of the least confrontational people I know and the first person I would want covering my back if the chips were down. As Steve's family, we could not be more proud. He has made it possible for 12 nieces and nephews and 8 great nieces and nephews to have no fear of Policemen. To all of them, he is simply Uncle Steve." (end of speech)

My brother approached his chosen field with compassion and kindness. He worked in one of the toughest suburbs of the Metro area and I don't believe he ever felt he was better than the citizens he swore to protect. He was a top notch Officer, member of S.W.A.T. and "Top-Gun Award winner 2007.  Two years ago as I traveled cross-country with him he brought up the idea of possible retirement. He said he was thinking it was time. He felt he had been lucky. In 32 years he had not had to draw his weapon and end a life nor had he been physically harmed. He was beginning the process of saying good-bye.



This is what I know: On November 9th I sat at the kitchen table of my oldest brother Mike and silently witnessed as he signed himself into Hospice care.

My Oldest brother is also a private man. Possibly even reclusive. He has a pure sense of right and wrong and he is one of the least confrontational people I know. He has led a quiet life and a physically hard life. He will be the first to tell you in the department of good health....he drew the short straw. When the chips have been down in my life, he has covered my back. He is the best of what a person should be. He is a lover of Computers and hunting, fishing and four-wheeling. One of his favorite songs is "It's a Heartache" not the original version, the cover version by Dave Rowland and Sugar. He has loyaly loved one woman for over 30 years. He is brave. He is making it possible, along with his nephew Mike for 9 nieces and nephews and 8 great nieces and nephews to have no fear of death. To them he is simply Great Uncle Mike.

I ran into someone Sunday night that at one time was married into my extended family. He knows my brother Mike and as I was telling him family news, Hospice Care entered the conversation. This man said he had knowledge of Hospice and he harshly and without feeling asked me this "Is he ready to die? Because Hospice doesn't work if your not ready to die."

The Clinical definition of Hospice is a life expectancy of six months or less. My brother beat those odds the day he was born. He was a 2 pound baby in 1952 when babies that small were almost never saved.
I would argue this: Hospice is not the death sentence, birth is the death sentence. Everything in-between is "What will be.... will be."
In my career as a nurse I worked several years in Nursing Home Care. I have held the hands of many people as they have taken their last breath. In those final months, weeks, days, minutes and seconds it was never about were they ready to die as much as reaching the point within them that they were no longer willing to live. Nursing Home Care then was to some extent what Hospice Care is now, the chance to slow your life and just be. There is a quote that says"The Whole of Life is the process of letting go. The mistake is not stopping to say Good-bye." So I would answer the man above with this: I don't know if my brother is ready to die but I do know, he is still willing to live.

The last part of my speech to Steve at his retirement party now follows, but I would also like to dedicate it to my brother Mike:

I would like to speak for my Son Mike to Steve (and Mike) on this very special day. Mike would want you to know this:
"The trail ahead of you is clear. I have marked it well. I checked through and got ahead of you on the course. Much of what I learned about riding the hard line, you taught me. I learned the lessons well. Stay hydrated, change out your runners when you need to. If the road forks use your instincts, you have some of the best. Don't be afraid to call the dogs up when you reach a mountain you can't climb. Never forget to light your pipe and ride the runners backwards; you don't want to miss it, it's a hell of a view. For the first time in your life, seek the Red Lantern Award. When you come to the final checkpoint, you have my word, I'll be there. I'll grab your leaders, sign you in and show you the way home. I'm counting on you to "Someday chase the kid" just don't be in too much of a hurry, I'll wait for you. Until that day "Happy Trails", you are so loved."

In the book Flight Behavior by Barbara Kingsolver there is a paragraph that says:

"What would you do if someone you loved was dying?"
" Whatever it takes. You do everything you can and then I guess, everything you can't. You keep doing, so your heart won't stop."

"The Whole of Life is the process of letting go, the mistake is not stopping to say Goodbye"

till next time.




