Mother of Exiles

 

    In the summer of 1876, a woman named Frantiska embarked on a journey. She left Caslav, Czechoslovakia on a steamship called the Rhein. She was accompanied by her husband, parents, and a three month old son. Sailing to America reportedly took ten to fifteen days. The traveling party arrived at what was then Castle Garden in New York City on July 4th, 1876. New York was celebrating the Centennial. 29 year old Frantiska was reported to have believed that due to the celebratory shouting, shooting, and general mayhem, the end of the world was upon her. Frantiska and her party traveled by train to Fremont, Nebraska and were met by relatives who drove them by horse and wagon to Weston, Nebraska. All told, Frantiska had traveled nearly 5,000 miles. 

    Frantiska's grandson became my grandfather. 

    Those are the things that I know. 

    The things that I don't know are heavy on my mind lately. 

    I don't know what prompted Frantiska to make a decision to change her life so drastically. It could have been economic. It may have been political. It's possible it had something to do with religious reasons. 

    I don't know if Frantiska complained. I don't know if she was thrilled to welcome life anew and tossed herself fully into her new circumstances. 

    Whatever her motivation, Frantiska found herself living in a dugout home on a an unforgiving prairie where she faced a language barrier, little water, blazing summers, blizzards and prairie fires. 

    When I think about her, I am forced to compare the two of us. Around the same age as she was when she embarked on her journey to the States, I moved my family 300 miles west of where I grew up. I nearly came unhinged. Frantiska traveled almost 5,000 miles with an infant. When my kids were little I didn't even want to take them to the grocery store. Frantiska raised children in a dugout house, and later a sod dwelling. I can't sleep without my ceiling fan on high and the proper arrangement of pillows.

    Frantiska and I? We are so different. And yet....I am of her. 

    I don't know whether Frantiska was a democrat or a republican. I know she wasn't granted the right to vote for herself for another forty-four years after she arrived in Nebraska, which would have made her around 73 years old. I know she died at 76 or 77 years old, so I don't know if she voted at all. I don't know if Frantiska leaned to the left, or if she was a conservative woman. I don't know what Frantiska believed about the state of the world in her time. 

    But I know this: Frantiska wasn't from here. 

    Frantiska's grandson defended his country in World War II. Her grandson's grandsons have spent years in America's military. 

    The choices Frantiska made that led her to land in rural Nebraska led to a soft, spoiled lady, living in rural Nebraska. I don't know if she would be proud of her legacy, but I know that I am proud to be hers. Somewhere in my DNA, bravery, boldness, audacity and grit live. Deep down, in the marrow of my bones, lives the kind of strength that I simply can not imagine. But it's there, and I think I could mine it if I needed it. And I gave it to my children. And I share it with my brother. And on bad days, when I read the news and hear the horror that lives in our world? I think about Frantiska. 

    Frantiska was welcomed to the United States,  her new country, by a poem, The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, with conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand a mighty woman with a torch, whose flame is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. 

From her beacon hand glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command the air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she with silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempts tost to me. I lift my flame beside the golden door!"

    The poem tells us that, at some point, the masses were welcome here.  That immigrants should be welcome to America's promise of opportunities and freedom. As my great, great grandmother was welcomed. Incidentally, or perhaps not, the poem was written by a woman of Jewish heritage inspired by her experiences working with refugees and the plight of immigrants. The plight, perhaps, of a 29 year old woman and her three month old baby who had traveled over four thousand miles and still had another thousand miles to go? The plight of people who were brave, and bold, and audacious enough to leave whatever was behind them for the promise of something better. And maybe 'better' meant surviving fires and blizzards and arid, scorching temperatures but that also means that whatever they left behind was worth the risk. 

    Almost 150 years after Frantiska arrived in New York, I find myself disillusioned at the world around me. Exiled by a sea of red. Living in a world that tries to tell the granddaughter of a World War II veteran that she did not see what she knows she saw. Alive in a time where being "other" is terrifying. I'm trying to figure out how to live in today's world. I'm grasping at straws and praying and hoping. I'm asking my great, great, grandmother to send along some of her grit and strength and bravery and boldness and audacity down the ancestral pipeline. 

    Like Frantiska, on the Fourth of July in 1876, I look around me and I listen and I am frightened that the world may be ending. But, unlike Frantiska, I know some of what is coming after me. The children of the grandchildren of the grandchildren. And I am comforted to know that they will do better. Yes, they have anxiety and we maybe coddled them a little, but they recognize that "other" is beautiful and right. They have the ability to see more. And if generational trauma is a thing, then so is generational badassery. So, I have faith. Faith in us, the great great grandchildren of the people who were. Faith that even though it seems like such dark times, Frantiska laid the groundwork for us to follow her, because she followed the beacon and by all accounts, she did okay. 

