Klondike Start

Nolan's Horse "Hobart"

Lampshade my Grandmother made

Mikes polar fleece, Grandpas vest

Mallory's "Sam", the green baby.

Last week I grabbed the jackets I wear most everyday when I go for my walk. It got me thinking about the things I hold on to and the things that help me stay grounded. In 1996 I started walking, I walked everyday until I lost enough weight and then I started running. Like Forest Gump I started and I just kept running. Everyday for a decade, I ran. It didn't matter if it was raining, snowing, if I had the flu or someplace I had to go. I ran. I didn't miss one single day for 12 years. It became who I was. I read running magazines, I bought the latest shoes, I entered the local 5k, I ran to keep ahead of my thoughts. For 12 years everyday that the weather indicated I wore the vest I got from my Mom when my Grandpa died. He had been gone for over a decade by then but when I put the vest on. I could run. This vest meant alot to me. I loved and admired my Grandpa. When I put the vest on I felt stronger.

The lampshade you see was made by my Grandmother. I have owned this shade for three decades. It has been in every house I have lived in. It currently is on the desk where I am writing. This shade makes me feel stronger.

The gray polar fleece is Mikes. I have worn this polar fleece for 5 years. I have not washed it. It is a work fleece from the Humboldt-Toiyabe Forest, when I wear this fleece it makes me feel stronger.

The spring horse is Nolan's. It lives with Poppa and I. On Friday Nolan asked me if "Hobart" can stay here. I told him, "Hobart" will live here until Nolan says he can go. "Hobart" helps Nolan feel stronger.

The "green baby" is "Sam". He belongs to Mallory. We have many dolls here, roughly 10 she could choose from. She always chooses "Sam". "Sam" helps Mallory feel stronger.

Then there is this: Back when we were part of the dog sledding world there was a race in International Falls called "The Esslinger Classic". This race was for our family a vacation. Our good friends always came with us, alot of the family was there. Mike, my brother Steve and my sister-in-law Linda came to race. The thing about this race that set it apart from the others was the start. The organizers planned for a "Klondike start". In the world of dog racing, the start is a finely tuned part of the race. There is alot of strategy involved in the timing, the equipment, when to start harnessing, booties or no booties, how many handlers to help and getting to the chute on time. No one wants to miss their start time. There is time to plan what clothes you will wear,are your boots laced right, is your water and food ready, are the dogs lined up. You have the help of many to get things right.

In a Klondike Start, you are on your own.

All the mushers set up in a circle formation. You must lay out your sleeping bag, your boots must be off. The dogs if I remember right could be bootied, not harnessed. When the gun was fired, you must exit your sleeping bag, put on your boots, harness everyone of your barking, charging, dogs. Bring them up to the line by yourself, pull the line holding you to your rig and enter the fray of all the teams exiting the staging area. It was chaos. The noise level was deafening. People stood on the plowed snow mountains all around the staging area, cheering on their favorites. It was a race in it's purest form. The first one out had the edge. The first into a checkpoint was just that...the first. The first to cross the finish line. Won. To be good at this race you had to be able to tune out the crowd and focus. It was you and your team. Nothing else mattered. Mike was good at it. One of the first teams out of the chute.
Once Mike left the chute, he no longer cared about winning. It then became a race of scenery and beauty. Both of which this race had an abundance of. Mike was so proud of his Aunt Linda and her skill at racing, but when his Uncle Steve was on the trail, the race for Mike became complete. Just knowing that Steve was running the same miles, seeing the same creeks, the same trail crossings, the same logging equipment, the same stands of trees was enough. Mike always figured Steve was somewhere on the trail ahead of him. The second year we raced there, Steve's dogs were off their game. Somewhere, either in the start chute or out on the trail, Mike got ahead of Steve. Near the end of the race, one checkpoint left to go, Steve came in with a tired team and the thought he might say enough. He asked if anyone had seen Mike. We told him Mike had checked through and was ahead of him on the trail. Steve stood around the checkpoint, looked over his dogs, lit his pipe and rested. When we asked him what he was going to do, he said,"I'm gonna go chase the kid". They finished the race together. For Mike, that was better than a win.