The "rules of three"

This past weekend was the annual guys four-wheeling trip  up the North Shore at my brothers cabin. I went too. Sometimes you just know that you need to get away and spend time with certain people. That was the case here. For four days we all went off the grid. In the area of this cabin, cell phones don't work. There is no electricity. Time becomes what you make it. You get to choose. It was a weekend of regeneration, at least for me. I returned home with the rarest of feelings...hope. We unloaded all our stuff and spent some time reviewing phone calls that left messages, catching up on e-mail and going through our regular mail. We were a bit giddy, three things we discovered had gone right. We received word that a parcel of property we had for sale....sold. We got a message that a piece of equipment we were selling, sold. Marty discovered he won third quarter of the football game. It was a good end to a good weekend.

Then there is this: On Monday I discovered my credit card had been hacked to the tune of $1500.
Ever since I can remember I have lived my life by the "rule of threes". I can't tell you when this started but I can remember even as a very small child truly believing that I could control life with a repetition of three. As an adult I understand this to be a form of Obsessive/Compulsive behavior but for the better part of life as I knew it, it was just the way I made order of a world that often seemed outside my control. I know many people believe that bad things come in threes, this isn't that. I don't now and never have believed that to be true. Bad things come with no predictability and no statute of limitations.  Ask anyone who's on a roll and they will tell you bad things in threes would be a gift.
The "rules of three" works like this. If I think something three times, it will go the way I want. Either it won't happen or it will, dependent upon my desire. Most random daily events from locking the door, to checking the stove, the coffee pot etc., all done in threes. It isn't so much the physical acts of the day where this comes into play but it is without a doubt how I mentally review everything. It took me 54 years to get up the courage to talk to my Dr. about the way I feel. Although she gave me relevant information about possible medication, behavior therapy and/or counseling it was more what she told me she felt to be true. She said many people have many behaviors that help them cope in an ever-changing and often frightening world. She asked if I felt it interfered with my life? I answered honestly that I don't remember a life without it. So no, it doesn't interfere with my life. I can remember only two years where this behavior completely left me. When Mike died in late 2006 through 2009 when I didn't believe I could control anything and if I could control it ,well I didn't care.
I lay this out there to set the groundwork for what I want you to understand. The idea that my credit card could have been hacked is completely outside the "rules of three". I am and might be the most anal credit card person in the world. Pre-pay gas....nope. Give my card to a waiter?....nope. On-line shop.....minimal and only with the top 3 companies. Leave my purse laying around, start a tab at a bar, pay with my card and ignore the receipt? Nope, nope and nope. This was a card I had for two years and used roughly 7 times. The theft was not by electronic means, they tell me the card was physically swiped at four locations. That's the card that is in my purse and never left my purse. I am told they now make cards once they have acquired your number. They make the cards in seconds. How they aquired my number, is beyond my comprehension.

This is what I know: If they wanted to steal my identity. They are too late. Six years, nine months and twenty-three days ago, God beat them to it. What may have taken these thieves, maybe seconds, possibly minutes, probably days or weeks to do, God managed with the cessation of one heart, in one breath. Our identity has nothing to do with our material selves and everything to do with who we know ourselves to be.

In 2011 when I returned home to find our house had been burglarized(yet again proof that the "rules of three" don't work), my brother Steve said something I won't ever forget. He said, "they didn't take anything from you that matters." Last night I was out of town, in the late hours of the night when I was feeling so low, I called Marty. He told me this..."if we lost everything material we would be ok. We would still have our family, we'll always have Mike and we'd still have each other." Wise words from two men that I count on to keep me in the game.
If whoever did this wants my identity in it's current state, they are welcome to it. Crawl inside my head and take it. Take the fear I carry constantly. Fear so debilitating that some days I need medication to simply breathe. Fear that can follow you into your dreams. Take the anger and the bitterness that I work so hard to tamp down, that requires daily vigilance so it doesn't over-take me. Take the social awkwardness I now feel where I can last in social situations about half as long as I need to. Take the pain that comes from living my entire life convinced everything and everyone would be ok if I just kept up with the "rules of three" only to discover the power was never mine. That is my identity.

People that do this kind of thing couldn't handle it. They are not made for courage.
I would tell them this: Lay down your best game and I will lay down mine. You are not going to win. In six years, nine months and twenty-three days I have learned a little something about surviving.

till next time.

When your long day is over

and you can barely drag your feet

when the weight of the world is on your shoulders.

I know what you need

Bring it on home to me.

LBT

Just sit down at a typewriter...and bleed.

