More than there are words for.

I sat down the other day and re-read my blog posts from this past year. I started out writing in January with an idea of where I was going but with no guarantee  that is where I would end up. Maybe that is true of absolutely everything we do in life. Maybe that is really how memories are made. We think we are going somewhere by choice but in the end life has its way.

In 2009 Melissa asked me to blog alongside of her on her quilt shop blog. The following is an exert from my first post:

Monday April 27,2009
"I can't begin this journey without telling you a story. I am the mother of four children. Melissa is the oldest followed by Mike, Katie and Heidi. Two years and five months ago, my son, Melissa's brother was killed in an accident. Mike's death launched all of us on a grief journey that none of us were prepared for. We had not packed, we had no map. The English language fails when an attempt is made to put words to this grief. I would compare it like this. You have planned a trip your whole life. A place you want to live, maybe Minnesota, even Australia. You have done your research, trained, prepared. You are optimistic and hopeful, heading toward your destination, the wonderful place where your dreams reside. Suddenly and without any warning you find yourself in say...Bosnia. A war torn country where you know no one, you don't speak the language and you understand in the deepest place that this is where you now live and you will never go back to the place you were. I tell you this because I can only write from where I am. I know that I am not alone. Many people share stories of their own, some of them about trips planned for a lifetime and others, like me, that got shuttled to a place they have never been."

My desire was to bring you stories of Mike but in many ways that would be like roping the wind. Anything I have told you, maybe everything I have told you needed more. I wrote the stories as I know them now, cloaked in my desperation and pain. I may have lost sight of the original intent as I tried desperately to lasso that wind. Mike was  more than there are words for.

Then there is this: Mike's fascination with buffalo began well before he worked out west. I think in his mind it certainly had to do with sustainability, lean meat, profitability and rotational farming, all of which interested Mike. But more than that I think it was the romance of the breed. The power of the breed. The idea that just maybe there was a chance to bring back something that had been nearly wiped out. Bison are large, mostly docile, courageous and really just want to be left alone. They are one of the few animals on earth tho that virtually 100% of them can be used for something, which made them then and now, an easy target.
In Mike's papers are detailed renderings of his property and his desire to raise buffalo. Like everything else he did he spent years reading and planning for what he was going to tackle in the future. If it had never happened for him though I think it would have been OK, the joy was in the dream.
In 2006 on his way home from the fire season he called me and said he was stopping off in Jamestown, North Dakota. He had heard that there was a herd of Bison there that had an Albino. It interested him and he decided to check it out. A couple of hours passed and then he called again. He was laughing as only he could and this is what he told me. He pulled off the freeway and spent time looking around the museum. He paid the entry fee and walked all over the allowed areas looking for the herd. The complex is big and knowing Mike he covered every inch. Looked at all the displays, read all the historical info, viewed the animals that were there. Never saw the Albino buffalo. He said he got back into his truck, drove through the complex and back up onto the freeway, he turned and glanced to his left and there it stood, right against the fence in perfect view of the freeway.

This is what I know: When Mike died, we all lost someone different. I lost my second child, my only son. The 6 month old infant that I dropped when I tripped walking up the stairs of the old hospital in my hometown only to get inside and hand him over to a surgeon to repair a hernia he had at birth. The 2 year old that got a pair of work-boots and a chainsaw for Christmas never knowing that in the future he would know more about chainsaws and work-boots than most people and it would be his work-life. I lost the 7 year old that struggled to learn to ride a bike and didn't want anyone to know how hard he tried. It was when he discovered he could do anything if he put his mind to it. I lost the 16 year-old that raced a team of sled dogs parralel to the shipping lane of Lake Michigan one dark and below zero night, his ace in the hole a 12 year-old lead dog named Nellie that my brother promised and I counted on would get him through, one year after a different musher lost their way and drowned. I lost a twenty year-old that decided in a weeks time he was going to go to college. It was late August when he decided and he was sitting in his first class when they started the next week. I lost the 28 year-old that went to his nieces birthday party and when all the other people were in the garage talking and drinking beer, he was in the sand-box playing tractors with his niece. On December 3rd, 2006 I lost all new memories of my son and then I lost myself.
I started writing this year thinking I knew exactly what I was searching for but maybe in some ways I simply tried to hard. I looked everywhere I thought the answers were when maybe what I really needed was to simply look off to my left where it has been standing all along. There is a line from the movie "What Dreams May Come" that says "what's true in our minds is true, whether some people know it or not." I thought I had lost that one person that if I was going through Hell would be first on my team. If I had only looked to the left I would have seen him, standing right where I needed him.

I am going to continue to write. I will spend the rest of my life trying to rope the wind.

In 2013 my wish for you all is that you always find the light that leads you home.

till next time.

Permanently etched into my left hand for Courage
For Mike
"It's not about understanding, it's about not giving up."
What Dreams May Come

Mike and "Sammy" at Monica's Party



 

Chainsaws and work-boots



The Art of Friendship

So, this sums up what I know about friendship. I pretty much suck at it. It isn't that I didn't have good role models. My Mom may be the best friend of many people that I know. She is the one that does this kind of thing and does it well. My Mom is 82 years old and still maintains friendships that she has had since grade school. She and my Dad remain friends with people from every town they have ever lived in and in the circle of their hometown, their friend base is huge. I'm going to give most of the credit to my Mom, although my Dad has many people he cares for deeply, guys he has fished with for 50 years, old work friends and current woodworker friends, he remains pretty much a solo act. My Mom on the other hand, never forgets a birthday, calls people randomly to catch up simply because they are her friends and works very hard at setting dates for outings, showing up when needed and putting others needs in front of her own. I think in the world of married couples, often there is one spouse that is very good at maintaining friendships and one spouse that comes along for the ride. In my marriage, Marty and I are both along for the ride. I am going to say it is one of the times I am grateful things skip generations. For all my failings as a friend, my children seemed to have gotten the message. They all manage deep personal friendships.

When Mike was a kid, friendships came hard. He tried, oh how he tried. I am not sure what reason God had for making those years hard on him, but the "never quit" attitude that became who he was, took root in those years. When Mike left for College he began accumulating friends, it was as tho he was making up for lost time. He was navigating the waters of people and even tho he got pushed under a few times for the most part he never again swam alone.

Mikes base of fire friends was big. The Wildland fire community is like all close knit groups where 50 percent of the time you are sarcastic and talk stupid, and 50 percent of the time you would literally die for the person standing next to you. This kind of lifestyle cements bonds that can never be broken. The bulk of these firefighters are men, men that Mike trained with, fought hours of fire next too, drank beer with on his days off and trusted with his life. And then there were two women.

Mike met Ana in one of his first fire seasons out west. I knew from the first time I heard him say her name that she would be a forever part of Mike's life. I am not sure I ever imagined they would be a couple, although when they promised that if they were not married to others when they turned 35, they would marry each other I wasn't surprised. Ana was a mix of all that Mike loved and missed in his sisters. She is sarcastic and irreverent, beautiful and stylish, loyal and her word means everything. She and Mike became forever friends. It was Ana who told Mike when his style needed work, she went after him hard about clothes, eating habits, gift buying and letters to his Mom. The stories of their work confrontations are re-told and re-told. In the workplace neither of them would ever back down. They were die-hard and dedicated Forest Service employees, both with strong convictions about policy and procedure. They were the friends that got caught singing Willie Nelson's "Mendocino County Line" in 2 part harmony on the Forest Service radio and made no apologies about it and the two that I overheard an argument that ended with Mike yelling "and that's why no one wants to marry you!" Mike never went west or east that he did not search out and stay with Ana. In 2006 he called me when he left Missoula and when I said "are you coming home?", he said, "yeah, Ana kicked me out".

Mike met Patti when he was based out of the Carson City office. When Mike first joined the Hotshots, he stayed in the base housing along with the rest of the crew. When Mike became a Squad Boss, it was frowned upon to share the same housing, Patti was in an Administrative position and she offered Mike a place to stay. For 2 fire seasons Mike and Patti shared a house. They saw each other only rarely and sporadically as they both worked details on separate crews. A few rare times they met up at large fires where they would catch up on house maintenance, garbage details, mail delivery and utility bills. Mike loved living with Patti, again she was the best of his sisters rolled into one woman. Patti was quiet and funny and beautiful. She laughs as Mike did, honest and long.Patti is loyal and her word is everything. They shared a love of movies, the outdoors, animals and life. It was Patti that introduced Mike to coffee presses and the fine art of good coffee. It was Patti and Mike that did "movie night" and special meals. Mike was with Patti the night I called and they were watching "Hitch", the movie where the guy with no moves was called Albert Brennerman. Mike said "why does the geek always have to have the name that sounds like mine?"