    So, here's to Frantiska. And to those of us who came after. May we be bold, and gritty and strong and brave, so that our great, great grandchildren will write about us someday from the safety of a world that looks vastly different from today. 

    

Victories and Defeats

 

    A few weeks ago, I posted on Instagram that I had a great day. I did some things that usually make me uncomfortable, and they....didn't. So I celebrated the victory. 

    Every coin has two sides. A few weeks ago, anxiety didn't win the day. Sometimes it does. Yesterday was one of those times. I can't post about the victory if I don't also admit the defeats.

    On my way to work yesterday morning, a semi pulled out onto the highway in front of me. The roads were wet from rain, and it startled me into a state of hyperawareness. I felt shaky and overwhelmed the rest of my drive to work. Which irritated me, because I was absolutely fine. There was no accident. I slowed down in plenty of time. 

    But suddenly, a perfectly good morning turned into a struggle of a day at work, where I quietly questioned my knowledge and abilities. I stood and convinced myself of all the old Anxiety Standby's: So and So is mad. Somebody thinks you're an idiot, etc, etc. And the hours ticked by until it was time to meet John at his doctor's appointment. He's dealing with a back injury, and while there was nothing earth shattering about the appointment, when he left the exam room to be taken for a CT scan, I was asked to wait in a waiting room. On it's own, there's nothing to think about. On a day like yesterday, I was fiercely aware that I was alone in the room and I had to pick a spot on the wall to stare at to avoid crying. What's taking so long? What if something happened? Am I in the right waiting area? 

    As expected, he came out eventually and all was well. Because we met at the office, I got in my car to head home while he finished a phone call. When I backed out of my space, I thought to myself, "I can not wait to be home where it's safe." 

    I hopped on one of the busiest streets in Omaha, headed for a safe space, traveling the speed limit, at 60mph. A car in the lane next to me decided to switch lanes. I veered right, trying to avoid him. But he was veering right to make the exit. So I slammed on my brakes and veered left and nearly lost control of my car. I have no good idea how there wasn't a collison. I'm sure that whoever or whatever was looking out for me had to take blood pressure medicine afterwards. 

    I got off at the next exit, in search of somewhere safe. I found a parking lot. I pulled into a spot far away from all the other cars. And I fell apart. Struggling to control my breathing, crying, shaking. I tried to call John. Straight to voicemail.  I used the 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 trick. 

    Five things I can see: I see grass, trees, pink flowers, the tail lights of a royal blue car....no...that's not right. Grass, trees, pink flowers, my phone in my hand, and the purple sparkles of my water cup. 

    Four things I can feel: the smooth skin of my shaved leg, the pain in my foot from stomping on the brakes....no. The smooth skin of my shaved leg, the ice pack from my lunch against my neck, sweat, my heart pounding, no air......no. Try again. The smooth skin of my shaved leg, the ice pack from my lunch on my neck, the roughness of the zipper of my purse against my fingers, my hands running through my hair.

    Three things I can hear: Tires squealing. Nope. The wind, as it blows through the car windows, traffic from the nearby road, sirens.....STOP IT. The wind, traffic, my phone ringing.

    Two things I can smell: cigarette smoke and cut grass. Ok.

    One thing I can taste: my Wintergreen Life Saver. 

    Ok. Ok. Ok. I keep repeating to myself. You're ok. It's ok. Ok , ok, ok. Like a mantra, I struggled to ground myself back into reality. I answer the phone, and the second I answer, John hears that something is wrong and immediately asks where I am. I started crying again, ugly crying. I couldn't make words. I'm back to breathing too fast and too shallow and the phone disconnects and I do it all again. 

    Five things I can see: grass, trees, pink flowers, phone, purple cup

    Four things I can feel: skin, ice, zipper, hair. 

    Three things I can hear: Wind, traffic, phone.

    Two things I can smell: smoke and grass.

    One thing I can taste: Life Saver. 

    Ok. Ok. Ok. 

    I called John back, He was already on his way towards me and is there before I know it. We parked and locked my car, I got in with him and tried to get on with the day. But I was so fucking angry! Who behaves like this? What kind of grown woman can't drive her own goddamn car? WHY does my brain do this? I am faithfully taking my medicines. I am limiting my caffeine intake. I felt defeated.

