This past Saturday I spent the day with my youngest daughter. We were searching for a change of scenery and as she puts it, some "retail therapy". We headed North to see the newest in Craft and Hobby stores in our area. I had been there on one other occasion, for my daughter it was all new. Since Marty and I had sold our souls to the well drillers that week my opportunity for "retail therapy" was limited. I traveled all the aisles and when the urge to load a cart became too strong I decided to walk over to the adjoining thrift store to pass some time. I wandered all the aisles, picking up items for consideration, no real urge to buy, just passing time. I decided to sit down at the front of the store to watch for my daughter when she arrived and while I was sitting there a teenage couple walked in. The entire store was full of average looking people, I am not sure if it is a sign of the times or if everyone appreciates a good bargain, this young couple simply looked like everyone else. The young man saw me sitting there and then in the way teenage boys brag he turned to the girl and this is what I heard him say "I hate this smell, it smells like old people". I don't think he was referring to me, or maybe he was, what I think he was doing was making a show of how he wanted me to think he really didn't belong there, he was merely there for the "experience".
Then there is this: There is a theory in the medical field that the sense of hearing is the last sense to leave at the end of life. When I was a nursing student and later when I worked in the field we were routinely cautioned that our words and the things we talked about could be heard even by those who no longer appeared to hear. There apparently is medical evidence to support this statement although how it was ever measured is a mystery. I have seen this question posed and also been asked the question if you had to lose your hearing or your eyesight, which would you choose?
The answer for me would be either, it is my feeling we are most defined by our sense of smell. Everyone has one, all our homes do too. I could blind-fold myself and tell you, no question, if I was in the homes of my daughters, my Parents, my sisters and brothers or here, in Mike's house that I now call home. I have lived here for six years and I worry that the smell that is Marty and I, is going to cover the smell that was and is Mike.
When my Maternal Grandmother died, I was there. I was in a place most would recognize by the smell. She was the resident of a Nursing Home and therefore a prisoner of the smells of a place that I never associated with my Grandparents. On the day she died due to timing that can't be measured, or coincidence that can't be planned, I was there. I had traveled 140 miles, stopped in as a last minute thought before heading to where I was going. Within 30 minutes of my arrival I was holding my grandmother in my arms and whispering in her ear. I told her all the things I prayed she could hear, I banked everything I had on what I had been taught, that her hearing was the last to go. What she gave me back was the sense of smell. When I ran out of words I buried my nose as deep as I could into her neck, it was there that I smelled all I remembered of my grandparents. Lemon drops and fresh mowed grass, I smelled my past, I smelled my present, I lost her as my future.
A couple of years ago, my Dad lay down his pipe. My Dad has been a pipe smoker for as many years as I have been alive. On a random comment from someone that thought they knew what they don't know, my Dad quit smoking. I know this should be a good thing, I understand the strength it took for my dad to walk away from a lifetime habit, but I miss it. I miss it because it wasn't just who my Dad was, it was who I was. It was the smell of home.
I have worn the same perfume for 10 years. When my oldest grand-daughter was born it was the fragrance I wore, I have never changed it. It is who I am. It is the smell the four smallest people in my life recognize me by. When my Grand-son was almost three, he took a trip with his Dad. He was gone for 10 days, ten long days in a time when everything was wrong. On the day he returned we were all gathered for a party. My daughter went and got her son and brought him into the garage where we were gathered. My grand-son said "Nannie" and then he breathed in deep. Someone made a joke and said "Is he trying to smell for her?" The truth is, that is exactly what he was doing. At two years old and faced with a garage full of people my Grandson realized the fastest way to find what you are looking for is to breathe deep.
This is what I know: None of us will know what is the last sense to go, until we experience it for ourselves. If it's hearing it breaks my heart to know I wasn't there to tell Mike everything I wanted him to know. I would have liked his eyes to see all of us that he loved so well. I would like to have held him so he would know my touch would never let go. It is my hope that it was smell that carried him where he was going. The smell of wind and cold and the outdoors. The smell of his dream truck idling diesel and country music playing on the radio. He did not die inside, for that I am grateful.
Mikes house still smells like Mike. Mikes truck still smells like Mike. I do the everyday, I try for normal. I listen, I see, I touch. On the days when I can do no more, I go to the basement and on a hook by the wood stove hang the woolen bibs Mike wore to cut firewood. I reach out for them and bury my face and breathe deep to find what I'm looking for.