Then there is this: When Mike died, I cut all ties with two of the best friends I had in my life. The first was a friend I made in Nurses training. It was 1974 and we were both 18, newly married and pregnant. She was from a small town in Central Minnesota and we just clicked. For the next 32 years we stayed in touch. We had children the same years, both 4. For me, 3 girls, 1 boy...she 3 boys, 1 girl. We saw each other once or twice a year, exchanged random phone calls and Christmas cards. It didn't matter the time passing or the distance when we saw each other it was as tho time never happened. When Mike died, I didn't call her but the girls did. She came, along with her husband, it helped that she was there. She talked to me long and personal. By this point in life she was high up in the medical field, she was at the top of her game. She said the hard things that no one ever says. That Mikes death was wrong, that she hated that it happened. She asked me about Mike, the adult Mike, she promised to come, to Mike's house and spend time with me. I believed she would help me. I didn't hear from her again for two years. In January of 2009 the phone rang. It was Jane. She said "hey, it's me....how's it going?" I was literally speechless. All I could think of was the hours, weeks and months of trying to hold on. Silence stretched across the line, the pain I felt was physical. Then she said this "Sue, is something wrong, did I do something". I said, "I went to Hell and you left me there." She talked fast, about how she wasn't sure where I was, how to get ahold of me, many words to fill the silence. The last thing she said was this "I was scared, if it could happen to you, it could happen to anyone."

My friend Lisa I knew for 28 years. She watched the kids for me in the early years when I was working. Her children were younger than mine but she and I and our husbands became close friends spending many evenings playing cards. When her children were grown and gone we developed a habit of meeting once a week to roller-blade on the local bike trail. My children had been on their own for several years but Lisa's were in the late teen and young adult years and she needed someone to talk too. The spring after Mike died, Lisa called and said "it's time". get your Rollerblades and meet me at our usual spot. It may have all turned out differently if we had continued our pattern of her talking and me listening. When Lisa asked me how I was doing I tried very hard to put into words what I needed to say but almost no one wanted to hear. I always knew that she held strong Christian views but it was the unspoken between us. Our conversations were always fun and sarcastic, she was interesting and honest. It is in death though that religion rears it's head. We were blading along, the day was crystal clear, beauty was everywhere, it literally hurt me to be alive. I was trying to describe pain for which there are no words. Lisa said this. "Take comfort that God had a plan,she said Mike is in a better place", she went on to tell me that things happen for a reason, that I just have to believe.The more she said to stop the look on my face, the worse it got. It's when I came undone. On the side of that bike-trail, on that beautiful spring day I took a stand for Mike and against "God's Plan". I told Lisa that if I could I would trade Marty for Mike without hesitation and I would fully expect Marty to do the same.  It is a parents job to want their children to live long and full. Given the choice I would trade myself for Mike I would not hesitate. I told her I don't believe that on the day Mike died, that God didn't cry as hard as I did. More than anyone, God would know, how much Mike had left to do. And I told her six months earlier I may have listened to what she said, I may have even believed. Six months earlier, she and I had stood on the same side of life's road, we could not see or even imagine what the other side looked like. I told her now, I stand on the other side, I won't ever cross back. I cruelly asked her to try to imagine standing right where we were, look at the view, smell the wind and understand that one of her children will never do that again. It is the unthinkable. I let go of a 28 year friendship because I had moved to a foreign place, a place where Lisa didn't and couldn't speak the language.

This is what I know: On a cold, windy winter day in early December, planes touched down in Minneapolis from all over the west. Ten people did what I have never done in my life, they booked a plane ticket and flew half way across the country to say good-bye.Those were the friendships Mike cultivated.  Patti flew in from Nevada with only a dufflebag, tall and lean,beautiful, looking every inch the California girl she was raised and the extreme back-country skier she became. Ana arrived from Montana with several suitcases, 4 inch heeled boots, her nails freshly done, beautiful and confident every inch the Las Vegas girl, she was born and raised. They joined together in the Minneapolis airport and drove North to help Mikes family survive. Mikes broken  sisters from the west took their places alongside Mike's Uncles and Minnesota friends, they carried Mike the final time.

In January of 2012 I started writing this journal.  In these past nearly twelve months I have shared a small part of the darkness within me. I have tried so hard to bring Mike to you but even I know my stories are wrapped in pain. I have taken you deep into the mind of grief and yet you haven't walked away. Maybe it is a bit of like looking at a train wreck, you can't look away, but I don't think so. I think we all know deep grief will find us. I want you to know that it is the Mikes of this world that will help us go on. For 29 years he layed the groundwork for how we should live without him.

I had hoped that time would give me what I needed to help make right the friendships I have let go. Maybe I don't have what it takes.

The lyrics of this song must hurt Ana but Ana is wise, I believe she knows.

"Scarce as Monday morning feeling washed away

I orchestrated paradise couldn't make you stay

You dance with the horses through the sands of time

As the sun sinks west of the Mendocino county line."

 

"I don't talk to you much these days

I just thank the Lord, pictures don't fade

I spent time with an Angel just passing through

Now all that's left is this image of you"

Willie Nelson-Lee Ann Womack

"Mendocino County Line"

Ana and Mike's song.

 

 The vows of a good friendship must mirror all good vows...to have and to hold, for better or worse, in sickness or in health, till death us do part. When I told my grief group what my friend Jane had said they all understood what I was feeling. The grief councilor said this though, she said "maybe it was the most honest thing she could say". " I was afraid, if it can happen to you, it can happen to anyone".

Early December is upon us. Mike was born on a Sunday at 1:10pm. Mike died on a Sunday, the call telling us came around 1:10pm. For 29 years, 6 months we had an Angel passing through.

I went to Hell and you didn't leave me there.

I want to thank-you for that.

till next time.

Found in the middle of nowhere.

First deer, 8pt., Muzzle loader, 1 shot

This past weekend marked the beginning of the hunting opener. When you live in northern Minnesota this means many things. The population of this part of the state quadruples. It begins early the week beforehand and continues until the very last day. The roads are over-run with trucks pulling 4 wheelers, old wood stoves, camping equipment and all manner of hunting supplies. The local businesses fill up, restaurants do a booming business, the bars are all full. As someone who walks daily, I change up my walking clothes to include blaze orange in the daylight and neon reflective for early and late hours. I pick up twice the roadside trash I usually do and I can't help but think the deer must think for lack of a better word. WTF.
Hunting season also is the start of the year that I always loved so much. It signaled the beginning of the end of the fire season. It was when we all started to turn our gaze west and wait for Mike's return. It also meant Thanksgiving was just around the corner. For all the events that Mike missed when he was based out west, he was always home for Thanksgiving. It became the holiday we all loved the most. The meaning of it aside, it is the easiest holiday preparation wise, no gifts, just food.

Then there is this: From the first day we moved north back in the early 80's our house became "hunting camp". We started building the opener of a hunting season and for each and every year after that, the hunters continued to come. Every year the mix was different, tree stands were moved around, some years were successful, all years made a memory. Each year brought different weather from hunting in a t-shirt to strapping on snowshoes. The preparation started weeks in advance with phone calls and lists. Who was bringing chili, what about that beef stew, what day were you leaving, what day were you arriving, are you hunting rifle or hunting black powder. By Friday night everyone had arrived and the girls and I were gone! Mike sat in a deer stand with his Grandpa, my Dad  from the time he was 4 until he was able to hunt on his own. He learned from the best. The first season he was able to hunt independently he shot an 8 point buck with a muzzle loader, opening morning. He was 12. The newspaper came out and took the picture you see posted above. Once the season was over, the very next Thursday brought Thanksgiving. For Mike the month of November was as good as it gets. For 30 days he got to see Gramps nearly everyday, his uncles came up as often as they could and at the end of the month Thanksgiving arrived.

Mike pulling the Thanksgiving Hayride

Mike's love of food is legend. By default Thanksgiving was hands down his favorite holiday. For many years Marty and I hosted the whole family each thanksgiving. I loved it. The house was full of laughter and people and everything smelled wonderful. Mikes job from the time he was about 12 was to pull everyone on the annual hayride. He would hook the John Deere to the wagon and after dark he would drive the dead-end roads around our house while we all sang Christmas carols in back. His Mom and his Aunts, tanked up on too much wine, singing loudly, talking louder. He thought we were the best.

This is what I know: Last weekend, Marty bought a hunting licence for the firearm season for the first time in many years. When Mike went off to college our house no longer was deer camp. Each year Marty waited for Mike to come home from out west and then  he and Mike bought licences for the muzzle loader season. My Dad still came North, he would hunt our land and Mikes land but he always stayed at Mikes. When Mike died on Dec. 3rd 2006 it was the middle of the muzzle loader season.  I won't ever know what it took for Marty to pick up Mike's gun in Mid-December and clean it and put it away. I won't ever know what courage it has taken for my Dad and Marty to still come together each and every year and hunt here on Mikes land. On Saturday of the opener, I glanced out the window as Marty walked out to my Dad's deer stand off Mike's hayfield. I had gone to the kitchen sink and glanced up at the wrong minute. Marty never lets down his guard, he models Mikes courage everday of his life but in that unguarded moment, when he thought no one was watching I saw what I can't unsee. He walked slow, his head down, showing everyone of his 58 years. I pulled on my orange clothes and joined Marty in his stand, a silent substitute for the memories of when.  It takes deep commitment and courage to continue a tradition that used to bring such joy in the hope that somewhere sitting in that stand, doing what you used to do, you will find some peace. You will find yourself in the middle of nowhere.