    And I was defeated. Briefly. 

    But then, my son and his fiance came to help John get my car home, and she brought me a pink, metal flamingo and I decided to ride with them to get the car. On the way, they made me smile and laugh. When I got home I took my medicine and went to bed. I got up this morning, even though every muscle in my body was telling me not to, and I got in my car to go to work. 

    I was nervous to drive. I drove anyway. 

    At the end of the day, I was nervous to drive home, but I drove anyway. And when a little blue car cut me off while changing lanes.....my stomach dropped, but I kept driving. Ok. Ok. Ok. 

    I write this, not for sympathy, but because even though yesterday was a Win for anxiety, today was not. Today was ok. Tomorrow might be better. Ok?

Ms. J and The Grapes of Wrath

 

    I have a thousand other things I should be doing this Sunday morning, but I find that there's a memory stuck in my head that I can't let go. 

    I have always, as long as I can remember,  a lover of books. I use them to escape reality. It's not that there's anything in particular that I NEED to escape from, it's just that I WANT to escape. I want to immerse myself in someone else's world and think about someone else's life. I want to travel to different places and learn about other lives. And since the budget doesn't allow a lot of travel, and honestly never has, I do it by reading. I'd rather go to the library than Target. I'd sit in a bookstore from open to close before I would sit in a movie theater. 

    When I was in middle school, I had an English teacher who took a passing interest in whatever I happened to be reading at the moment. I had a much used Wahoo Library card, back when the library was next to the police and fire station. One day, I pulled a book off the shelf and checked it out. The book was The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck. I don't remember how I came across it. I just know that I started reading it, and keeping in mind that I was somewhere around thirteen years old, it was a bit of a struggle for me to understand the themes in the book. But I do love a challenge. When I showed up with the book at school, sitting on top of my text books and notebooks in English class, Ms. Jacobsen noticed and commented, "That's quite a book." And I must have kind of smiled? And she said, "I worry that this book is going to break your heart a little. Come talk to me about it if  you want."

    We all know I love the dramatics, but when I say to you that the book changed my life, I leave the drama behind and mean every word. I didn't know how to talk about it. I didn't have the words for what I felt, but Ms. Jacobsen was absolutely correct. And some days later, when she asked me how it was going, I all but burst into tears. She said, "Jenny, (because I was Jenny in those days) do me a favor and read this book again in a few years. You'll be surprised at what you learn from it all over again." 

   So. Shout out to Ms. Connie Jacobsen, wherever she may be. I have my doubts that she would even remember this, but I am happy to report that I took her advice, and not only reread the book once more, but actually several more times throughout the years, each time I set it down I learn a little something new. She could have told me not to read it. She could have suggested a more appropriate book. She could have called my parents and insisted they be a little more careful about what I checked out at the library. Instead, she said, "Come talk to me about it if you want". We really don't give teachers the credit they deserve for what they do. Ms. J. knew enough about her student to know that a little heartbreak might be necessary. 

    As an aside, Steinbeck's novel met with controversy. It was burned and banned and criticized. But, years later, when I pulled it off the shelf of my local library, I didn't know any of that. I sat down in Small Town, Nebraska, in a bedroom carpeted in green, on a twin bed, and absorbed a story that had the power to break my heart and fill in all the gaps in one fell swoop. I had a teacher who was willing to help me understand it. 

"I ain't gonna try to teach 'em nothin'. I'm gonna try to learn." John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath

Small Word

 

    When I open my eyes, I know, from the feeling in the pit of my stomach, that it is Mother's Day. I take the dogs out in the budding light of the day, stand and look at the sky and smell the Spring air. It rained last night. It feels like the perfect day to visit my mom. 

    I get dressed and go to a graduation, because someone, somewhere, decided that the day wasn't fraught enough for some people. A graduation for a boy who never met his grandma. I cry, because I met this boy at the hospital, hours after he was born, and I would put money that that event was just a few weeks ago. I take pictures. I wipe my eyes and find the top of Zoe's head. She's playing in the band today. This time next year, it'll be her graduating. Zoe, who never met her grandma. After the ceremony, I hug and laugh with my brother. Who barely remembers his mother. 

    I go to the store and pick out flowers. Coral pink roses for my mom, purple for my grandma. I don't know if they will like them, but I think they're pretty, and festive and appropriate. The short drive down a paved county road leads to their place. It's quiet and green. There's a little noise from traffic, but mostly, what I hear are the birds. I exit the vehicle, walking with flowers in hand, seeing the different granite markers. Some with flowers, some without. There's someone new, just a row behind my mom. There's a huge old tree, and the wind whispers through the branches. 