A few weeks back, my cousin and fellow blogger Doug posted a question on Facebook. He wondered what to do when you have "writers block". He said he had been struggling with it and wanted to get back to the writing he enjoys so much. I thought I would respond yet somehow weeks have gone by and I haven't. I saw Doug in person last week, he was home for a family visit and since I haven't seen him in roughly 25 years I drove down to say Hi. I didn't mention his problem with writers block and  the reason is this....I struggle with it myself.  I think blogging is the most personal writing of all. You are literally crafting a piece of yourself and then posting those thoughts for many. You aren't telling a story you heard you are telling a story you lived.

Then there is this: When you are in a bad situation, your instincts focus on survival. Your grasp of others and the world around you narrows until all you can deal with is the voice in your own head. Roughly six months or so after Mike's death, Marty and I went to a "Series of Grief" Seminar hosted by the local hospital.  I had been attending a support group for Adult Child Loss on my own but this was Marty's attempt at public grieving. I won't go into detail but the message of the first meeting was this "share, don't compare". The series was a general one that welcomed all who grieved, be it a divorce, death of a pet, death of a friend, a parent, a job loss or even a move to  a new location.  At that moment and in that time all Marty and I could do was compare. We would have gladly changed places with anyone in the room who hadn't lost a child.We left that meeting and never returned for the following six sessions.

This is what I know: Someone I love dearly has been absent from my life for a year. She went underground as she struggled with the voice she hears in her head. I heard from her this week and felt such relief. I finally understand after six and a half years what I may have learned but would never have agreed with if I had stayed for the rest of the grief seminar. The voice inside your head is sometimes the only voice you can hear. The reasons you have left the world of nothing wrong and entered the world of nothing right are many. Maybe the commonality of all grief is you have to hold on. You simply must in whatever way you can.
This week my Grandson went to the clinic for his kindergarten physical. He was going along great until the time arrived for the dreaded shots. He knew they were coming, he knew the nurse giving them since the day he was born. His Mom said as the nurse ripped open the alcohol wipe my Grandson decided to bargain. He told the nurse he wasn't ready, he told the nurse, "maybe we don't have to do this", when it became completely apparent that there was no changing what was going to be, Nolan went deep inside his head where he hears the voice that he tells me all the time says "I'm never giving up". He closed his eyes and he held on. He did what we all do, he prayed it wasn't so, he bargained hard for a reprieve and then when it became apparent there is no changing things he simply tried to hold on.
After I heard from Patti  today, the song "Far Away" by Nickelback started to play. This song played at Mike's visitation. A clear message to me from the guy that I knew was doing everything he could to help Patti hold on. I had a light bulb moment talking with Patti. Complete understanding that grief of all kinds will take you down and then it is up to you to decide to stand again. Patti is standing again. I now understand when it comes to grief comparing gives you nothing but sharing just might give you a chance. "I'd give anything, but I won't give up" .

There is an Ernest Hemingway quote: "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."


till next time.

Random day, in a random place.

This past Saturday I spent the day with my youngest daughter. We were searching for a change of scenery and as she puts it, some "retail therapy". We headed North to see the newest in Craft and Hobby stores in our area. I had been there on one other occasion, for my daughter it was all new. Since Marty and I  had sold our souls to the well drillers that week my opportunity for "retail therapy" was limited. I traveled all the aisles and when the urge to load a cart became too strong I decided to walk over to the adjoining thrift store to pass some time. I wandered all the aisles, picking up items for consideration, no real urge to buy, just passing time. I decided to sit down at the front of the store to watch for my daughter when she arrived and while I was sitting there a teenage couple walked in. The entire store was full of average looking people, I am not sure if it is a sign of the times or if everyone appreciates a good bargain, this young couple simply looked like everyone else. The young man saw me sitting there and then in the way teenage boys brag he turned to the girl and this is what I heard him say "I hate this smell, it smells like old people". I don't think he was referring to me, or maybe he was, what I think he was doing was making a show of how he wanted me to think he really didn't belong there, he was merely there for the "experience".