Next week is Thanksgiving, in the early 90's my brother Steve and I began trading years to host. We do some things differently but the things that matter, we do the same. We eat alot of great food and we always have a hayride.
In 2007 Marty and I hosted. We came together as a family and clung together like the survivors we were all trying to be. In 2008 I couldn't go to my brother's house. The photo you see is my brothers dog yard, the picture was taken in 2006 10 days before Mike died, it shows my Dad standing and watching as Mike and Steven leaned across the fence and shook hands, Mike home from the 2006 fire season, Steven so damn glad to see him. It was the photo I couldn't un-see. It was the last hayride Mike was on. It was me looking back in slow motion and seeing Mike and Marty smiling at me singing with my sisters. It was memories that were simply bigger than me.

In 2010 on Thanksgiving Day we pulled into my brothers yard. He was in the dog-yard just as I knew he would be. We pulled out bottles of High Life, walked over to the fence and toasted the man that tho we will never have him with us again, it doesn't mean he's not still here. Last year the whole family came to Mikes, we loaded everyone up and Marty pulled us on a hay-ride we will never forget. As we turned into the hayfield off the county road Marty underestimated the depth of the ditch, in a moment that could have gone so wrong, there is only one reason it went right. It may have been Marty driving the tractor but it was Mike leading the way.

 I read a quote recently: "Sometimes you find yourself in the middle of nowhere and sometimes in the middle of nowhere, you find yourself." I don't know who to give the credit for this quote but I know the truth of the words.
 When everything you see and hear for weeks on end is something that will never be again. You lose yourself. You lose all bearings in a sea of everyday. You want to hang on, the harder you try the more it eludes you. It is only with time and more time that you can even hope to begin again. You must let go of where you thought you were headed and find yourself in the middle of nowhere.

I set out to discover the difference between Thankful and Grateful...turns out they are synonyms of the same word. On Thanksgiving day I will be thankful for all thats good in the present and I will be forever grateful for all that was good in the past.

On December 9,2012 please join Marty and I for "Worldwide Candle Lighting" for child loss. At 7pm, wherever you are, in whatever time zone, light a candle for Mike. Let's light the night on fire.

till next time.

Marty Hayride of 2011

Dad, Mike, Steven

 

I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more....

My Dad...84 years strong

Tomorrow my Dad will turn 84. You would never guess it. I never remember a time that my Dad said he would do something and then not do it. I never remember a time that my Dad said he would be somewhere and then not be there. I never remember a time that I wasn't 100 percent sure that if I called him and needed him he would drop whatever he was doing, he would drive whatever distance it took, he would pay whatever was needed to keep me safe.

Then there is this: Back in 2002 Mike was working on an Engine Crew in the Northern part of Nevada, Southern part of Idaho. I was working at the school at the time, spring break was approaching and I had no plans. I was talking on the phone one night to Mike and he was telling me that the Forest Service was holding their annual Spring conference and training in Las Vegas. He told me it would be a full week but that there were fun things planned lots of side trips, like jeeping in the mountains. He said if I wanted I should book a flight and come and hang out. The guys all had their own rooms and if I wanted to use his he said he wasn't going to be there much anyhow. On the spur of the moment I decided to go. It was the first time in my life I made a  plane ticket reservation and flew somewhere all by myself. I was 46 and it was my first big girl trip. Marty drove me to the airport in a snowstorm. I remember worrying the whole way that I was going to miss my flight. It was so close after 9-11 and security was at an all-time high. I remember Marty parked and walked me to the ticket counter, when I got to the security line he turned to leave and I started to cry. I was scared. The plane went airborne and I lost myself in that complete feeling of Independence that comes from being completely on your own. No one to ask advice from, no one to help make a decision. I landed in Las Vegas and took a tram to baggage claim. I remember walking across the lower lobby looking up at the atrium where I imagined Mike would be waiting. I scanned all the faces for the one I loved so dearly, not seeing him I went and collected my luggage. I sat by my suitcase as plane after plane emptied, people came and went, after an hour it was only me. It never occurred to me to worry. I didn't know where Mike was but I was 100 percent sure he was coming. Mike was exactly like my Dad. If he said he would be somewhere, he would be there. If he said he would do something, he did it. My phone rang and it was Mike. I said "hey, where are you?", he said Mom,"we're not coming". Mike had warned me prior to making my reservation that if a fire broke out and they got the call his R&R would be canceled. The fire season had barely started tho and the possibility of that happening seemed so remote yet that is exactly what happened. He laughed like only Mike could and he said "that's not the worst of it, the Forest Service canceled our rooms."

James Brown, Chad and Mike

This is what I know: That trip turned out to be one of the best stories ever and a favorite memory of time spent with Mike. I learned alot about myself and I learned I would be OK. Mike did show up like I knew he would, he was just 2 days late and he came complete with a fire crew. The guys and I walked to New York, New York and looked at the thousands of fire t-shirts left on the fence by the casino. We ate a quick supper at the MGM buffet where they put away more sushi than I ever thought possible. They loaded back up in the fire truck and I cried when they left, no longer scared, simply proud. Young men so strong, so full of life, so happy.

Last week Monday I had the opportunity to take my Grand-son to pre-school. School is a very big deal for him and although he is trying to be brave, he is scared. I walked him into the building and waited for the teachers to sort everyone out. Nolan held tightly to my hand while he listened to the teachers, he watched all the other kids closely, when he knew it was time for me to leave he looked up at me and asked if I would be there at the end of the day. I looked him in the eyes and said "I will be there" and Nolan found the courage to let go of my hand.
Every child should have the right to grow-up with the confidence that the adults in their lives will be there. I think more than anything else, it is what will give them courage. For nine years I have practiced making sure that the grand-kids know that if I say I will do it, I will do it. If I say I will be there, I will be there. They are the fifth generation of my memory, it is who their Mothers are, it is who their Aunt Miss is, it is who their Poppa is. It is all they know.

When Mike died the fire guys came. They pulled their hard-earned Hotshot buckles  off their belts and lay them next to Mike. They were his guys. The ones who he trusted with his life. The ones who when they said they would be there. Were there.

I have a strong idea of what I believe. There are certain variables I will never know.  There is only one constant, one thing I never question, and it is this.  Mike will be there. And if I happen to outlive my Dad, he will be there too. No question, no doubt.

My Dad has held the fort for this family for 84 years, it is from him that we all learned for the people you love, walk 500 miles and then walk 500 more.

Happy Birthday Dad.

till next time

Saddle up and ride.

The start of a fire career.

The end of a fire career.

I spent time today getting service and maintenance done on Mikes truck. At 8am I was at the Chrysler dealership where they were going to give the truck the full treatment in preparation for some miles that we are going to put on it this fall. I know these guys well. I have been to see them on a regular basis these past 5 years. The first time I arrived for my scheduled appointment in 2007 I couldn't say my name and I couldn't say Mikes.. I simply handed them the paperwork and waited. It was at this dealership that I learned Mike had bought and paid for extended warranty. It was here that I was told there is roadside service on the truck. For the past five years these guys have guided me through the care and maintenance of a truck that they know is very important to me.

Then there is this: When Mike was a kid he was like all boys. He argued the merits of trucks. From the time boys learn there is a difference it seems as tho they choose their loyalty. Ford vs. Chevy. In the small school where Mike was a student he was a fan club of one. For Dodge. In those days I worked at the school and I overheard many conversations about trucks. Boys can be ruthless in their arguments and a less dedicated Dodge fan may have given up and gone over to the other side. Mike has never had any "quit". He was Dodge, period. Not just any Dodge either. Mike was fascinated with the Cummins Diesel engine. He read everything he could get his hands on in those days and then he started to dream. At 12 years old he drew endless pictures of Dodge trucks, by 16 he was combing the want ads in the hopes of finding a Dodge he could afford. In 1994 Mike was a sophomore in High School, he got a job at the local small town service station where he did anything they told him to. It was the days of full-service gas, oil checks and tire service. Mike worked hard. When he had a few hundred dollars saved he came across a beat-up old Maroon Dodge. It ran....barely. He pulled the steel box off the back, slapped his dog box on and if it wasn't the truck of  his dreams....at least it was a Dodge. To give you an idea of how bad it looked, his sisters would jump out at school before he had barely stopped rolling so no one would think they rode in that to school. When Mike was involved in a minor traffic accident, the truck was called "a hazardous vehicle". It wasn't funny but it kinda was. Mike drove that truck until she had nothing left to give and then he upgraded to a less "hazardous vehicle". Still Dodge. He went on to drive one more Dodge before he left for college. In college he realized the harsh reality of being completely broke. The Dodge trucks were taking more than their share of Mikes limited income and he made the decision to drive a Nissan. He went from the Nissan to a Toyota, the one pictured above. He had graduated from College and was heading west for his first fire assignment. The Toyota got him there and back for several seasons and then Mike bought a Chevy. He drove this Chevy until 2005.

