My heart....times two.

My laundry pile

my helpers laundry pile

It's Friday. I hit the ground running this morning at 6am. At 7:15am the front door flew open and my 2 year old grand-daughter arrived. She comes in and takes the house by storm. She is the youngest of three and has been treasured by all since the day she was born, as a result, she has the confidence that comes from security, tolerance and love. Every other Friday it is just she and I, my Grandson is with his Dad. All the ideas for the day, all the playing that is done, every conversation that is had is just she and I. I do my best to hang....but by 7:30am, I am exhausted. Two year olds may be the most relentless people on the face of the earth. Their passion for repetitive sentences is legend. You simply can NEVER answer correctly. They don't understand the period at the end of anything, frankly there isn't an end that will satisfy them. The word why, covers most of their talk and if you ignore them, they just amp up the volume. Having said that tho, this little gal, is an easy keeper. When it is just she and I she follows me around and mimics what I do. The laundry you see piled here is a case in point. She absolutely loves to fold clothes. When I hang things on the clothesline, she takes stuff out of the basket and shakes it out (in the dirt and grass) before handing it to me along with one clothespin. When we are in the house, she takes the clothes and shakes them, spins them around, makes an effort to fold them and then just balls them up and tosses them on the ground and says "there". She is up for any household chores I want to do but she has the attention span of roughly 2 minutes, so I had better be fast.

Then there is this: Occasionally we have the opportunity to have all of the grand-kids at once. They are four strong and they get  along great. When they are here together I just have to sit and watch for damage control. They chase each other around, build forts for hours. They hang off the monkey bars of the swing set, set up massive homes in the playhouse, they ride their bikes in the summer and shovel snow in the winter. If one of them gets hurt, they all immediately stop what they are doing and converge on the injured to assess the damages. The door of the house opens roughly 1000 times, and often never gets closed again. The toilet flushes....constantly. We go through juice boxes, juice bags, bananas, sandwiches, ice cream and fruit snacks. Everyone is always hungry. At the end of the day, after their parents have arrived and they have gone home. I pour a glass of wine and collapse in a chair. I thank god for every second of that day.

This is what I know: There is a saying that to have a child is to have your heart walk outside your body for the rest of your life. It is true. It may be even more true for grandchildren. I tried very hard to be a good Mom. It was all I ever wanted to be. Oh I had ideas of jobs and careers and hobbies but if I could have only chosen one thing, I would have chosen to be a Mom. I got the opportunity to parent 4 times. Four times , a miracle. I was never disappointed. I remember when the kids were little I would worry. About everything. When they were all teenagers I remember asking my Dad, "when can I stop worrying". He said, "never". He was right. But here is the thing. There is worry and then there is paralyzing fear. I understood one until Mike died,  then I became intimately familiar with the other. I am not the Grandmother I would have been if Mike were still here. Before I knew that death really could come, not just to the neighbors house, not just to someone from your old hometown, not just to someone you read about in the newspaper or on the Internet, it could come to you. It came to me. In five years, I have never answered the phone that I have not thought, "it has come again". I no longer look at my daughters, my husband, my grand-children, my parents, sisters and brothers, my son in laws, everyone I love without fear,I know that in a split second they could be gone. Fear like that changes you, it changes who you are. It makes you be that person that repeats "be careful", so many times that the grand-children look and me and say "Nannie"!!!! I can't help myself. I irrationally think if I remind them constantly, if I keep as close a vigil as I can, somehow, I can outsmart God. Never again will he take from me someone I can't live without. I have walked the edge of that cliff, I have looked over the side, it is a paralyzing fear.
In an hour I am going to school. I will pick up my two oldest grand-daughters. When we come home I will prop the ladder up so they can climb the tree. I will watch as they ride their bikes within 5 feet of the road. We'll walk down and look at the creek and on the warm days like yesterday, we will take off our shoes and socks and wade in the cold spring water. I will try as hard as I can not to say "be careful", I will try to show...no fear.
Their Mothers and their Aunt Miss and Uncle Mike are my heart, it has been walking outside my body for over 36 years. The grand-children are my heart times two. Mike lived life, full on. Seems as tho I was always saying "be careful". He chose a profession racked with danger, he took chances that needed to be taken, he did not hold back. I was and am so very proud of the choices he made and the life he lived with such passion. On the day Mike died, I wasn't worried...at all. He had gone to do something he had done a thousand times. He went to hook a trailor to his truck. It was that one second of time, that one second where nothing lined up right in the Universe. That one second where I couldn't stop what was going to be. All my worrying didn't keep him safe. He would be the first to tell me, it will be OK. He would be the first to tell me, you can't outsmart God.