Then there is this: There is a theory in the medical field that the sense of hearing is the last sense to leave at the end of life. When I was a nursing student and later when I worked in the field we were routinely cautioned that our words and the things we talked about could be heard even by those who no longer appeared to hear. There apparently is medical evidence to support this statement although how it was ever measured is a mystery. I have seen this question posed and also been asked the question if you had to lose your hearing or your eyesight, which would you choose?
The answer for me would be either, it is my feeling we are most defined by our sense of smell. Everyone has one, all our homes do too. I could blind-fold myself and tell you, no question, if I was in the homes of my daughters, my Parents, my sisters and brothers or here, in Mike's house that I now call home. I have lived here for six years and I worry that the smell that is Marty and I, is going to cover the smell that was and is Mike.
When my Maternal Grandmother died, I was there. I was in a place most would recognize by the smell. She was the resident of a Nursing Home and therefore a prisoner of the smells of a place that I never associated with my Grandparents. On the day she died due to timing that can't be measured, or coincidence that can't be planned, I was there. I had traveled 140 miles, stopped in as a last minute thought before heading to where I was going. Within 30 minutes of my arrival I was holding my grandmother in my arms and whispering in her ear. I told her all the things I prayed she could hear, I banked everything I had on what I had been taught, that her hearing was the last to go. What she gave me back was the sense of smell. When I ran out of words I buried my nose as deep as I could into her neck, it was there that I smelled all I remembered of my grandparents. Lemon drops and fresh mowed grass, I smelled my past, I smelled my present, I lost her as my future.
A couple of years ago, my Dad lay down his pipe. My Dad has been a pipe smoker for as many years as I have been alive. On a random comment from someone that thought they knew what they don't know, my Dad quit smoking. I know this should be a good thing, I understand the strength it took for my dad to walk away from a lifetime habit, but I miss it. I miss it because it wasn't just who my Dad was, it was who I was. It was the smell of home.
I have worn the same perfume for 10 years. When my oldest grand-daughter was born it was the fragrance I wore, I have never changed it. It is who I am. It is the smell the four smallest people in my life recognize me by. When my Grand-son was almost three, he took a trip with his Dad. He was gone for 10 days, ten long days in a time when everything was wrong. On the day he returned we were all gathered for a party. My daughter went and got her son and brought him into the garage where we were gathered. My grand-son said "Nannie" and then he breathed in deep. Someone made a joke and said "Is he trying to smell for her?" The truth is, that is exactly what he was doing. At two years old and faced with a garage full of people my Grandson realized the fastest way to find what you are looking for is to breathe deep.

This is what I know: None of us will know what is the last sense to go, until we experience it for ourselves. If it's hearing it breaks my heart to know I wasn't there to tell Mike everything I wanted him to know. I would have liked his eyes to see all of us that he loved so well. I would like to have held him so he would know my touch would never let go. It is my hope that it was smell that carried him where he was going. The smell of wind and cold and the outdoors. The smell of his dream truck idling diesel and country music playing on the radio. He did not die inside, for that I am grateful.
Mikes house still smells like Mike. Mikes truck still smells like Mike. I do the everyday, I try for normal. I listen, I see, I touch. On the days when I can do no more, I go to the basement and on a hook by the wood stove hang the woolen bibs Mike wore to cut firewood. I reach out for them and bury my face and breathe deep to find what I'm looking for.
That young teenage kid made a random comment that I think he thought made him look cool, or maybe better than or maybe to show he really didn't belong in that place. The truth is what he smelled was a thousand lives. Someones truth. The identification of people he will never know. There will be much you remember in life. You will remember words that were heard and can't be replaced. You will remember things you have seen and can't be replaced. You will remember the touch and taste of many things, things you think define your life. But it is the sense of smell that will most define your memory. On a random day, in a random place you will turn quickly completely sure that you will see what in reality you can only smell. The people we love remain close due to something we give no thought to while alive. It is unique, it is our imprint, it is the gift we leave behind.

till next time.

"It is what it is"

Martin and I are having a week that would test the patience of anyone. The following is a Facebook post of mine from Tuesday.

"A day brightener for anyone who thinks their week is off to a crappy start.

