Saddle up and ride.

The start of a fire career.

The end of a fire career.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


till next time.

Once I cried for 8 years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

till next time
 

The first hello and the last good-bye.

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

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

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

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

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

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

till next time.

A "Hat-trick of Happiness"

The launch of a thousand new memories.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

till next time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

till next time.

Location, location, location.

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

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

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

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

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

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

till next time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

till next time.