That young teenage kid made a random comment that I think he thought made him look cool, or maybe better than or maybe to show he really didn't belong in that place. The truth is what he smelled was a thousand lives. Someones truth. The identification of people he will never know. There will be much you remember in life. You will remember words that were heard and can't be replaced. You will remember things you have seen and can't be replaced. You will remember the touch and taste of many things, things you think define your life. But it is the sense of smell that will most define your memory. On a random day, in a random place you will turn quickly completely sure that you will see what in reality you can only smell. The people we love remain close due to something we give no thought to while alive. It is unique, it is our imprint, it is the gift we leave behind.
till next time.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Thursday, March 7, 2013
"It is what it is"
Martin and I are having a week that would test the patience of anyone. The following is a Facebook post of mine from Tuesday.
"A day brightener for anyone who thinks their week is off to a crappy start.
1. Our well seems to be failing. Water turned from crystal clear to brown.
2. Our furnace has failed.
3. Shower in BR sprung a leak and basement got wet.
4. Washing machine just leaked all over the floor.
5. Walk-in care (me). Nothing 10 days of antibiotics hopefully will cure.
6. Appt. at noon. Couldn't get car out of driveway. Decided to walk. The dog decided to walk too. Had to turn around and walk her home a half a mile.
Did I mention it's only Tuesday?, oh and 8 inches of new snow.
Top that"
Then there is this: My response to life's quirks has evolved over the years. I am ashamed to admit in the early days of our marriage, anything and pretty much everything outside of the norm would throw me for a loop. When they say opposites attract that is exactly the case with Martin and I. When things went wrong I would completely implode and he would calmly sort through the situation and then take action. We were the ying and yang of life's problems. For some reason, completely unexplained yet very fortunate, all four kids inherited Marty's calm. They are all rock steady under pressure, good problem solvers and "roll with the punch" kind of people. I am still the "loose cannon".
Of the four kids tho Mike hands down, was the "Master of Disaster". He had the ability to never and I mean never lose it. He approached life with an attitude that crap will come your way so deal with it. It was what made him perfect for the sport of mushing. A sport dependent on 8-10 dogs that absolutely never do what you think they will. It was what made him the best guy to work beside, talk too and watch your back. He was calm, he was steady, he was rock solid.
One of the guys Mike worked with on the Hotshot Crew said that there was an incident where Mike caught one of the new guys goofing off on a fire. He said it was the first and only time the crew saw Mike lose his temper. He said Mike yelled so loud and so long that all the guys stopped working, two guys climbed up on rocks just to watch what they never thought they would see. Mike losing his temper.
In roughly 2005 Mike came over to our lake lot to help Marty with a project. He loaded up his skid-steer on a trailer that was pretty light for the job. It was a heavy equipment trailer but under-rated for the weight of a skid-steer. Our lake place is reached by a two lane highway, rural but heavily traveled. I drove over mid-way through the weekend and Marty and I followed behind Mike, Sunday on the drive home. We were traveling south and came up behind a Semi truck that for whatever reason was going about 50 mph. We followed the truck for many miles and then I saw Mike put on his blinker to pass. He went out into the oncoming lane and due to the weight of the skid-steer, he was having trouble getting up the speed necessary to pass quickly. A car came up to the 2 lane from the left and turned onto the highway without looking right. It was a woman driving and she entered the highway without seeing that Mike was trying to pass. At this point Mike's truck was even with the cab of the Semi, he still needed to get past him with the trailer. The semi backed off to help Mike out but the approaching driver appeared clueless of impending disaster. Marty and I following in our truck, I literally was hyper-ventilating. Marty was gripping the wheel, completely silent. Mike made it around the semi with the trailer with literally inches to spare. When we reached our turn-off, we all pulled off the road. Mike walked back to our truck where I was "freaking out". I said to him, "were you scared?" and this is what he said. "It was either going to work for me, or it wasn't."
This is what I know: This week has not improved. Martin hit a Raccoon, taking out the entire front grill of Mike's old Civic. The car we are trying so hard to get to 500,000 miles. It's going to happen this year.
My car after this weeks snowstorm has a muffler that sounds somewhere between a Locomotive and a 747.