1. Our well seems to be failing. Water turned from crystal clear to brown.

2. Our furnace has failed.

3. Shower in BR sprung a leak and basement got wet.

4. Washing machine just leaked all over the floor.

5. Walk-in care (me). Nothing 10 days of antibiotics hopefully will cure.

6. Appt. at noon. Couldn't get car out of driveway. Decided to walk. The dog decided to walk too. Had to turn around and walk her home a half a mile.
Did I mention it's only Tuesday?, oh and 8 inches of new snow.
Top that"

Then there is this: My response to life's quirks has evolved over the years. I am ashamed to admit in the early days of our marriage, anything and pretty much everything outside of the norm would throw me for a loop. When they say opposites attract that is exactly the case with Martin and I. When  things went wrong I would completely implode and he would calmly sort through the situation and then take action. We were the ying and yang of life's problems. For some reason, completely unexplained yet very fortunate, all four kids inherited Marty's calm. They are all rock steady under pressure, good problem solvers and "roll with the punch" kind of people. I am still the "loose cannon".
 Of the four kids tho Mike hands down, was the "Master of Disaster". He had the ability to never and I mean never lose it. He approached life with an attitude that crap will come your way so deal with it. It was what made him perfect for the sport of mushing. A sport dependent on 8-10 dogs that absolutely never do what you think they will. It was what made him the best guy to work beside, talk too and watch your back. He was calm, he was steady, he was rock solid.
One of the guys Mike worked with on the Hotshot Crew said that there was an incident where Mike caught one of the new guys goofing off on a fire. He said it was the first and only time the crew saw Mike lose his temper. He said Mike yelled so loud and so long that all the guys stopped working, two guys climbed up on rocks just to watch what they never thought they would see. Mike losing his temper.
In roughly 2005 Mike came over to our lake lot to help Marty with a project. He loaded up his skid-steer on a trailer that was pretty light for the job. It was a heavy equipment trailer but under-rated for the weight of a skid-steer. Our lake place is reached by a two lane highway, rural but heavily traveled. I drove over mid-way through the weekend and Marty and I followed behind Mike, Sunday on the drive home. We were traveling south and came up behind a Semi truck that for whatever reason was going about 50 mph. We followed the truck for many miles and then I saw Mike put on his blinker to pass. He went out into the oncoming lane and due to the weight of the skid-steer, he was having trouble getting up the speed necessary to pass quickly. A car came up to the 2 lane from the left and turned onto the highway without looking right. It was a woman driving and she entered the highway without seeing that Mike was trying to pass. At this point Mike's truck was even with the cab of the Semi, he still needed to get past him with the trailer. The semi backed off to help Mike out but the approaching driver appeared clueless of impending disaster. Marty and I following in our truck, I literally was hyper-ventilating. Marty was gripping the wheel, completely silent. Mike made it around the semi with the trailer with literally inches to spare. When we reached our turn-off, we all pulled off the road. Mike walked back to our truck where I was "freaking out". I said to him, "were you scared?" and this is what he said. "It was either going to work for me, or it wasn't."

This is what I know: This week has not improved. Martin hit a Raccoon, taking out the entire front grill of Mike's old Civic. The car we are trying so hard to get to 500,000 miles. It's going to happen this year.
My car after this weeks snowstorm has a muffler that sounds somewhere between a Locomotive and a 747.
Martin cleaned the filters on the furnace, we had new fuel delivered on top of the old fuel. We thinned the fuel. Marty tried igniting the furnace, yup.......nothin.
I have showered once this week. I have washed no clothes.
The antibiotics have kicked in and I no longer feel as tho I swallowed razor blades.
I went to the liquor store and replaced my wine supply.
I have gone from wondering if it's too early in the week to drink, to wondering if it's too early in the day to drink.
I met with the well drillers for a conference yesterday. I left the meeting feeling dumber than when I came. After delivering a cooler full of water samples and trying to pretend I understand couplers, galvanized pipe vs. PVC, water tables and pumps, the well driller said to me "It is what it is". When he said those five words, the same five words Mike said ALL the time, I knew it was Mike telling me, it will be OK. Don't choose this battle, it's not a fight. The well drillers are coming tomorrow for the second time this week.  I am setting the bar low.

 It took losing Mike to turn me into the person that understands it is either going to work or it isn't. I don't make that as a simple statement. I make that statement as a life changing philosophy. How did I never know in 50 years that all the freaking out in the world can't change most things. Maybe all things.  For 29 years I followed the way Mike lived and yet never realized that I was doing it wrong. If the saying is "you must choose your battles" then hold back as much as you can because the biggest battles you will never see coming. "It is what it is" and "It will either work for me, or it won't". Truer words, never spoken.

till next time.