In the summer of 2005 I was standing in the kitchen of our "Four Oaks" house when the phone rang. When I answered it was Mike. To hear his voice in the summer was always a treat. He called only sporadically, sometimes climbing mountains to get a signal. The summer of 2005 was a really bad fire year.The guys had worked 1200 hours of overtime. We had hardly heard from Mike at all. His crew was on mandatory time-off and they were at their home base for 48 hours.
I said "hey! good to hear from you, what are you doing?", this is what Mike said."Mom, I'm sitting in the parking lot of the Dodge dealer looking at my dream truck". He went on to tell me it had everything he wanted, Cummins diesel, standard transmission, short box, 4 door, 2500, red. I said "can you afford it?" Mike said "yes". I said "go and make the deal".

This is what I know: I am not one bit reasonable about this truck. I wash it, I wax it. I aluminum polish the wheels. I take it in for regular service and I debate the merits of diesel additive, synthetic oils, #1 or #2 diesel and winter blends. I angst over any new scratches, I watch for and worry about deer hits, there is a new chip in the windshield that is making me crazy.
In the flurry of paperwork that ensued in the early days of December 2006 and on through 2007 I knew one thing for sure. No one was taking that truck. The attorney told me that more than likely Dodge would call the loan immediately due.Even though the truck was 2/3 paid for, Mike bought the truck as a single man, with no co-signers. The attorney said the debt would be due immediately. He was wrong. In the world of business when I was met with all manner of business emotion from kindness to pity to indifference to mild cruelty, Dodge/Chrysler was simply business. They spelled out in detail the process I would need to go through.The paperwork was sent when they said they would send it. There was a cover letter explaining everything I would need to know and need to do and why. It was an education in "Gold Stamp Notary" and the transferring of an asset worth more than my first home. I was not able to keep the truck in Mikes name like I asked, for which they apologized. From the first phone call I made to them to the last they were professional and prompt with no emotion involved. Roughly 2 months after the process was completed I went to the mailbox where there was a letter from Daimler/Chrysler. The letter expressed sincere condolences and appreciation for the smooth transaction of our business. There was a check inside refunding all transfer fees, business fees and postage fees.

For 18 months Mike drove his "dream truck". Even though this truck cost roughly $40,000 and most parents would be so scared to have their child take on that kind of debt. I will never regret saying "go and make the deal". You can't put a price on a dream that started at 12 and was paid for with 1200 overtime hours of fire.

Nolan now calls the black Toyota his truck. He spends hours in it traveling to places only he can dream of. If his girl cousins are here they all load up and take trips to Mexico and wherever you think is far away when you are under 10. Sometimes Pops starts the engine and they cruise around the hay field on practice runs for the day Nolan will hold the keys. Marty says when he retires, he is going to restore it for Nolan's 16th Birthday. The red Dodge we will care for....forever. For the same reason you can't put a price on a dream, the dream can never be sold.

On Nolan's 2nd birthday this is what I wrote in his birthday card:

Dearest Nolan,
When your Uncle Mike B. was 2 years old he had a blue baseball cap he wore everywhere. He had a long steel tool-box he carried with him cause a guy has to have his stuff. His choice of "wheels" was a small red tricycle, much like the one you got from your Mom and Dad. Nannie and Poppa keep it in the garage and you and your cousins will all ride it. Mike's tricycle was his first sense of freedom, he could ride that trike anywhere as long as he could still see his house. He was never again without something to ride, bikes, 4wheelers, dirt bikes, dog sleds, helicopters, tractors and fire trucks. From his first red trike to his last red truck...he was free. He would tell you "saddle up Cowboy and just ride".


till next time.

Once I cried for 8 years

A couple of weeks ago my sister sent me a link that sends you a daily list of free books for Kindle or IPad. This is the coolest thing for two reasons. How can you not love "free" and for someone like me who reads daily, a never ending supply of new books is like Christmas everyday. Each night I look through the list and download the books that catch my interest. The problem is, most of them catch my interest.

Then there is this: When I was a kid we lived in a small town in southwest MN. It was a good place to be a kid. We knew all of our neighbors and we did not know what it was like to not feel safe. The town library was about 7 blocks from home. In the summertime some days my sister and I made the trip there and back twice a day. We were voracious readers and probably mildly annoying to the library staff although I don't remember ever feeling unwelcome. We spent summers lost in the world of "Nancy Drew" and the adventure series by an English author "Enid Blyton". It was when I read Florence Nightingale and decided that I must someday become a nurse.The books were free and unlimited. If you checked something out and didn't like it, no worries, there were thousands more to pick from. It was the beginning of losing myself in a world written by someone else. Imagining myself in places I never had been or even knew about. It was the start of knowing that everything I ever wondered about could be answered in a book.I just needed to look until I found it.

In 1990 I landed a job at our local school. When the Media Aide position opened up, I applied and got it. I started that job as the aide to two full-time librarians when I left in 2005 it was just me.In that 15 years it was my dream job. I learned how libraries worked, that without organization there would be chaos. I took over the ordering of magazines and books for a K-12 school and I took the responsibility very seriously. I stopped reading in my age category and started reading in theirs. It was book reviews, Caldecott winners, Newbery winners and magazines marketed for that age group. It was the budget and spending of money that could make or break a child's lifetime love of reading. We are a rural community and access to public libraries was not what I enjoyed as a child. All of the students in this school would have had to be driven to the public library and many of them didn't know what it was when I asked if they had ever been there. I was not a book snob. I told those kids and my own to read anything that caught their attention. I didn't care if it was books, magazines, owners manuals or the back of cereal boxes. Just read. Open your mind, take it in, form an opinion. Learn. I told them and believed it that everything has an answer if you just look long enough. I was wrong.

This is what I know:When Mike died I stopped reading, everything. My mind was blank. Empty. I no longer cared about living vicariously through books, there weren't any stories of places I wanted to go or things I wanted to do. Weeks passed and the only thing I read was this "There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love." Washington Irving. I made copies and taped this message everywhere.I read it hundreds of times everyday. It was the validation I needed to get me through everyday. Washington Irving wrote the words that allowed me to believe.

When I began to read again I became relentless. I was scared I had waited too long. The answers were out there and I had wasted precious time...blank. I went straight to the public library and checked every single book out that they had on grief. I didn't stop there, I went into the two adjoining counties and did the same thing. I read deep into every night. I became a Barnes and Noble regular. I spent hours in the "self-help" isle reading through passages and chapters in any book that I thought might have the answer. When the words I read became too heavy, when I was scared I might never find "the book", I would lean against the shelving and gulp in air, crying sacred tears. I bought books, I borrowed books, titles like "The Worst Loss", "Beyond Knowing". "The Grieving Garden", "A Group I Never Wanted To Join", "Companion Through The Darkness" and "The Shack". I read all the literature the funeral home had given me, I read the police report, the coroners report and the autopsy report, over and over and over. I poured over grief sites on the Internet. I read blog postings and hovered outside chat rooms. Every book I read that I couldn't find the answer in was one day further Mike was away from me. I wasn't looking for where Mike went, although really..I was. I wasn't looking for someone to tell me how to do this...but that was there too. What I was really looking for was someone to tell me how to fix this. How to bring Mike back.

The world of grief literature is large, but not large enough. Every book ever written about the subject is one person's thoughts or perhaps one persons research. The old standard of stages of grief may be the most damaging of any idea ever. It tries to compartmentalize the inner soul. It's a construction manual for feelings that will never be locked in to any time frame. The commonality of grief is this....you are grieving. Everything else is up for grabs.

I purchased around 20 books. I borrowed possible 50 more. One year ago I was given a book title from a friend. The book is "Tear Soup" by Pat Schwiebert and Chuck Deklyen. In roughly 100 pages in a format written for children, it is the message that finally got through.  Buy this book. Own this book. Read this book for yourself and your children. The day will come when you will all make "Tear Soup". Be ready.

I no longer believe I can "fix" this. The acknowledgement of that nearly destroyed me. I thought the answers I needed were out there, and they were, once I realized I was trying to re-write the end of a story already written. 

It took nearly six years and thousands of pages and it boiled down to words that I read in the first 2 months. The author is Melody Beattie, the title of the book is "The Grief Club". On page 24 she says when speaking of her Son's death. "Once I cried for eight years."

"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power." Washington Irving.

till next time
 

The first hello and the last good-bye.