    My mom's place is marked by rose colored granite. It's got dirt and grass clippings and John goes back to the truck to get a rag and a bottle of water to clean it up. And I stand there, staring at her words and listening to what's going on around us, and I wonder. I imagine. I pray. I wash the stone, the middle part, where her words are, gets darker with the water. The few minutes it takes to clean up the stone offer me something active to do for her. And so I spend just a few more seconds on it. It's not her arms wrapped around me, but it's the best I've got. John goes and does the same for my grandparents, resting next to their daughter. I think maybe they would appreciate it? Maybe someday, a long time from now, someone will do the same for me? 

    When I've stood there, staring into the words on the stone for awhile, I read them for what must be the hundred-millionth time. Loving Wife and Mother. I focus on the word Mother. It's a small word for such a title. It means so much. It means that I exist. That my brother exists. It means that my family is. But it also means that I will never know so many things during my life. It means that I will always wonder and think and grieve. I say goodbye as I always have. I kiss my finger tips and run them across the granite over the word. Mother. 

    I get home and find the picture I have. The one of twenty-seven year old Mom. She's a month from turning twenty-eight. A month from giving birth to me. She's wearing a white. long sleeved shirt with a plaid sweater over the top. If it didn't say on the back, in her loopy handwriting, that she was four weeks from having me, I don't know if I would be able to tell that she was pregnant at all. It's physical evidence to hold in my hand, that once upon a time, forty-four years ago, she and I were together. 

    I have dinner with my son and his fiance, with John and Zoe, and I open the gift they give me. Inside is a small wooden sign. It reads Best Mom Ever. And I don't think that's true, but the tears come falling down because I focus on the word Mom. I focus on all it's brought me, and all it's cost me. And I know, down in my soul, where my connection to my mother still lives on, that it's a small word for such a title.

  

Salt and Light

 

In the last few weeks, the phrase "salt of the earth" has kept popping into my mind. What does that really mean? A little research shows that the phrase derives from Jesus' sermon on the Mount: "You are the salt of the earth" Matthew 5:13. Jesus preached to the common people, fishermen, shepherds, laborers, farmers, that they were worthy and virtuous. He was alluding to the value of salt, which at the time, was highly prized, and so precious that it was used as money. He suggested that virtuous people are connected to the land, either literally, as farmers and herders, or figuratively as down-to-earth people. A little further into the reading of Matthew, Jesus says to the commoners, "You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl, Instead, they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in Heaven" Matthew 5:14-16.

I can't think of a better way to describe my Uncle John.

John J. Sabatka Jr was a lot of things to a lot of different people. He was a husband and father, a brother and friend. To me, he was Uncle. To me, he was, and will always be, fifty percent of the team, who in late 1979 or early 1980, made a promise to a dying young woman, and then kept it. It was no small promise. `

My earliest memories of him are watching him walk across the farm yard from the front window of the dining room of the farm. Off to do chores, dressed in a brown coat, while I stayed inside where it was warm. Later, I remember following the same brown coat into a building on the farm, and realizing, suddenly and shockingly that he had been hunting. There was a deer carcass hanging from the ceiling. He put his arm around my shoulders and led me away from the horror, and if I remember correctly, he snickered the whole time. 

On at least one occasion, while celebrating a holiday, he snuck me a cookie after Aunt Paulette had told me that I had had enough sweets. One time, at the end of a visit, he found me sulking at his kitchen table. When he questioned what was the matter with me, I admitted that I wasn't ready to leave. When he asked why, I told him that I would miss him. We stayed another night. 

I once heard him whispering and cooing to someone on my way to the kitchen, and slowed my step on the off chance that I was about to interrupt a tender moment between a husband and wife, only to find Aunt Paulette coming up the stairs from the basement, and Uncle John murmuring to their little dog.

Often, I found Uncle John on the edges of the party. He always seemed to be standing off to the side, a pillar of quiet strength.  He may not of used a lot of words, but I often found that standing next to him and slipping my hand into his offered me comfort and reassurance. 

He danced with me at a family wedding and whispered to me that he was sure that my mother was proud of me. We two, swaying to the music, tears rolling down our cheeks, didn't say another thing to one another for the rest of the song. 

John J Sabatka Jr was not famous. He was a farmer. He was a laborer, he shepherded his family. He lit a light and let it shine on whoever happened to be in the area at the time. I sit here, a living, breathing reminder of one of his good deeds. Salt and Light. 