Martin cleaned the filters on the furnace, we had new fuel delivered on top of the old fuel. We thinned the fuel. Marty tried igniting the furnace, yup.......nothin.
I have showered once this week. I have washed no clothes.
The antibiotics have kicked in and I no longer feel as tho I swallowed razor blades.
I went to the liquor store and replaced my wine supply.
I have gone from wondering if it's too early in the week to drink, to wondering if it's too early in the day to drink.
I met with the well drillers for a conference yesterday. I left the meeting feeling dumber than when I came. After delivering a cooler full of water samples and trying to pretend I understand couplers, galvanized pipe vs. PVC, water tables and pumps, the well driller said to me "It is what it is". When he said those five words, the same five words Mike said ALL the time, I knew it was Mike telling me, it will be OK. Don't choose this battle, it's not a fight. The well drillers are coming tomorrow for the second time this week. I am setting the bar low.
It took losing Mike to turn me into the person that understands it is either going to work or it isn't. I don't make that as a simple statement. I make that statement as a life changing philosophy. How did I never know in 50 years that all the freaking out in the world can't change most things. Maybe all things. For 29 years I followed the way Mike lived and yet never realized that I was doing it wrong. If the saying is "you must choose your battles" then hold back as much as you can because the biggest battles you will never see coming. "It is what it is" and "It will either work for me, or it won't". Truer words, never spoken.
till next time.
"A day brightener for anyone who thinks their week is off to a crappy start.
1. Our well seems to be failing. Water turned from crystal clear to brown.
2. Our furnace has failed.
3. Shower in BR sprung a leak and basement got wet.
4. Washing machine just leaked all over the floor.
5. Walk-in care (me). Nothing 10 days of antibiotics hopefully will cure.
6. Appt. at noon. Couldn't get car out of driveway. Decided to walk. The dog decided to walk too. Had to turn around and walk her home a half a mile.
Did I mention it's only Tuesday?, oh and 8 inches of new snow.
Top that"
Then there is this: My response to life's quirks has evolved over the years. I am ashamed to admit in the early days of our marriage, anything and pretty much everything outside of the norm would throw me for a loop. When they say opposites attract that is exactly the case with Martin and I. When things went wrong I would completely implode and he would calmly sort through the situation and then take action. We were the ying and yang of life's problems. For some reason, completely unexplained yet very fortunate, all four kids inherited Marty's calm. They are all rock steady under pressure, good problem solvers and "roll with the punch" kind of people. I am still the "loose cannon".
Of the four kids tho Mike hands down, was the "Master of Disaster". He had the ability to never and I mean never lose it. He approached life with an attitude that crap will come your way so deal with it. It was what made him perfect for the sport of mushing. A sport dependent on 8-10 dogs that absolutely never do what you think they will. It was what made him the best guy to work beside, talk too and watch your back. He was calm, he was steady, he was rock solid.
One of the guys Mike worked with on the Hotshot Crew said that there was an incident where Mike caught one of the new guys goofing off on a fire. He said it was the first and only time the crew saw Mike lose his temper. He said Mike yelled so loud and so long that all the guys stopped working, two guys climbed up on rocks just to watch what they never thought they would see. Mike losing his temper.
In roughly 2005 Mike came over to our lake lot to help Marty with a project. He loaded up his skid-steer on a trailer that was pretty light for the job. It was a heavy equipment trailer but under-rated for the weight of a skid-steer. Our lake place is reached by a two lane highway, rural but heavily traveled. I drove over mid-way through the weekend and Marty and I followed behind Mike, Sunday on the drive home. We were traveling south and came up behind a Semi truck that for whatever reason was going about 50 mph. We followed the truck for many miles and then I saw Mike put on his blinker to pass. He went out into the oncoming lane and due to the weight of the skid-steer, he was having trouble getting up the speed necessary to pass quickly. A car came up to the 2 lane from the left and turned onto the highway without looking right. It was a woman driving and she entered the highway without seeing that Mike was trying to pass. At this point Mike's truck was even with the cab of the Semi, he still needed to get past him with the trailer. The semi backed off to help Mike out but the approaching driver appeared clueless of impending disaster. Marty and I following in our truck, I literally was hyper-ventilating. Marty was gripping the wheel, completely silent. Mike made it around the semi with the trailer with literally inches to spare. When we reached our turn-off, we all pulled off the road. Mike walked back to our truck where I was "freaking out". I said to him, "were you scared?" and this is what he said. "It was either going to work for me, or it wasn't."