Last week one morning I woke after dreaming of the house at "Four Oaks". What is remarkable about this is it is the first time since we left that I have dreamt of a house that meant so much. When we moved from the Jordan house I regularly dreamt of it. Repetitive dreams of living there again. Dreams so vivid that when I woke I spent several seconds re-orienting myself to where exactly I was. Only to be relieved when I realized I was no longer there. I wasn't alone in this. The girls often tell me of their "back to Jordan dreams". We lived in the Jordan house for a total of roughly 6 years, the house at "Four Oaks" housed us for a lifetime.

Then there is this: Building "Four Oaks" was the First Hello of my life as a true adult. Marty and I were just kids but so wanted to live in the "North Woods". Our lives in the cities were relatively easy, we were surrounded by family in an area we both grew up in. The safety net was huge, failure not an option. The purchase of 40 acres in Northern Minnesota really was done on a whim. Marty had gone north with his brother to help construct a house for my sister-in-laws Uncle. Wasting time one day they drove around the area, searching "For Sale Signs" and dreaming of what it would be like to leave the comfort of what you know for the uncertainty of what you don't. They stumbled across a 79 acre parcel that was deeply wooded and very remote. It sat at the end of a dead-end dirt road that had one family of year-round residents. We bought that land together on a whim. Marty's brother and wife were going to move there and live full-time. Marty and I were going to use it as a weekend camping spot. It turns out the opposite happened. Marty and I sold our home in Jordan and headed north with three small children and one on the way. For the next 28 years we built a house and a life. We literally started from nothing, living in a mouse-infested rental for 28 days down the road from the building site. We started building in November which gives you an indication of just how naive we were. The building we built was supposed to be a garage, somehow it never became anything but our home. What we built in 1980 was not even recognizable when we sold in 2008. I loved that house. I loved that land. I loved those year-round neighbors. If you are going to jump off the deep end in life, you hope the fall is a good one. It was.

This is what I know: In 2008 Marty placed his hand over the top of mine and we closed the front door of that house for the last time. It isn't that I never thought we may sell and move someday, it was that I never thought we would sell and move that way. We had Mikes house and we had our house, one of which had to be sold. I think back and no longer feel certain that anything we did was done with any conscious thought. We were running on instinct and emotion. We had prematurely entered the winter of our lives. They say when faced with danger, the human response is fight or flight. In this case it was flight, there was nothing to fight. The thought of selling Mikes house was inconceivable. It was the place of his dreams, the canvas upon which he was writing a part of his life. It was what was left when someone so important was gone. The Four Oaks house had in one phone call become a crime scene. I couldn't see past the kitchen counter and the rocks I placed there coming in from my walk. I couldn't see past the look on Marty's face and wanting to know why he looked like that and instinctively knowing that when he hung up the phone, part of me was going to die. This house that had sheltered us from harm, held us up through all life, was there for every memory made....birth, teenage years, graduations, birthdays, anniversary's, more firsts than I can tell you, came down to a "last". In my mind it was surrounded with yellow police tape, as surely as if Mikes death had happened there. I could not take in that the evening before Mike had sat on the bar stool in the kitchen reading the paper while Marty was making supper, the same bar stool I fell against not 15 hours later when Marty hung up the phone.

The day of the closing that would give our house to a total stranger I left a bottle of wine called "Black Mountain" on the bar and a note wishing this man well. He was recently divorced and sad. I know sad. I told him that the house he bought was strong. It housed a family through the best of life and sheltered us through the worst. I told him that four strong and loving people were raised on that land and their footprints are everywhere. I told him that moving forward is hard especially when you have no choice. I wished him well.

We have lived at Mikes now for almost five years. We have changed many things, but left others the same. The first feeling of we had to live here has been replaced. I am not sure that we made the right decision. It was the right decision at the time, for all the wrong reasons.  We have cared for Mikes things to the best of our ability and time has helped us realize what Mike would have told us all along. He would have told us to hold on, whatever it takes, hold on.  It's all we could do, and somedays it still is. We will never live anywhere again with the same innocence that it took to build Four Oaks. I know that 28 years of memories can be erased in one phone call. It has taken me 5 years to dream of the house that we called home for so long. I took the photo album out when I woke last week and for the first time looked at all the photos I took in the months leading up to good-bye. I drive by the house occasionally under the pretense of checking the 20 acres we still own. The truth is I just want to spend time looking at the past. I am the Miranda Lambert song, "The House That Built Me"."I thought if I could touch this place or feel it. This brokeness inside me might start healing, out here it's like I'm someone else, I thought that maybe I could find myself. If I could just come in I swear I'll leave, won't take nothing but a memory from the house that built me."

There is a saying that two of the hardest things in life are the first hello and the last good-bye. I have enjoyed many first hellos, Marty, the kids and grand-kids stand out. Good-bye is the hardest thing you'll ever do.

till next time.

A "Hat-trick of Happiness"

The launch of a thousand new memories.

This past week Marty and I spent the week in Grand Marais. We were joined by many in the family, each day someone left and new people arrived. I have been looking forward to this vacation for weeks and it did not disappoint. We enjoyed flawless weather... everyday dawned sunny and warm. We filled the days with eating, sightseeing, playing in the water, reading, shopping and kayaking. I brought books and magazines, quilts to bind. I didn't finish a single book, I did no sewing at all, the days flew by filled with laughter, love, storytelling and the companionship you can only get from family.

Then there is this:
 Early June is hard. For 52 years I have shared this time of year with my brother, celebrating birthdays within a week of each other. 35 years ago, Mike joined the celebration, his birthday the day after Steve's. For me it was a "hat-trick" of happiness. Two guys I think the world of and me. When Mike died, birthdays became a milestone of a clock ticking out of sync. When your child dies, birthdays especially your own become a reminder of what will never be again. Cards, well-wishes and celebrations are landmines of despair. In the past six years we have tried everything to make it through the day. Marty and I have gone away on our own, we have shared the day with Mike's sisters, we have shared the day with the grand-kids. We have laughed through some of the day, we have cried through more. Mike loved his birthday, he also loved everyone Else's. He never once forgot his sisters, his Dad, his nieces or me. A gift always arrived from "out west". The last birthday I celebrated before Mike died, he called and left a message on the machine. I had turned 50 and his message said"hey, thought there was supposed to be a party here, guess I got the wrong place. I'll try again later." I saved the message on the answering machine for six months. I erased it in late November when Mike was home safe. I would give anything to have it back.

 In early June I spent a long weekend on the south shore of Lake Superior. The second day we were there, we picked my brother up at his cabin and along with my folks we set out for a day of exploring. The south shore of Lake Superior is very different from the north shore, it seems more "lake-like" and less wilderness. My brother directed us to a place called Little Sand Bay, just south of the Red Cliff Indian Reservation. Little Sand Bay is a safe harbor, a launching point for many boats and a stopping point for others. We were down walking along the docks and stopped to look at the only kayak pulled up on the beach. My brother had just given me a kayak that he made and we were looking at the add- on's this kayaker chose. As we were standing there the owner came walking down the hill. He was dressed in a dry-suit, walking bare feet, eating his lunch. He saw us by his kayak and came over to visit. His name was Robert Weitzel and the story he told us was this. He was kayaking the perimeter of Lake Superior for the summer. He said he worked in education and decided to devote the summer to a dream. He told us the previous summer he had biked the perimeter only to be hit by a car in Canada putting a temporary end to that dream. He had launched from Ashland the day before and he chuckled when he said "I'm just getting started." He was easy to talk to and we spent 30 minutes or so talking about the lake, his equipment, kayaking in general, blogs, books and his wife. He was raising money for at-risk kids and he was traveling in memory of his brother Greg. He was easy to talk to because he seemed humble. There was no arrogance about his endeavour, it was his dream and he was happy to share the particulars. The date was June 4. On the 5th of June, we were down the shore packing up our camper when Marty looked in the binoculars and called me over. Sure enough, there was Bob, a mile or so off shore, continuing on his journey.