To a good, kind, gentle, patient, hard-working man: Rest Easy. Thank You. 

The Farmer

 

        Two nights ago, I posted about a trip I took to the moon Bruno, Nebraska with my unwilling co-pilot, my brother, Joel. It got me thinking about the second and last time I ever visited the village. This is how it works with me now. A memory sparks a memory, which hopefully sparks a memory that is worthy of spending some time sharing it with an unwitting reader. 

        My grandparents on my dad's side lived on a farm when I was growing up. They were Max and Cheryl "Billie" Kliment. He was a farmer, she, a housewife. Their farm was located between Saunders and Butler Counties. It was in the middle of a section, with a long, gravel driveway, where my brother and I searched for the best and prettiest rocks on our trips to get the mail for Grandma. The driveway led to a pale, yellow house, trimmed in white, with a large tree out front, whose trunk had long ago split into two giant branches. There was a barn, and several out-buildings, and set further from the house, a machine shed. There were goldfish in the cow's water tank, and a creek bed that ran one side of the property. Sometimes the creek had a little water in it. Most of the time it was dry.  It was a place ripe with adventure for two young explorers. My brother would grab his plastic machine gun that made noise when you pulled the trigger, and we would set off, spending hours just wandering and seeing what there was to see. 

        Often, on our visits, we were under my grandma's feet, and I remember following her around her house. The washing machine was on the enclosed front porch. She had a giant cook-stove in the corner where I saw the first ever poached egg of my young life. Her kitchen counters were low enough for me to reach, because they were custom build for her stature. There was candy in the cupcake shaped candy dish on the dining room table, where I never remember sitting, even though it had the good, soft cushioned chairs. Grandma saved her empty makeup compacts for me in a box on the front porch, so I could 'put on my face' when I was visiting.  During our times there, despite Grandpa being home, he busied himself with other activities. There was, I am sure now, plenty for him to do that didn't involve two little kids. 

        Grandpa was a quiet man. He had a facial tick,which made it look like he winked a lot. He wore overalls a lot of the time. He walked with a cane. He drove a Mercury Marquis and a Ford F-150. He upgraded the years occasionally, but never the models. He drank a lot of coffee. I was later to discover that he had a wicked and biting sense of humor. He never appeared to be in a great hurry to get anywhere, in fact, I believe that the only time I ever saw him rush to do anything was finish his cup of coffee. Black, strong, Butternut coffee. None of this cream and sugar nonsense for Grandpa. He would often ask if we wanted a cup, and if we said yes, he would tell us that it was too hot.  He had an outside, long haired cat, named Diana. He fed the cat in the machine shed, and closed her in it every night for her safety. During the day he left the doors cracked, just enough so she could come and go as she pleased. He came to my house and played with our dog, a Dachshund named Kandy. She didn't like his cane, and tried to bite it, while barking and growling. He laughed and shook it around at her.  I suppose that a person who didn't know him may have been intimidated by him, but to me, he was just Grandpa. He had the best little half-smile when he found something funny. As a young girl, I once asked him why he walked so bent over, and he told me he was looking for pennies on the ground. I spent the next three days of my life with my face turned downward, thinking that I had been missing a plethora of pennies that had been unknowingly scattered at my feet. He sold seed corn. I once mailed him poem, cut from a magazine, entitled The Farmer, by Amelia Barr. He never acknowledged it. He teased me that his middle name was a secret, and it drove me crazy with curiosity, until my grandma told me that he didn't have a middle name.  I was thirteen years old before it occurred to me to wonder why we didn't have the same last name. As it happens, he was my dad's step-father. He was married before my Grandma, having lost his first wife and newborn son within days of one another in 1950. He was a World War II veteran. He liked playing cards, and taught his young granddaughter how to play Kings In The Corner by thoroughly trouncing me several times, despite my grandma pleading with him to play nicer. He was a serious Pitch player. I once cost us a game of Pitch and I'm not sure he ever truly forgave me. 

        Grandma and Grandpa lived on the farm until the summer before I entered my Freshman year of high school. At that point, they auctioned their belongings and moved to a house in David City. There, grandpa kept his yard in tip top shape and had more time for friends, coffee and cards. 