This is what I know: This week has not improved. Martin hit a Raccoon, taking out the entire front grill of Mike's old Civic. The car we are trying so hard to get to 500,000 miles. It's going to happen this year.
My car after this weeks snowstorm has a muffler that sounds somewhere between a Locomotive and a 747.
Martin cleaned the filters on the furnace, we had new fuel delivered on top of the old fuel. We thinned the fuel. Marty tried igniting the furnace, yup.......nothin.
I have showered once this week. I have washed no clothes.
The antibiotics have kicked in and I no longer feel as tho I swallowed razor blades.
I went to the liquor store and replaced my wine supply.
I have gone from wondering if it's too early in the week to drink, to wondering if it's too early in the day to drink.
I met with the well drillers for a conference yesterday. I left the meeting feeling dumber than when I came. After delivering a cooler full of water samples and trying to pretend I understand couplers, galvanized pipe vs. PVC, water tables and pumps, the well driller said to me "It is what it is". When he said those five words, the same five words Mike said ALL the time, I knew it was Mike telling me, it will be OK. Don't choose this battle, it's not a fight. The well drillers are coming tomorrow for the second time this week. I am setting the bar low.
It took losing Mike to turn me into the person that understands it is either going to work or it isn't. I don't make that as a simple statement. I make that statement as a life changing philosophy. How did I never know in 50 years that all the freaking out in the world can't change most things. Maybe all things. For 29 years I followed the way Mike lived and yet never realized that I was doing it wrong. If the saying is "you must choose your battles" then hold back as much as you can because the biggest battles you will never see coming. "It is what it is" and "It will either work for me, or it won't". Truer words, never spoken.
till next time.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Steppin' off
Today I got all my outdoor gear on and went outside for my daily walk. the walking conditions were terrible. I have become somewhat an authority on walking. I started in 1994 and other than 2 years that all I did was crawl, everyday I have walked. I imagine in Florida and Texas and places that maintain a sane climate, walking is not a big deal. In Minnesota where the weather conditions change hourly....it is. I have walked in humidity of 90%, temps in excess of 100. I have walked when the wind-chill is 50 below and the temp a balmy 20 below. I have frozen my eyelashes together and have felt sweat running down my back. For me walking outdoors is as essential as everything else I do on a daily basis.
Then there is this: Back in the late 80's when I would go to town, I noticed a woman that would walk along the side of the road. For many months I drove by and only noticed her in passing. She was small. Bent over somewhat. Wearing several layers of clothing dependent upon the weather conditions. She did not walk on the paved bike trail. She walked along the side of the road on the shoulder. She became part of the scenery, I started to actually look for her. I began to worry when she wasn't there because it didn't matter what time I was on the road....she was too. In a 20 mile stretch, she would be somewhere. This woman walked in snow, she walked in sleet, she walked in bone freezing cold. She walked in summers hottest heat, thunderstorms that raged, she walked early in the morning,she walked late into dusk. I finally asked a friend what she knew about her. I worked at the local State Hospital, she wasn't one of ours. My friend said, she was a local resident. She lost a child. Her only child. When the pain of that became who she was, she lost her husband. He was a local minister and the journey they started as a couple, separated on the trail of grief.
This is what I know: We live in a world of "Social Media". It means that in a public format, our lives are on display. There is facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn and blogging. It is a voice for who we want others to think we are, that doesn't need words. It is a format for what we like, too often for what we hate. Unabashed voyeurism and sometimes a platform to pretend.
I am on Facebook. The potential of it is huge. There is an opportunity to share not only the best of your life, but the worst of your fears, yet we don't. There is a popular post that has hit my news feed many, many times over the past few months. It implores people to show understanding, that "everyone is going through something", yet no one wants to comment on what that something is. Do we really need recognition for the good times in life or are the good times enough in themselves. I would think what is most needed is a dialogue about what we can't hold. What we can't carry. What drove us to look at facebook in the first place. It isn't that you wish bad on others, you just want to know that in "bad"....you aren't alone.