                                                        No Fear
He would be the first and maybe the only person that could tell me. Let go.

till next time.

Klondike Start

Nolan's Horse "Hobart"

Lampshade my Grandmother made

Mikes polar fleece, Grandpas vest

Mallory's "Sam", the green baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

In a Klondike Start, you are on your own.

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

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

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

till next time.

The season of Grace

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

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

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

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

I knew someday that you would fly away

For loves the greatest healer to be found.

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

Angel flying too close, to the ground.

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

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

Leave me if you need to

I will still remember.

Angel flying too close to the ground.

Willie Nelson

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

till next time.

Crossing T's and dotting I's.

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

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

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

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

Cowboy in a Hardhat

by Curly Musgrave

excerpt:

But the cowboy in the hardhat

Is not like other men.

Who merely do the possible

To hold what's in their grasp.

He reaches deep within himself

And finds the strength to last.

Beyond the thresholds mortals keep

Within the lines and odds.

He'll stop the devil in his dance

Upheld by greater Gods.

But we'll remember when it's over

And take the time to tell.

Of the cowboy in the Hardhat

Who quenched the fires of hell.

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

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

You be a Cowboy too.

till next time.

This is home.

Thursday night at Midnight, I left the comfort of a warm home and went to the premiere showing of the "Hunger Games". My oldest daughter went with me and we were joined by roughly 150 teenagers of varying ages. It is my understanding that this movie premiered all over the country that night in large multi-plex theaters. We were in a one screen theater in the small town near where we live.
On Friday night, my book club met. Our discussion was not the "Hunger Games" but because it had just been released and some of the women had read the book we discussed it anyway. The women of my book club are varying ages. They are well-read, well-thought, compassionate and generous women. Their combined wisdom is inspiring. It was interesting to me to hear their take on a book and movie that somehow managed to grab the attention of nearly an entire generation of teenagers.

In the dark theater that night an entire society was playing out. When teenagers gather it is a social system rivaled by....nothing. There were the quiet ones, invisible to the rest, sitting, waiting for the movie to start. There were the ones secure in their popularity, laughing, texting, moving around the theater while the kids that wanted to be near them, moved along too. Were they all happy to be there? I think so. Were they all feeling secure and accepted? Not a chance.

The women of my book club, for the most part, felt "The Hunger Games" was too violent. The violence is not the book. It is a genre of reading I generally avoid. I started reading this series based on a recommendation from my adult nieces. They are widely read and know me well. They assured me I would not be able to put this book down. They were right. I choose to accept the violence in order to feel the story.

 When I was a kid, we moved several times. I learned to adapt. I was the new kid in school in sixth grade and again in ninth grade. I went to small schools where I knew everyone, I went to large schools where I was invisible. I wasn't bullied, I always had friends. I wasn't the most popular but I was on the wild edge of the popular crowd. I hated High School.

My husband Marty, lived in the same small town his entire life. He was part of a large farming community where three or four family names were prevalent and he and most of his friends came from those families. He didn't have to learn to adapt. He was accepted because of his last name. He would tell you, High School was hard.

When our kids were in school we moved..twice. They started out as my husband did from a community where they knew everyone and then they had to learn to adapt. They were four very separate personalities and I think they would all say different things about those years, the one thing they would agree on. High School was hard.

High school is entering hostile territory. Everyday you must show up, it is literally the law. Unlike a job, you don't care for..you have no choice. It is preparation for the society you will live in for the rest of your life. It is filled with the same players, the same social situations, the same successes and failures that you will face as an adult. The difference is, you have no experience with it. You also have no choice. You must learn the rules and they change everyday. It is in High School that you learn, who you are and what you stand for.