This is what I know: Bob died. On June 17th, somewhere along the North shore of Lake Superior outside of Grand Marais everything went wrong for him. I had been following his blog, laughing along at his stories, cheering him on. He was funny and a gifted writer. I teasingly asked him in early June if there was "going to be a book". It would have been a good one.
 Grand Marais is full of people of differing styles and personalities. There is no shortage of adults who seem to be trying to out wilderness each other. I think it is part of the reason I found Bob so genuine. He had all the best equipment, he definitely was trying something the average person doesn't but there wasn't a shred of "I am better than anyone" in anything he said. When I told him about my new kayak, he seemed genuinely excited for me and downplayed any skill he may have had. When I was searching online for an obituary I came across a blog written by someone who said Bob took kayaking classes from him. I was disturbed by the arrogance of a comment this man made. He said and I quote "This wasn't some yahoo paddler out in a short, fat recreational kayak in jeans; this guy knew what he was doing. He was prepared." He was praising Bob as a kayaker who knew what he was doing, but a comment like that was very far from what I could imagine Bob would think or feel.
I am not sure what makes the difference between someone who does something on a purely personal level, yet has the ability to include everyone in their enthusiasm and someone who pursues the same goal yet makes it about others being less. I have been around both personalities, I will always pick the first.
Mike was that guy, the first guy. The guy that chased dreams with an enthusiasm that carried him away. He never once thought his skill level was better than anyone else, even when it was. He knew there was always more to know. He knew that everyone started somewhere. He knew that in all things there would be better than him and lesser than him but if all were heading towards their goal, that was good enough for him. Their goal, no one Else's.
Sometimes I know it is what I miss the most about Mike. His ability to dream and then act on his dreams. He could sweep you along in his passion for life. He made you remember there is so much out there we don't know, but could learn. He made do with what he had, what he could afford, what he had access to and never once thought something was out of his reach. He was a solo act that loved ideas and people. But especially people with ideas. Mike's good friend Sam from the Hotshot crew told me this. He said one of the best lessons he learned from Mike when Mike was the Squad Boss of the crew was this. Mike said" when you get to a fire, there will be alot of personnel there, Government and private. Many people with differing opinions, skill levels and work ethic." He said, "you look around and decide who your people are going to be, and then you go and fight the fire."

One of the last days we were in town, we were sitting at the bakery. A truck came around the corner driven by 2 young men. It was a bastardized truck full of dents and dings with the scratched out name of a construction company on the side. The canoe on top could have told a thousand stories. These 2 guys jumped out in ripped flannel shirts, cut-off jeans, socks and work boots. They parked in a no-parking zone, left the keys in the ignition, a 6 pack of beer on the front seat, 2 bottles gone. They smiled at everyone and went up to the take-out window to order. Just livin life. They reminded me of Mike. It was the way he rolled.

I took my new kayak out on the big lake. I never let go of the thought that it is all bigger than me. I paddled along the peaceful waters knowing a few short weeks earlier, Bob had traveled the same path. I suppose I was honoring his journey, the dream he didn't get to finish. I am happy to have met him. For me he eased the pain of June 4 and 5 and 11. He showed me again it is important to keep moving forward, one day at a time.
I checked his web-site. The count clock of his journey is stopped. It has been re-set to zero. It is re-started somewhere we don't know, just as Mikes is.

"Look around and decide who your people are going to be and then go and fight the fire"

Robert Weitzel
www.soloingsuperiorinsideout.com
It was a pleasure.

till next time.

It's not today......it's right now!

It's not today....it's right now!

This past weekend we loaded up the camper and headed to a campground I haven't been at since around age 12. The campground is an Army Corp of Engineer Park and it is highly regarded and hotly sought after. I made the reservations shortly after the first of the year and when I logged back on to try for more....the park was full. When I was a kid we camped there alot. The park was within easy distance of visiting my Grandmother and cousins, it had great swimming beaches and was deeply wooded. When we pulled in on Friday morning I had absolutely no memory of this campground. There wasn't one thing that looked familiar to me. It is still beautiful, still deeply wooded. It was quiet and peaceful and safe. My only memory was of me 40 some years ago whining that I wanted to leave the park and go visit the cousins.

We left for the campground early morning with my grand-son on board. His Mom had to work and was going to join us in the late afternoon.  I can't even tell you how excited Nolan was. He started asking if we were almost there 5 miles from home. It was his first big outing in the new camper and he "didn't want to waste a minute of the day." We got to the campground, got all set up, grabbed our swimming suits and headed to the beach. Nolan swam for hours. He played with all the sand toys, collected a bucket of rocks and then he caught sight of the playground. We went over to try everything out. He was playing on the monkey bars when a boy of roughly 11 came running over and ran up the slide the wrong way. As soon as he left, Nolan tried to do the same thing. The slide was about twice the size of the one we have at home and although he has mastered that one, he couldn't seem to get all the way up this one. I told him to take off his flip-flops, that bare feet would help him. He kicked off his sandals, backed about 20 feet away from the slide, he placed his feet apart, rounded his arms in a wrestling stance and then this is what he said "it's not today.....it's RIGHT NOW". He took off running with all he had and made it to the top of the slide.

Then there is this: When I was a kid I had so many people in my life, I never questioned that we were all connected. Everyone I knew......knew everyone I knew. It wasn't until I was a young adult that 2 people left that circle and not through death. A Paternal Uncle divorced and a Maternal Uncle divorced. I lost 2 women that I had grown up thinking were my people. One day they were there. The next day they were gone. My Paternal Uncles wife was my Aunt. I never knew her as anything but that. She was there when I was born, therefore, she was always there. My Maternal Uncle wasn't much older than me. I knew his wife from when they were in college and I was in Junior High. She was the older teenage sister that my sister and I adored. With no notice, no consent they were removed from my life. I never saw either of them again until 4 years ago when I saw the Maternal Aunt when she came to support my three beautiful cousins as they buried their beloved Dad. Divorce is the great leveler. It turns people into something you never saw coming. It removes people you never wanted removed. When you are a child it is one of the first lessons you learn in just how little you control.

This is what I know: On the way to the campground on Friday we passed a big dance hall. This place is large, it sits in the middle of nowhere. It is a dance hall of the old variety. It isn't fancy or modern but it is beautiful and it holds many happy memories. I said out loud, not really thinking, just a comment really. "There's the Star Club." Nolan said, "what's that". I told him it's a place where they hold big parties. He asked me if I've ever been there. I told him yes.

A couple of months ago, out of the blue, Nolan said to me, "Nannie, do you know my Dad?"

For the past three years I have been congratulating myself for never saying anything about Nolan's Dad. For much of that time the feelings were raw. Pain rained down on everyone. I thought I had Nolan in protect mode, I didn't want him to pick up on the tension of those around him. In the circle of Nolan, his people knowing all his people, I had removed the connection between his dad and I. I thought I was being a success. When Nolan asked me those words out-loud. All I heard was my failure. For three years it has all been about rights. We became families lost in the he said.....she said.
When you are 4 you don't care about who got what, who said what, who did what and why. You have a circle of people in your life, what you care about is that those people are connected. In six words Nolan reminded me of everything I forgot.
"It's not today....it's right now". Somewhere in the future Nolan and I will have conversations about his dad. I will tell him about the time his Dad stopped and picked his Mom and I up on the way to school when our car broke down on the side of the road. I will tell him about the look that only I saw on his Dads face when he turned and saw Heidi for the first time in her wedding gown. I will tell him that when Poppa was as broken as a man can be and he needed someone to go with him to finish one of Mike's dreams. Matt cleared his schedule and walked deep into the Boundary Waters Wilderness with Pops to camp when the temp was 0 degrees. I will tell him that I was there with Aunt Missy when Matt walked into the waiting room of the local hospital and told us with such pride that he had a son.
When Mike died I personally only called 4 people. Matt was number 4. I will tell Nolan that it was his dad that broke the news to Mike's beloved friend Ana, that Mike had left this earth. And I will tell him that the two best parties I ever went to at the Star Club, both of his parents were there. For right now I said six words. "Yes, Bugs, I know your Dad."

Nolan knows your circle of people can contain people you love, even if you have never met them. He loves Uncle Mike and talks about him all the time. But...what Nolan should also know is that the people he loves, know each other and that regardless of any thing else, we all have Nolan's back.... And we do.

"It's not today....it's RIGHT NOW"

till next time.

Location, location, location.

This past weekend, Marty and I joined 200,000 other Minnesotans heading somewhere for the long Memorial Day weekend. We spent roughly five days preparing for a three day weekend. We packed clothes and food, chainsaws, a 200 hundred gallon fuel tank(don't ask), tools, a four wheeler, weed whip,  electrical supplies, plumbing supplies and an over-weight Basset named Molly. It is hard to tell who was more excited about the weekend. Marty or Molly. We pulled out on Friday night under an ominous looking cloud-cover, we arrived at our destination just before dark , we turned into a driveway that was completely underwater and a lake that had somehow risen enough in a week to cover the dock. We were home.