I started my blog with the feeling that I had words that I needed to put down. I kept journals for 3 years, three years of a soul bleeding red. Words that defined who I was. I started writing in a public format and then it became all I could feel. I lost sight of the words I needed to say and started to write for what I thought people needed to hear. I no longer was that woman....that woman that walked by the side of the road, not because she was trying to make any kind of a public statement but because she was trying to take some kind of a personal stand.
I know that the strategy of a blog is to get readers. I have read the marketing tips. I see what I need to do. I posted all my new blog-posts on facebook and then I became a slave to the opinions of others. I am stepping off.
There is a paragraph from "You've got mail" it goes like this "Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life-well, valuable but small- and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around? I don't really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void."
I haven't seen the woman walking in over 10 years. For 25 years she made a statement that spoke so loud. If who you are and what you did made someone remember it for 30 years, then maybe just maybe it was a message worth sending. I challenge people to put in 140 characters on Twitter the same message that took 25 years of walking to send. Our lives may be small but to everyone we know and love, they are larger than life. Larger than words. Make your message count.
Till next time.
Then there is this: Back in the late 80's when I would go to town, I noticed a woman that would walk along the side of the road. For many months I drove by and only noticed her in passing. She was small. Bent over somewhat. Wearing several layers of clothing dependent upon the weather conditions. She did not walk on the paved bike trail. She walked along the side of the road on the shoulder. She became part of the scenery, I started to actually look for her. I began to worry when she wasn't there because it didn't matter what time I was on the road....she was too. In a 20 mile stretch, she would be somewhere. This woman walked in snow, she walked in sleet, she walked in bone freezing cold. She walked in summers hottest heat, thunderstorms that raged, she walked early in the morning,she walked late into dusk. I finally asked a friend what she knew about her. I worked at the local State Hospital, she wasn't one of ours. My friend said, she was a local resident. She lost a child. Her only child. When the pain of that became who she was, she lost her husband. He was a local minister and the journey they started as a couple, separated on the trail of grief.
This is what I know: We live in a world of "Social Media". It means that in a public format, our lives are on display. There is facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn and blogging. It is a voice for who we want others to think we are, that doesn't need words. It is a format for what we like, too often for what we hate. Unabashed voyeurism and sometimes a platform to pretend.
I am on Facebook. The potential of it is huge. There is an opportunity to share not only the best of your life, but the worst of your fears, yet we don't. There is a popular post that has hit my news feed many, many times over the past few months. It implores people to show understanding, that "everyone is going through something", yet no one wants to comment on what that something is. Do we really need recognition for the good times in life or are the good times enough in themselves. I would think what is most needed is a dialogue about what we can't hold. What we can't carry. What drove us to look at facebook in the first place. It isn't that you wish bad on others, you just want to know that in "bad"....you aren't alone.
I started my blog with the feeling that I had words that I needed to put down. I kept journals for 3 years, three years of a soul bleeding red. Words that defined who I was. I started writing in a public format and then it became all I could feel. I lost sight of the words I needed to say and started to write for what I thought people needed to hear. I no longer was that woman....that woman that walked by the side of the road, not because she was trying to make any kind of a public statement but because she was trying to take some kind of a personal stand.
I know that the strategy of a blog is to get readers. I have read the marketing tips. I see what I need to do. I posted all my new blog-posts on facebook and then I became a slave to the opinions of others. I am stepping off.
There is a paragraph from "You've got mail" it goes like this "Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life-well, valuable but small- and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around? I don't really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void."
I haven't seen the woman walking in over 10 years. For 25 years she made a statement that spoke so loud. If who you are and what you did made someone remember it for 30 years, then maybe just maybe it was a message worth sending. I challenge people to put in 140 characters on Twitter the same message that took 25 years of walking to send. Our lives may be small but to everyone we know and love, they are larger than life. Larger than words. Make your message count.
Till next time.
Friday, December 28, 2012
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.
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.
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| 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 |
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| Mike and "Sammy" at Monica's Party
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| Chainsaws and work-boots |
Monday, November 26, 2012
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.
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.
till next time.
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Found in the middle of nowhere.
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| First deer, 8pt., Muzzle loader, 1 shot |
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.
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| Mike pulling the Thanksgiving Hayride |
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.
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| Marty Hayride of 2011 |
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| Dad, Mike, Steven |
Monday, October 15, 2012
I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more....
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| My Dad...84 years strong |
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."
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| James Brown, Chad and Mike |
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
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