It is an Education Philosophy that there is zero tolerance for bullying, yet I would guess that almost all kids would tell you that isn't true. It isn't true for school because it isn't true for the real world. Bullies are alive and well and they are everywhere.
The book "The Hunger Games", and the 2 books that follow are full of physical violence but I don't think that is why the kids embrace them. I think they embrace them for the three main characters. Katniss, Gale and Peeta.These kids live in hostile territory, they have learned who they are and what they stand for. They care well for the people they love and they do what they must to survive. They intentionally hurt no one. The world is full of terrible role-models. They make the news every single day. If these three fictional characters can grab the attention of millions of teenagers, there is a chance for a subtle change. We must all know who we are, but more importantly we must know what we stand for.

Then there is this: For Mike, school was a nightmare. The bad days far outweighed the good.He cared well for the people he loved, he did what he had to to survive, he intentionally hurt no one. By the time Mike reached High School, he had it down. He knew who he was and what he stood for, he just needed to put in the time and get on to his dreams. When he left the closed society of High School, when he no longer felt that he had to try to conform, he was free to be who he wanted to be. The guy he had  spent the last 13 years getting to know. He went to college and started to lay-down his own trail. When he graduated and accepted his first full-time job, he was driving a black Nissan pick-up that he called the POS. It had no reverse. The job he accepted was in Idaho. When people said "how are you going to get all the way to Idaho in that thing", he said "I just won't back up". He found that what was important was being true to yourself. He embraced his non-conformity and in doing so he began a life of honoring...himself. Mike drove his life in forward. He never backed up.

This is what I know: There is physical violence and then there are words that can destroy you like no physical act can. Cuts, scrapes and broken bones heal, words leave scars that last a lifetime. High school is hard,  Adult life is hard. You must know who you are. When Mike died, we were surrounded by community. We felt the love that comes from living in an area for 30 years and calling it home. Three years later when our youngest daughter divorced we found ourselves in hostile territory. Some of the same people that had embraced us when we lost Mike, turned on us when Heidi left. In the short span of three years our family was in the public eye for two very different reasons. We had left the house we raised our family in and moved to the home Mike owned. In doing so we put ourselves deep in the bull-pen of the opposing team. For the first time since I was in High School, I remembered what it felt like to not fit in. The rules had changed and I spent everyday trying to remember who I am and what I stand for.  Unlike High School, we don't have to stay. Marty and I have had many conversations about the future. This is what I know:
This is home.
 A line from a favorite song of mine"where you walk the streets and think you're home..but mostly your alone. This is home." I know who I am, I know what I stand for.
Last week, I had my grand-son late in the afternoon while his Mom was working. When it came time to give him a ride home, I buckled him into his booster and handed him "Dot" the GPS. He loves this thing and treats it like a Ipod touch. He changes the maps, runs through the menu and listens when "Dot tells him we are "recalculating". He keeps an open atlas on his lap in case "Dot" fails to tell us where we are going. I got in the front and was buckling my own seat belt. Nolan turned "Dot" on and then he said this "Nannie I looked at this thing and it says, we are right where we are supposed to be".
I'm gonna take that as a sign.

The cliche' "What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger" needs to go away. It is generally said by someone as a way of consoling someone in deep pain, but the truth is, sometimes what doesn't kill you, can.



Make no mistake, the book "Hunger Games" really isn't about "the games" at all. We need to live our lives in forward. Don't sit in nuetral, don't back-up.
There is no doubt that teenagers need good role-models, Adults may need them more.

till next time.

Saving Grace

The dog that saved me.

Yesterday I ran to town to run a few errands. It was snowing pretty good when I left, adding a cover to the only snow we have gotten all season. I finished up and started towards home. When I turned off the highway to head out into the country, there was a guy standing on the road watching down the bike trail. He waved me through the intersection which I thought was odd, all I had seen coming down the highway was snowmobiles. In this part of the state that is a daily and common sight not usually worthy of a manned intersection. I glanced to my right and saw what he was waiting for. A musher was coming at an easy clip, nine beautiful athletes stretched out in front of him. I pulled off the road and so did the young man coming from the other direction, we watched as they made their way through town. The depth of my feelings surprised me. I was transported back to when dogs and mushing was a big part of my life. I was that person, manning intersections, handing fresh water bottles and watching as the team pulled away. I cried the whole way home.