        When I was in my early 20's, I got a call that my grandma had been admitted to the hospital. I traveled the 50 miles from where I lived, and joined family at her hospital bed. If my memory serves, she was suffering from a ruptured hernia, which required surgery. As we waited in the small hospital, my grandpa said very little. When we were able to see her after surgery, I heard his sigh of relief, as if he had been holding his breath for all the hours he had been there. My groggy grandmother said that she supposed they wouldn't be going for dinner in Bruno that evening. Grandpa looked slightly distraught. She, from her bed, still woozy from the anesthesia, worried about what he would do for dinner. I offered to take him home and cook him something, but he instead asked if I wanted to go with him to Bruno, so the two of us said our goodbyes and headed for the parking lot. My grandpa stopped several times along the way to greet people he knew. I climbed into the passenger seat of their Mercury Marquis, an impeccable silvery car that was approximately 948 feet long. I've sat on couches that were less comfortable than this car seat. Off we went, just the two of us. It was the first time in any memory that I was truly alone with my grandpa. 

        David City to Bruno is roughly fifteen miles, though I didn't know that at the time. I knew that he sat behind the wheel with the confidence of someone who had a lot of things to look at, and all the time in the world to see them. We left the hospital sometime around four o'clock in the afternoon. We pulled up in front of the bar in Bruno sometime close to five. I hadn't paid that much attention, as I was trying to formulate a plan to ask my grandpa about himself. Instead, we rode in silence, except for a moment when he pointed out a deer in a far off field. Truth be told, I never saw the deer. I looked in the direction he pointed and I pretended, because I didn't know what else to do. 

        I was in a place in my life where I had started to seek a wider view of the people I loved. To see the very human, loving interactions between my grandparents had kick-started a curiosity in me. Who was this man, outside of being Grandpa? How does one go about asking questions that I was ashamed I didn't already know the answers to? 

        Upon entering the bar, Grandpa was greeted by several friends. It was a booming business. I think there were fifteen people inside. We took spots at the end of a long table of his friends, and someone came to the table and asked, "Where's Billie?" My grandpa responded that he had "traded her in for a younger model". He got a lot of laughs. It took me awhile to realize that he never expanded on the point. He just went about his dinner, visiting, and drinking coffee, letting the people believe whatever they wanted. An elderly woman sitting next to me asked, as the waitress was taking my plate away, where Billie was, and I told her the story of my grandmother's surgery. She gently scolded my grandpa, telling him to let my grandma know they'd be stopping by the following day. 

        Here again, was evidence that my grandparents existed in a world far outside of the one they lived in in my narrow view. They had an entire social circle. I sat, ever the observer, and watched many interactions between my grandfather and the people coming and going from a small town bar on a warm summer evening. It only fed my need to know more. When he drank down the last dredges of coffee in his cup, he gave everyone's favorite, mid-western indication that it was time to go. "Welp." He refused to let me pay for dinner, and we returned to the silver land yacht of a car that had delivered us to the village. The sun was fading in the sky. 

        I am confident in guessing that the speedometer never surpassed twenty-five miles an hour during the trip back to David City. I was nervous about starting a conversation, and when I get nervous, I usually have to pee, so my bladder was even more full than my mind, when I smelled something putrid. Initially, I blamed some farm animal. I cracked the window on my side of the car, and realized very quickly that it wasn't a smell from outside the vehicle. I said nothing. Grandpa rolled the window up from the controls on his side of the car, also silent. Several minutes later, a similar smell wafted in the air, and I again, opened my window. And again, he rolled it up. Twice more, we battled the stench and the window with a pregnant silence. I was a millimeter from laughing myself silly, and I couldn't take it anymore. I didn't want to call him out, no one could have paid me to embarrass him, so I bargained with myself that the best course of action was to avoid the subject completely. I erupted with, "Grandpa, tell me something about yourself!"To which he replied, smirk firmly in place, "I got gas." 

        Be still my curious heart. (And tell me something I hadn't already learned myself in the worst possible way!" 

        We howled the rest of the way back to David City. It took one hour and ten minutes to get back to David City, and I know that because the laughing hadn't helped the situation with my full bladder, and I watched every minute tick by on the green digital clock in the dash. Because we had all met at the hospital, we returned there, where I (blissfully!) emptied my bladder, and where I watched, from the doorway, my grandfather lean and kiss my sleeping grandmother on the forehead. He patted her hand, and slowly turned to shuffle away. 

        My grandfather joined his first wife and baby son in the fall of 2003. When he died, my grandma found an envelope with my childlike handwriting, holding the poem I had sent him years before.  I suppose that's as sentimental as he was comfortable being.  He was reunited with my grandma fifteen years later, in the spring of 2018. I don't know if he was allowed to escort her through the pearly gates, but if he was, I am sure she had plenty of time to see all the sights on the way. 