This is what I know: Yesterday Marty and I got home late in the afternoon, we had been gone for 3 days. I hadn't checked messages, face book or email. When I did there was sad news for both of us. Marty's Uncle had died and my Aunt and Godmother had received a diagnosis of deep fear.
We live our lives like we can prepare for the starting line and maybe even the finish. We think we have the right clothes, our food and water are adequate. We have done our research, we believe we know the trail ahead, where our checkpoints are and where the finish line is. We think we have all the help we need to get to the start and carry through the race. The truth is...life is a "Klondike Start". Everyday you must exit your sleeping bag, jump into your boots, harness your own team and make split second decisions. You must tune out the crowd and focus. You must hang on to what makes you feel stronger.
My Aunt has a "team" of four. They will help her decide, when to race, when to take a break. They have knowledge of the trail ahead, they will help her "change out her runners" and keep her in the race. They will help her, tune out the crowd and focus.
The things I own in no way define me. The things I hold on to for courage do.
Tomorrow morning I will pull the gray polar fleece over my head. I will zip up the same green vest I have been wearing for 16 plus years. I will pat "Hobart" on the head when I walk across the basement and I will tell him Nolan will be back. I will tuck the covers around "Sam", until Mallory returns.

I am in my "Klondike Race", somehow Mike checked through and got ahead of me on the trail. I'm gonna rest awhile, stay focused and then I am going to "go and chase the kid".
In a "Klondike Race" you are on your own but you do have a team. Make it strong. Make it yours.

till next time.

The season of Grace

Yesterday we celebrated Easter. Our house, Mike's house was full, of laughter, people, joy, the smell of ham and cheesy potatoes, chocolate candy and wine.  We came together to acknowledge the season of grace. It was the day that signaled the end of lent and the beginning of renewal. Forty days of no sweets(Monica and her Mom), no TV, (Marty and I) and one week of traditions involving church. The front yard was the scene of a no holds barred game of kick ball. The rules were scarce, no score was kept, but when the ball was kicked, everyone and I mean everyone was running. Some to bases, some anywhere they felt like. No one gave up, there were no tears and only one near injury when the kickball somehow ended up slamming into the picture window 1/32nd of an inch above my head. Hmmmm.....

Then there is this: Three years ago I left a local store and started across the parking lot to my car. As was my habit in those days, I walked fast and made no eye contact with anyone. I tried as hard as I could to do everything with as little social interaction as possible. As I was nearing my car, I glanced up and saw my local parish priest walking towards me. I smiled and continued on, I may have even picked up my pace, my goal was to get to the safety of my car as fast as possible. I failed. He turned and called my name out loud, I had no choice but to turn and acknowledge him.   For weeks this man and I had played a game of "I contacted you and missed and you contacted me and missed." I had not had a conversation with him since he had presided over the last Holy Mass of my Son's life. Oh, he tried. I didn't. He said "I drive out to your house and no one is ever home", I said"we are at Mike's, please come there". He would call and say, "I tried to visit, you were not home", I said "come to Mike's". I am not sure who was avoiding who. He knew where Mike's house is, he also knew I was a hard person to visit. That day in the parking lot, he asked me how I was. I started to cry. He said"I don't see you in church", I said "I don't go". He asked me why and this is what I said "it is the last place". Father Tim was a man who tried very hard to connect. It wasn't natural for him. He held strongly to catholic theology yet tried very hard to accommodate and accept a changing congregation.  He made allowances for us when Mike died that I know were difficult for him to endure. He was a strong traditionalist. I am a traditionalist too. I love everything about the ceremony of the Catholic mass, it comforts me to hear the same scripture read over each year. I love the smell of the incense and the ringing of the bells. It was the last place to honor Mike through readings, songs and prayers. It was the place his Dad and his sisters and I said our last public words. It was the place that everyone that loved Mike gathered for the last time. It held more grief, more tears, more pain and more love than any place on this earth. It was "the last place", the last. When I said those words, Father Tim didn't try to pretend he didn't know what I meant. He said "if you can't come there, you must go somewhere, you need God's grace."  He reached out and placed his hand on the top of my head. In the middle of the parking lot on a sunny spring day he once again broke through tradition, he said out loud the words I've heard since I was a child, he moved his hands in the sign of the cross and he blessed me.