As my brother Steve and I drove across Texas, we talked...alot. I asked him if he thought he could name all the dogs he has had in his life. When you own a kennel of dogs, when you have raced for over 25 years, you have seen many friends come and go. We ate up the miles of Texas freeway, bringing as many of them back as we could. Not only did we try to name all of his dogs, we tried to name all of Mikes. It started us on an odessey of memories. Which ones could lead, which ones wanted to fight, which ones came from Alaska, the Minnesota kennels we knew. Stories from the days when it was all about...the dogs. Dogs I found were like people you work with. They had their personalities, their quirks, some of them came ready for the job everyday and some just wanted to hang around the water-cooler of life. I didn't know in the days when the yard was full of dog houses, dog trucks, sleds and harnesses that one day there would be a dog that would save my life.

Marty and I went a few years after the kids left home without having a dog. We had buried the last two remaining friends and I was ready I thought to be dog-free for the first time in our married lives. It didn't take long tho for the urge to have a running partner re-surface. Although Marty likes dogs and helps me care for the ones that we had, I am the "dog person". I started visiting the dog shelter looking for the one that needed me. The shelter was a 40 minute drive from my house and after the 3rd visit there, coming home empty I was starting to give up. The 4th visit, I walked through the yard, the shelter operator was with me. I looked at all the dogs I had seen the first 3 times and the ones that came since. I said "no" and started walking towards my car. Off to my left, a big white coon-hound came out of a dog-house and just stood and stared at me. I asked the operator about her and she said "you don't want her. She is the longest dog we have had at the shelter. She was adopted once and returned." They called her "Daisy", she was 8 years old. Six of those she lived at the kennel. I brought her home.

Then there is this: When Mike died, I abandoned everyone and everything. The dog Daisy, who we re-named Lady had been with us for several years. I left her. I left her in a kennel at the house we owned and relied on everyone else to go home and feed her. For three years, she had run with me everyday. I had fed her, talked to her, built the trust that she felt for the first time in her dog life. She was my friend, she trusted me. When we made the decision to move to Mike's house, Marty went home and brought Lady to me. I let her out of her kennel everyday by opening the door and walking away. I didn't talk to her, I didn't walk her. I wandered around this 80 acres and she followed right behind me. When I stopped, she ran into me. She didn't ask me for a darn thing except to just be. I read all the grief books I could get my hands on. I was convinced that one of them would tell me how to do this. What I really wanted them to tell me was how to fix this. How to bring Mike back. I tried to  put into words what I felt, what I needed, but for the deepest of grief, there are no words. The deepest of grief is a sound. A sound that Lady could hear. When the day came that I could walk no more it was Lady who held me up. I leaned over and fell into her neck. I held on to her fur with everything I was, I cried the tears of the broken, she planted her feet, starred off to the west and stood there. I soaked her fur and tried to let go of the sound that was killing me, Lady leaned into me and did her best to take the pain I couldn't carry.

This is what I know: Grief scares people. It even scares the grieving. I have a friend who is a nurse, she said when there has been an accident and death is brought to the hospital, the staff is told the families grief must be contained. I sought out help in the form of a doctor that specialized in physical, mental and spiritual health. When I told her I was broken she said "I lost a brother when I was in med school, my parents were never the same". We celebrate like crazy the beginning of life and we run like hell from death. In 2010, Lady was dying. Her hearing had failed, her eye-sight was shot. She had tumors over much of her body. She had lost most of her teeth and when the grand-kids said "she stinks", they were being kind. Everyday I prayed that when I came outside she would be dead. I put Lady in the back of my Rendevous and went to the Vet. He came out of the clinic along with the Vet tech and gave Lady the medicine that would stop her full heart. The last thing I whispered to her was "go find Mike" but the truth as I know it  is Mike came and found her. I brought Her home and Marty buried her, deep in the earth where she saved a life.