        He never really answered the questions I had, but nonetheless, he told me all I needed to know. 

The Farmer by Amelia Barr

"God bless the man who sows the wheat,

Who finds us milk and fruit and meat;

May his purse be heavy, his heart be light,

His cattle and corn and all go right;

God bless the seeds his hands let fall,

For the farmer he must feed us all.

A Celebrity Tale

        Yesterday's Random Stranger asking me if "it was the driver" triggered a memory that I feel some way about, so I thought I would share and make some long, long overdue apologies. 

      

        As with most siblings, my brother and I went through quite a long period of not liking each other much. We loved each other, and I am confident that at any time, my brother would have had my back against pretty much anything, and I know, with certainty, that I had his. Mostly. I was the little sister. I had a tendency towards 'brat' a lot of the time. When I was sixteen, my brother joined the Army, and when he left for boot camp, it tore my heart out. We discovered that we liked each other a lot more than we thought. Or, perhaps, *I* discovered how much I liked him and he just kept being him? At any rate, we weren't in the same state for months at a time, so I wrote him letters and he called me and our relationship grew to a more adult sibling/friendship situation. When my brother came home on leave, I tried to hang out with him as much as he would allow. We usually weren't engaging in a ton of wholesome activities. There was usually beer. There were definitely cigarettes. There was always music. And there were laughs for days. Our parents were maybe a little bit oblivious, because he was my older brother, and they counted on him to keep me in line. 

        On one such occasion, Joel was home on leave and we, along with our parents, were invited to meet our grandparents in Bruno, Nebraska for dinner at the bar. If you've never been to Bruno, well......it's pretty much just a bar. There may be a church, but I can't confirm that.  The bar served food. My grandparents liked to go there to eat occasionally. Somehow, on this particular occasion, we drove separately from our parents, them in the truck and Joel and I in the car. 

      In the mid 90's, my parents owned a four door, navy blue Chevy Celebrity and a black and red Ford F-150. My dad mostly drove the truck and my stepmom drove the car. Dad's truck wasn't shared often. So as a teenager, I mostly drove the car. The Celebrity had, at one point, an arm rest that was removed in the middle of the front seats, resulting in there being two small metal armrest holders exposed to an unlucky number of people who either sat in the front seat or caught elbows, purse straps, grocery bags, etc on them. 

        So, Joel and I set forth on a miniature road trip to Bruno in the Celebrity. Something important to know about my brother- he didn't like driving. So, I was behind the wheel, despite not actually knowing where Bruno was located. No matter. That was minor. I had my brother, his unique sarcasm and sense of humor, a warm early summer day, loud music on the radio, a full pack of Marlboro Reds, a bottle of Dr. Pepper and a light heart. We were cruising, a favorite activity of mine in those days. Windows down. I was feeling good. When we turned off the highway at the sign that directed us to Bruno, we turned onto an unfamiliar gravel road and, no doubt, cranked up the tunes a little louder and kept on keeping on. 

        As is often the case with young drivers, I was going too fast on a road that I didn't know. You know how sometimes you drive over a small bump in a gravel road and it makes  your stomach do that little flippy thing? We did that a few times. We laughed about it every time. It felt like we had been driving for a long time, and I was starting to wonder if we had missed a turn somewhere when I entered an intersection of gravel roads whose elevations did not match up and I accidentally launched the navy blue Chevy into orbit. We came back to Earth with a loud crunch, and a yell from my brother. I was in stunned silence. I had not intended to visit Heaven, but I bumped my head on a cloud. My brother let out a string of Not Safe For Work Words and yelled for me to PULL THE......HECK....over. I complied, absolutely mute. 

        We got out of the car on the side of the gravel road, no other cars in sight, and my brother took a long drag from a cigarette. I walked around the car to be sure that all of the tires were still attached. Joel checked the road for errant car parts. He laid down on the road and checked the underside of the car for leaks. The entire time, we said nothing. I sheepishly asked him if he wanted to drive. Unbelievably, he said no. He climbed into the passenger seat and lit another cigarette. I sat behind the wheel for a minute and gathered myself together. I don't remember the rest of the drive to Bruno. I just know that we got there in relative silence. When we parked out front, I discovered that, in landing, my (high-waisted) jeans had gotten caught on the metal piece that once held the arm rest, and had ripped. Luckily, at that point in my youth, I was a member of the No Flannel Shirt Left Behind Movement, and I grabbed the one I had tossed into the backseat and tied it around my waist in the hope that no one would notice my jeans. 