This is what I know: I had to look up "Grace" in the dictionary. I always thought I knew what it meant. I was wrong. It is defined as "unmerited favor". God"doing good for us that we don't deserve." Father Tim was right. I needed God's grace. I had lost sight of the church as a whole. It had become for me only, "the last place". I needed time and distance to find my way back. That building housed the most personal and private act of my life. The reaching up and closing of Mike's casket. I had given birth to Mike in the presence of about 5 people. I looked at his face for the last time surrounded by hundreds. It took me three years to understand when you are born, you have yet to be defined. When you die, a piece of you belongs to many. They were all there.
 On Palm Sunday, I stood in the room alongside the church waiting for the Mass to begin. It was the same room where I physically saw Mike for the last time. It was hard and the memories were strong but I wasn't alone. Mike stood beside me just as he has everyday since he left. I was there looking for grace, that I don't deserve, but still hope to get.

Mike and I shared a love of Willie Nelson songs. Not necessarily the same songs.
My favorite:

I knew someday that you would fly away

For loves the greatest healer to be found.

So leave me if you need to, I will still remember

Angel flying too close, to the ground.

Fly on, fly on, past the speed of sound.

I'd rather see you up, than see you down.

Leave me if you need to

I will still remember.

Angel flying too close to the ground.

Willie Nelson

I will spend the rest of my life searching for Grace. The "last place" has now become what is really was all along. The best place to hope for Grace.

till next time.

Crossing T's and dotting I's.

The other day I was having a conversation with a friend about something that she had been struggling with, something she had been thinking about, something she needed to take action on. She needed to "jump off the dock of her mind".

I am a procrastinator. I rarely if ever miss a deadline but I make lists, move things around, make more lists and then finally take action. In my married life I have been the one who manages the paperwork. I look after our finances, I schedule the appointments, I deal with insurance, banking and care for all aspects of our business life. I don't like it, at all.

Then there is this. I have settled one estate in my life. When Mike graduated from college and left for his first job, he was financially depleted. He had student loans, a truck that had seen prime 10 years earlier and I am going to guess that a savings account was the furthest thing from his reality. At the time of Mike's death, he had been working, hard, he had accumulated many things and now had an estate that needed settling. I was appointed to do the job. For the first time in my life, I procrastinated, nothing. I took care of his things in a way that could only have been called insane. I learned the business world in a way I had no experience with. Everyday for two years I made phone calls, I reviewed documents, literally hundreds of forms. I spoke with people on the phone from one end of this country to the other. I didn't make a single call that I didn't cry. I lay awake at night and made lists in my head, I couldn't let go. I let no one help me and if they tried, I became angry. I was parenting Mike for the last time and I was determined I was going to get this right. I crossed all my T's and I dotted every i.
At the end of two years, the job was complete, I had done all I could. I had an appointment with the attorney that had been helping me through this process, a man I had come to dislike.I needed him to put a legal end to the job I had been doing. Melissa came with me. I sat in his office and wrote the check that would end my son's business life. There was no relief, only deep and relentless pain, an end is still an end. I reached over the desk and handed him the check and I prayed that I could get out of his office without leaving the little I had left of me....behind. I made it to the sidewalk before the shaking started. I dropped my car keys and they fell into the gutter. I could no longer think, I stood on the sidewalk in a small town and felt completely without hope. I got in my car and did something I had never done in my life. I went straight to the small bar down the road from Mike's house and at 11 in the morning I started to drink. There were 2 other people in the bar, they tried to engage me in conversation, I had come to drink. I thought I was drinking to forget but as always happens, all I could do was remember. I stayed there all afternoon. No one bothered me, the bartender didn't over-serve me, when I asked for another, she brought it. I was an island of grief. Late in the afternoon, the door opened and a man came in. I knew this man and he had lost a daughter several years before. He sat down on the stool next to me and he said"bad day". A statement, not a question. We had a long talk about death. Our children. When I told him I was lost he said"let your children lead".
By now it was very late in the afternoon. I had left my cell phone at home, no one knew where I was. I had lost the right to drive many beers earlier. I heard the door open again and when I looked in the mirror over the bar it was Melissa that had come in. She came over and sat on the bar-stool next to me, she said to the bartender,"I'll have what she's drinking".
I like to think that Mike sent her. I like to think he thought I had done a good job. I know he knew I needed help. No one would understand more than Mike that sometimes you have to drink the pain before you can find your way home. I don't know how she knew, I don't know how she came. She said, she just knew. I needed her. She had come....to lead.