This past weekend Marty and I burned a huge brush pile on the back of the property. Last night it was still a 10 foot bed of hot coals. I am using some of Mikes clothes to make quilts for his sisters but I had two large boxes of socks, underwear and t-shirt scraps that it is time to let go of. I loaded it all and carried it to the fire. To say that it is hard to do this is an understatment.  I placed the items on the fire under a nearly full moon. Standing next to me was our current dog Molly, a 50 pound somewhat overweight Bassett Hound that I rescued from a breeding kennel in the Dakotas. I looked down and Molly was holding a pair of Mike's rolled up socks in her mouth. I popped the top on a can of High Life and Molly and I stood watch over the fire.

I have owned many dogs. I have been needed by them all. At the end of the day my life was saved by a dog that nobody wanted. I can't even tell you how grateful I am.

till next time.

Waltzin Across Texas

The rock we stand on.

For 10 days in late February I traveled roughly 3,000 miles with three people I would take a bullet for. This trip was months in the planning, when four 50 somethings decide to take 10 days off from reality there is alot of planning involved. In the months leading up to the date of departure, appointments had to be canceled or re-scheduled, time off from work had to be arranged, grandchildren had to be born and cowboy boots had to be purchased. This is a group I have traveled with in the past. We have seen the Badlands together. We have been to Mount Rushmore. We have threatened to throw each other in the sulfer pools in Yellowstone and we have camped in the mountains of Idaho. The last time tho as near as we can figure was 1968.

Flash forward to 2012. My folks "winter camp" in southern Texas. For three months each year they are "Winter Texans". They re-aquaint with friends from all over the country in an RV park down south. This winter, my two sisters and one of my brothers cleared our schedules and decided to go and see what they were up to. We spent 4 days in their world. We arrived at a place that felt like home. For 4 days we were welcomed like family, hugged by strangers and felt completely accepted by some very cool people. The generation we spent time with has been around along time. They have seen good things and they have survived bad things. They live in a world they never saw coming and they do it with style. Computers, cell phones, dvd players, computerized gas pumps, they take it all in stride. They come from many backgrounds, many career paths, they have raised children and grand-children, they have buried children and grand-children, they have held on to  marriage and to life as hard as they can. They paint, they carve, they read, they play mean hands of cards. They dance, they laugh, they plan. They never give up.

My sisters and brother and I could have flown to Texas. People asked why we didn't. Although flying would have been faster, that was never what this trip was about. This trip was about belonging. These are the people I belong to. We grew up together and never let go. We took off from Minnesota on a dark Monday morning and returned on a dark Wednesday night. In 10 days this is what I learned.

1. I know nothing about music.
2. You can't get through Kansas without some kind of bad weather.
3. Iowa is the state of historic smokestacks and silos. I saw neither.
4. If you want to see how to do a memorial right. Visit Oklahoma City.
5. Texas is big.
6. The Texas 2-step is best taught by an 80 year old. Thanks Bill.
7. I make a mean Bloody Mary. I never intend to stop perfecting my recipe.
8. In 3 states you can go from jeans to shorts.
9. You can drive in silence for miles and only feel peace.
10. Gratitude.

Then there is this:  On the last night we were in the park, it was western night. The main hall was decorated in high style. Everyone came in their "Cowboy Finest". The band was made up of musicians from the park and an elegant couple that came to "make up the band". We ate, we danced. At one point I looked across the dance floor and roughly 50 men and women including my sisters, my Mom and I were all line dancing together. The final song of the night was a song I played over and over at my Grandmas when I was a child. It was a Marty Robbins tune called "You gave me a Mountain this time". When I was a child I never knew that someday, God, would give me a mountain.  It was the perfect song at the end of the night. I walked across the floor and asked the man who five years ago I layed my head on his chest and broke into a million pieces, to dance.  I took my Dad's hand as the steel guitar played"This time, you gave me a mountain. A mountain I may never climb. It isn't a hill any longer, you gave me a mountain this time."

This is what I know: There is a Johnny Cash song done with Dave Matthews Band called "For You". The lyrics are "The 1st one in...the last one gone. I'll be the rock to stand upon". This park was full of those people. The 1st ones in...the last ones gone. If you want to lead...it must be who you are. My Mom and Dad have layed down the lessons well...they have always been the 1st ones in, the last ones gone. They are the rock we stand upon. In 3000 miles and 10 days the biggest lesson I learned about my sisters and my brother is that we are those people too. I spent 10 days with my past, my present and God willing, my future. It just does'nt get any better than that.

till next time.