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.