Then there is this: Twelve years ago Marty and I decided we would try to find a place on a lake. We started looking with an extremely limited budget in a housing market that would soon see record high prices. We decided to set a compass point and try to find something less than 2 hours from home. For an entire year we drove around on weekends looking at lake lots. We traveled into the neighboring state, we went south, north, east and west. I contacted Realtors all over the place, gave them our criteria and hoped for the best. Some of them were encouraging, most said "good luck". I wasn't fazed. Real Estate was a hobby of mine. I loved to read the ads, I looked at the houses, cabins and raw land and tried to picture myself there. I watched the fluctuation of the market and there was a time when I would have said I was pretty knowledgeable about cost vs. value. The first time I layed eyes on the property we eventually bought, all I could do was gasp. The realtor sent us out with directions, didn't even take the time to join us. It was early spring of the year, the ice had just gone off the lake. The lot was completely obscured by cat-tails and brush, the driveway was under water, there was garbage everywhere and an old trailer that had birds living in it. We had been looking for a year. It was all we could afford. Hard decisions had to be made. We signed on the dotted line.
For 12 years we have cleaned, fixed and hauled away truck loads of garbage to the local landfill. We pulled abandoned fish houses out of the lake, in total we removed 4 fish houses from the property. We have purchased permits to lay fill on the driveway, we blocked up the abandoned trailer, gutted most of the inside, built a roof over the top and a screen-porch on the front. We have chopped brush, created a lawn, removed countless snakes and ran a serious trap-line for mice. We have a sub-standard lot on an environmental lake.
In real estate there is a phrase, "location,location,location." That is where this lot shines. The lake has only 12 developed lots on the entire lake. The same people have owned these 12 lots for as long as we have been there. Three-quarters of the lake is state owned property. We have caught some good fish, the lake is big enough to water-ski, it is perfect for kayaking and canoeing. There are geese, 3 loons and this year a pair of swans. At night the sky is so dark, the stars stand out like fairy frost. I have seen some of the best Northern lights standing in the driveway. They undulate across the  night sky like wildfire.

This is what I know: In 2006 I gave up on reading real estate ads, I also gave up on the lake. I had spent 7 years side by side with Marty creating a sanctuary. I had spent many weekends there working harder than I have in my life, the reward came when I put up my feet on the porch and felt peace. From the day we signed on the dotted line, Marty and I knew that someday we would give the place to Mike. Mike was only ever there in the winter. He never once canoed or kayaked there. He ran his 4-wheeler over the trails and he helped his Dad clean, clear and build. But if ever there were a place that belonged to Mike, this was the place.

For the past 5 years the lake lot has waited for us. I would drive over mid-week and stand on the shore of the lake, I would pray for peace.The sound of the loons was the sound I couldn't shut off in my head. I fell asleep countless times on the love seat on the screen-porch letting the sun warm what I couldn't warm myself. I built campfires and spent hours starring into the flames. The tears I cried there were loud and anguished, it was the one place I knew I was alone. I didn't go on weekends and if someone else was there mid-week I avoided them.
This sub-standard lot has become what no one could have predicted. It had every reason to fail as a place to make memories but instead it has become what is was always meant to be. We ride 4-wheelers there, we launch Mikes duck boat. The grand-kids fish from the dock and jump screaming with fear from the pontoon. We build day-long campfires, play cards, read books and rest. We listen to music, take long walks, we talk about nonsense and we talk about the deep pain we are all trying to carry.
One of our daughters got engaged there, one of our daughters honeymooned there. All of our daughters have worked hard there. It is neutral territory, it's like Switzerland because it doesn't belong to any of us, it belongs to Mike.
By the time Marty and I leave this world we hope to have built a small cabin there. It is our intent to never sell. This lake place will someday go to Mikes sisters and eventually his nieces and nephew. We are going to see that a trust is formed and it will be family property for generations. The taxes and upkeep someday will be paid through the wise investments of Mike. It will be a legacy he left, that we never got to tell him about.

I have bought 2 houses in my life, I have built 1 house, I have inherited 1 house and I have bought the lake lot.
In 2006 when I couldn't make myself buy a cemetery plot I gave up reading real estate ads for good.
When Mike died I couldn't even talk about cemetery plots. I had spent the better part of my adult life reading real estate ads never knowing that a cemetery plot is real estate too. I stand in the cemeteries my Grand-parents are buried in and I think is this the place? I know where my parents have chosen, I think is that the place?  I visit the local cemeteries and hope for some kind of sign. It is still about location, location, location. There are city cemetery's and cemetery's in places you would swear the world has forgotten. I may have been able to choose for Marty or myself, I can't choose for Mike. Mike belongs everywhere. He needs to be free. I have stood in countless cemetery's trying to imagine if this is the one. I am going to leave that decision for the next generation. I can leave the lake place, tied up and secure, I know in the deepest part of me it needs to remain the family oasis. I have made many hard decisions, I have made them and tried not to look back. But  there is  a piece of ground that measures four by ten that I simply cannot buy.
Yesterday was Memorial Day. I didn't stand in a cemetery on that day. I stood at Mikes house, on Mikes land after returning from Mikes Lake. The Fallen Firefighter flag flew proudly in the yard. It was one day for the world to remember what many know you can never forget.

small rural cemetery, the hardest real estate you'll ever buy.

till next time.

I loved you then, I love you now, I'll love you always.

This afternoon my oldest Grand-daughter and I went to a wedding. The day was warm, the sun breaking in and out of the clouds, the threat of storms hanging on the horizon. We dressed up and spent the afternoon in the company of strangers. I knew two people there, I recognized others, it didn't matter. I was as comfortable as I have ever been at an event like this.
I first met the bride roughly 18 months ago. I stalked her from the window of the quilt shop where I was working. She was parked in the lot of the nearby restaurant and what I noticed was the decal she had in the rear window of her truck. I went outside and walked over and knocked on the glass of the passenger side window. She rolled the window down and I was immediately sure that I knew her. I had sat next to her at a grief seminar roughly 2 years prior. She showed no sign of recognition but she smiled and said Hi. I asked her about the decal, not the story of the why, the story of where. I wanted to know where she had ordered it, I had been thinking of something similar. She told me she couldn't remember the web-site but if she did, she would drop the information off at the quilt shop. The next day, that is exactly what she did. I think I sent her a brief thank-you but that was the end of our time together, until 4 months later when I stalked her into the local grocery store. I remember the day perfectly. I went to town and couldn't remember one single thing I came to do. I wandered around attempting to accomplish something. The town felt like a landmine. I dodged people everywhere I went. I looked like hell, I felt like hell. My last stop was the grocery store to buy food I didn't feel like eating. I parked in the lot and just sat there. I simply could not get out of the car. I saw this woman pull into the lot. She left her truck and entered the store. On that day, she was my last hope. I opened my door, went into the store, I didn't take a cart. I walked each row until I caught up with her in the potato chip isle. I called her by name and she turned to me and this is what I said, "I need a friend". She has become that, she is my friend, my confidant, she has introduced me to other amazing women. What drew us together no Mom wants to consider, what keeps us together is that bond but so much more. She has given me two of the dearest friends in my life, it is a gift I try hard to re-pay.

Then there is this:  Marty and I celebrated our 25th Wedding Anniversary 13 years ago. The kids threw us a party at the house and all of our family and friends came to celebrate with us. We ate and drank and danced the night away. It was a good memory. Before the party, in the late afternoon, the kids met us at the Catholic Church in town where we had asked the priest to bless us. We pulled up outside the church and no one was there. The priest had forgotten and gone uptown for supper. We waited for awhile, at first it seemed funny and then...not so much. Just when we had given up hope, our priest came driving down the street. He saw us waiting and jumped out of his car. He really didn't apologize, he kinda was the guy that flew by the seat of his pants. He had a rather dry sense of humor that was an acquired taste. I remember when I called him, he asked me if we wanted to "re-new" our vows. I said no. I told him we had said it once in front of God, we did not need to say it again. We walked together into the church. Father put on his vestments. The lights in the church were turned low, what started as something we wanted and he forgot became magic. We stood in front of Father Norm. Melissa, Mike, Katie and Heidi stood along the railing. Marty and I turned to each other and spoke. This is what I said:
"Twenty-five years ago we were children. We stood before God and made life promises. We spoke of forever and honor reciting the vows thinking in our young love that it would always be easy. We place high value on loyalty and I have always been honest and true. Did I understand the price that comes in trying to live up to promises made for a lifetime? No, but we have both worked very hard to grow together and not apart.
Today we stand together again. This time we are surrounded by four of the most honest and loving humans I know. They are our strength, and we are theirs. It is in their eyes and yours that I look and see God and know that for whatever reason I have been blessed.
I know now that love is not what is written about in songs. It is not what is written in books. It is not what is portrayed in the movies. It is not even close. It is waking each day with the same person willing to try to share yourself. For the rest of our lives what I will ask of you is taken from the Prayer of St. Francis. Make me a channel of your peace. Where there is despair in your life let me bring hope. Where there is darkness, only light and where there's sadness only joy. I pray that I may never seek, so much to be consoled as to console. To be understood, as to understand. To be loved as to love with all my soul.
I will hold your hand tightly when the sun shines in our lives and I will wrap my arms around you when the dark days come. Go where you must go and in my own way, I will follow. Say what you must say and I will respect you. Do what you need to, I will not let you down. I loved you then. I love you now. I will love you always."