This is what I know:On the second anniversary of Mike's death I had two things still on my mind. Two things that bothered me on a daily basis. They needed my attention. It was time to "jump off the dock of my mind".
The first was something I needed to do for Mike. Mike was a Wildland Firefighter. It wasn't just his job title, it was who he was. He was born to be that person. I wanted Mike to be remembered at the Wildland Firefighter Memorial at the National Interagency Dispatch Center in Boise. Turns out, all I had to do was ask. I asked and they rolled out the red carpet. On the first weekend in May of that year, 15 people showed up to represent Mike. A marker is there and will remain there forever. It designates that Mike is from Minnesota and he called the Black Mountain Hotshots home.
The second was something I did for myself and for Marty. I wrote a letter to the investigating officer of Mike's accident. It is as follows:
Dear Jason:
Tomorrow is the 2nd anniversary of the accident that claimed the life of my son Mike. Two years of deep relentless pain that the English language has no words for. As Mike's family we get up each day and try to live the life that honors the good man he was. I wish you had known him Jason, I really do. Mike had an inherent understanding of people, of right vs. wrong, he had courage and great compassion. He was simply what we should all want to be.
I have had on my mind for many months that I have things I want to tell you. I went searching in my papers for your investigation report because I couldn't remember your exact name. I re-read the report and saw something I didn't see the first time. I saw that you handled things the way you did with honest intentions. You were trying I believe to do your job.
Please allow me to tell you what's inside my head so that I can let it go. It is all I can do to carry my grief, I can't carry anger too.
Please. Don't ever call another family and tell them what you have to over the phone. I don't care if that's how it's done. Don't be that person. Defy department rules. Show up. Stand there in person when you are going to destroy lives with what you say and when the storm of emotion hits help those families by your courage. You chose this job and with that choice you must show courage greater than the norm.
I am enclosing the memorial that ran in our local paper this week in honor of Mike. Mike was a proud firefighter for the US Forest Service. A true Cowboy in a Hardhat. You be a Cowboy too.
I wish you well. You have a hard job to do.

Cowboy in a Hardhat

by Curly Musgrave

excerpt:

But the cowboy in the hardhat

Is not like other men.

Who merely do the possible

To hold what's in their grasp.

He reaches deep within himself

And finds the strength to last.

Beyond the thresholds mortals keep

Within the lines and odds.

He'll stop the devil in his dance

Upheld by greater Gods.

But we'll remember when it's over

And take the time to tell.

Of the cowboy in the Hardhat

Who quenched the fires of hell.

I have been asked to manage one other estate in my life. If it ever comes to pass..and I pray it never will. I will cross every T and I will dot every I.

We all have the chance to be "The Cowboy in the Hardhat"

You be a Cowboy too.

till next time.