This is what I know: I have been to many weddings in my life. The couple is usually  young, full of hope, completely unaware of what lies ahead. I think there is a feeling that if the day and the ceremony are perfect, somehow life will be perfect.
Last November, my Mom and Dad celebrated their 60th Wedding Anniversary. Last week Marty's parents did the same. We come from a long line of love. Commitment is a family legacy.
I spent the entire ceremony today trying not to cry. My throat was clogged with unshed tears as was every single person in that church. My friend and her husband have been knocked down in life, they have had the highest of highs, they have endured the lowest of lows. They held tightly to each others hands and said many of the same things to each other that Marty and I said 13 years ago. My friend told her husband in her vows, "You loved me when I was Unlovable." They have earned the right to be proud of their love.
In the past five years I have hurt Marty more times and in more ways than I can tell you. I have been unlovable. When you lose a child the odds of your marriage surviving are stacked against you for a reason. When you cannot hold yourself together, there is simply no way you can help any one else. I have not been a channel of any ones peace, when Marty felt despair, I could not bring him hope. When he felt sadness, so did I. You can't console, when you need consoling. I couldn't understand him, I could barely understand myself. What I wrote in 1999 no longer applied. I have begged Marty to leave me, I have tried as hard as I can to rid myself of responsibility for anyone Else's happiness. I let go of his hand and never once wrapped my arms around him. The words I said to him on that night of magic I failed at. But here's the thing, what I failed at Marty didn't. I spend alot of time trying to carry my sadness. I write, I quilt, I read, I talk with my friends, I try so hard to find ways to honor and remember Mike. Marty goes to work and he comes home and he trys to help me hold it together. In a moment of perfect clarity I realized that what Marty does to honor and memorialize Mike is this: he loves me. I am Mike's Mom, Marty loves me, even when I am unlovable.

My Grand-daughter was so grown-up today. Somewhere in the future the wedding I will be at will be hers. I would like to think I would have something to tell her but whatever it would be would only be words. Marriage is ever-changing and all-consuming. You are not the person 5, 10, 35 or more years into it that you were on the day you married. Today I would say this, "when you find the guy that doesn't leave when you tell him to go, who when you say I hate you, he doesn't say I hate you too, when you let go of his hand when you promised you wouldn't and he just holds on tighter. Marry that guy."

I loved him then, I love him now. I will love him always.

till next time.

You don't know, what you don't know.

Last week I traveled across the lower edge of the Northern part of the state. When I entered the town of Brainerd I noticed that the demolition of the State Hospital was still in progress. I had driven by last winter and that was when I noticed they were tearing it down. I had thought it was still a functioning hospital. I was wrong. I remember thinking "if these walls could talk". The demolition had an eerie quality, for some reason it is being dismantled brick by brick.  It is many large square buildings. The windows have been removed creating a vacant eye kind of look. There are large lots where some of the buildings are gone but many more that still need to come down. For a brief moment I thought about taking a picture. I didn't. Looking at it with the naked eye was enough I didn't need to capture it forever.

Then there is this: In 1980 Marty and I bought 40 acres in Northern Minnesota. We were two kids from a moderately sized town that had a dream of an adventure. Marty was 26 and raised on a dairy farm and I was 24, always a kid from the city, we knew nothing of "frontier living". I had the knowledge of years spent camping, Marty had the knowledge of a lifetime of fixing things and building. Together we thought we could do anything. We bought raw land at the end of a dirt road in one of the poorest counties in the state. I look back on those years with a form of amazement. We "moved North" and for the next 2 decades we built a life from nothing. For the first year we lived in the north woods, Marty continued to commute to his job in the cities. I applied for and was hired as a nurse at the old State Hospital in a nearby town. I had worked in the nursing field since I was 16 but nothing and I mean nothing prepared me for this job.
When you are 24 you think you have seen and heard.....alot. You don't realize the naivety that is still a part of everything you think and do. I went through the rotation of each and every department, unit, cottage and floor in that hospital. I was assigned to the admissions unit for the mentally ill, it was 4 years of an education that absolutely nothing in my life had prepared me for. I had grown up in a home of security and love. I never had to fight for anything. My role models were balanced, productive and intelligent. I was sheltered. I thought I knew, what I really didn't know.
The admissions unit was just what it implies. It was the first stopping point for a number of personalities, many of whom showed no signs of actual mental illness. It was the start of an education of a side of life I didn't know existed. I never once felt superior, I spent four years feeling deeply humbled. It was nursing in a way I had no experience with. It was court ordered medications and 72 hour holds. It was the stripping of dignity and power from people that had never felt either dignified or powerful in their lives. It was the sheltering of the vulnerable, protecting the innocent and allowing space and independence to people that felt caged. I learned an important lesson early on and I never once forgot it. If you back someone into a corner, either physically or even mentally and you keep them there long enough. They are going to come out fighting. It is not a matter of if. It is always a matter of when.
My unit housed a large number of young people that had lost the will to live.They were between the ages of 18 and 30 and they were depleted. Exhausted of life. They were admitted and monitored. Guarded so they could do no harm. Not to others but to themselves. They were cutters and jumpers. Kids who had overdosed and tried to hang themselves. There were serious risks and others that just wanted or maybe needed to be seen by someone....anyone.They were survivors of circumstances that they could no longer endure. The trick for all of us was trying to figure out, who was who. I personally had no concept of the desire to die. I had never once in my life given thought to anything other than trying to live, as long as possible. It was an arrogance of the purest kind. When something is so foreign to you that you have no mapping point, you make up a theory, you create a bias, you decide you know what you really don't know.
Her name was beautiful. She was beautiful. She was young and vulnerable and broken. She came into our care a high risk. She spent her days curled in a fetal position, she spoke to no one. We pulled out all the stops, we cared for her to the best of our ability. She got better. She smiled and laughed. She was kind to everyone. She had a family that loved her and cared. She went to all her therapy, she took her medications. She talked the talk and she walked the walk. After months of hospitalization she earned a weekend home. I can still see her as she turned to wave good-bye as she walked off the unit. On Sunday afternoon she walked willingly and purposely into the rotating propeller of a small airplane.

This is what I know: Until 2006 I held fast to what I thought I knew, that I really didn't know. Many years had passed since my days at the state hospital, I had grown up alot but still held on to theories that were preconceived and arrogant. I would have said I couldn't understand suicide, that it left those left behind holding what couldn't be held. That is was a cowards way out. I didn't know, what I didn't know. In 2002 dear friends of ours lost a son to suicide. I knew this boy since the day he was born. I loved this boy. He was funny, out-going and happy. I tried to console them with inadequacies. Everything I said to them I am ashamed of. Everything I thought I knew that would help was me thinking I knew something. I didn't. Somewhere inside this boy he reached the limit of endurance. I think if he had tried to tell anyone what he was feeling, he would not have been able to relay the right feeling.He had reached the end of not what he should be able to take but what he really couldn't take. Maybe there aren't words for the emptiness of hope.

In 2006 Mike was killed in an accident. It started me on a journey of trying to live.My whole life of optimism and happiness was erased. I had lost someone I couldn't live without. It erased my desire to live. I went from my arrogant attitude to complete understanding with the loss of one life. People would tell me I needed to be strong for Marty and the girls. This feeling was deeper than that. It was personal, singular and entirely mine. It was an individual decision that only I could make. It transcended me as a Mother, Wife, Daughter, Sister or Friend.  For months and even years I was consumed by confusion. I couldn't think beyond each day, sometimes each hour. I was in lock-down mode of a sort I had never before experienced. For two years my hands were clenched so tight I would lay in bed each night and slowly open my fingers to let go. I felt inside, shattered. Unable to believe that I could figure out how to continue to live. I wrote a letter to my dearest friend, a co-worker from my State Hospital days. I told her that I now knew what back then I couldn't even imagine. I was empty of hope. Each day I pretended. I tried for normal but I no longer remembered how to do it.  It was life running against the clock.

Last week a dear friend lost her Grand-son to suicide. She poured out for me a story of anger and loss. Sadness so profound. Confusion and disbelief. The story was hers but it may also have been her Grand-sons. I listened, I said nothing. The story I would maybe tell her is the one written above. For this boy and for my friends son, we don't know what we don't know.

At the end of everyday, it is Mike who saves me. It is the knowing in the deepest part of me that I will see him again someday. It is the knowledge that if I arrive one day, one second sooner than my destiny, Mike would be sad. Mike was all about life. What people should have told me was not so much that I needed to live for Marty and the girls but that I needed to live for Mike.

I was only ever physically in the State Hospital in Brainerd, one time. I spent four years caring for the mentally ill in another institution. The walls of those buildings contained the absolute rawness of life. I wonder sometimes where those people are. I know where they are, they are where we all are. They are living and trying and sometimes they are leaving for reasons known only to them. We don't know what we don't know.

Marty told me once when I was so low, so full of despair, empty in a way that causes desperation. When I said, "I can't do this", he didn't call anyone, he didn't hover over me, he didn't watch my every move. He knew the individualness of what I said, that the decisions we make are our own. He knows me better than anyone on the face of this earth. He said three words. "You have to."

till next time.