        Joel and I entered the bar, quickly found our parents and grandparents, and took a seat. My legs were still shaky. I ordered a Dr. Pepper and Joel a Mountain Dew, and we said our hellos. No one questioned why I needed a flannel on a 80 degree day. We sat through dinner, never making eye contact. I was secretly panicking that he was going to tell my parents about our brief foray into working for NASA. He said nothing. After dinner we returned to the car, again astonishingly, my brother declined the driver's seat, we headed for Wahoo and whatever awaited there. About halfway home, my brother started to laugh. We cackled the rest of the way back. 

       So.   

        First and foremost, all apologies to my brother. I don't know what to say. If you called forty-ninty-six right this very minute and told the whole truth....I couldn't possibly blame you. I'm so glad it didn't all end for us on a county road somewhere between Saunders and Butler Counties. That we lived to grow up and get married and have kids of our own who, with any luck, will not attempt to launch themselves off the planet. I....I'm just......sorry, man. That was all on me. 

          Sorry to Jeff Bezos and anyone else who thought they were the first private citizens to leave Earth, but you were not. Joel and I did not need a penis shaped rocket to leave the gravitational pull of the Earth. We did it in a late 80's model, four door Chevy Celebrity with a missing arm rest. I had a cigarette in my hand the whole time. Pretty sure he was mid-sip on a bottle of Mountain Dew. And all it cost us was the gas money my dad gave us before we left. ($10, if memory serves.)

        Sorry to my stepmom, who had to field the question of what she had been doing in her car when my dad changed the oil and found scratch marks on the undercarriage. I would have confessed, but I am a notoriously big chicken shit and I wanted to be allowed to drive the car again. (And months later, ditch it, ALSO unbeknownst to either of you, and you ALSO had to answer for THAT when dad checked the tire pressure and found weeds stuck to the bottom of the car, and angrily asked if you had been off-roading.)

        Sorry to my Guardian Angels, who probably had a migraine from the time I was sixteen and a half until maybe last week? 

        Sorry to my kids. I am the reason I do not trust new drivers. It's me. It's been me the whole time. 

        Whew! I feels so good to get that off my chest! 

        

        

        

What I Wanted To Say

        As is often the case with me, a moment of my Saturday triggered something in me that I can't get out of my teeth. I've written this post at least fourteen times in my head since this afternoon, and so, I suppose I had better just come out with it so I can move on. 

        I went about my Saturday in a good mood, things are changing for me, and while some people find that a new year brings new goals, I have usually found that, for myself, things tend to change in the fall. Spiritually, I think it all has something to do with letting the things that no longer serve me fade away like the green on the leaves, but that's way too 'meta' for the post I am about to share with you, so I'll just say that things are changing and I was feeling pretty good about me. Especially after I got my hair cut after way too long. I cruised into the grocery store and grabbed a cart and things took a weird turn. 

        The cart I grabbed had....problems. One front wheel wasn't touching the ground and the other front wheel REALLY wanted to turn to the right. I just went with it, because I wasn't there for many items. I thought I could handle it. The cart guy was trying to steer one of those unbelievably long rows of carts from outside into the cart return and I didn't want him to think....anything? About me or my picky cart issues. Off I went, to the meat department to find some dinner inspiration, fighting this ridiculous cart through a busy produce section and around several errant children in the baking area. I made it to the meats, found a pork roast that looked like I might want to feed it to my family tonight, and a chicken to roast for Sunday. When I put them in the cart, their combined five pounds made Terrible Cart get worse, and I started laughing at myself for sticking with it. I still had to go to the frozen foods and produce. But, I am a stubborn lady, and I wound my way around to frozen foods, slowly adding a few items here and there, nothing heavy. When I got to the produce section, I almost lost hope, because there were FAR to many people shopping for me to have any hope of not accidentally taking someone out with my Terrible Cart. So, I parked the cart out of the way, grabbed my purse and ran back and forth to it with random produce. Does this sound like a lot of work for a stupid grocery cart? It was. Too much work. 

        I paid for my stuff, went to the cart return area and promptly switched my bags into another cart, because NO WAY am I fighting this rat bastard cart out in the parking lot. I parked Terrible Cart off to the side, and a gentleman walked up and I said, "Don't take that one, it's the worst!" And his response was, "Was it the cart, or the driver? You just need a little muscle." 

       I turned and stared at him, while holding a bag with a whole chicken in it, and offered my silence. I pushed my groceries, in my Not So Terrible Cart, out the door. I thought about the exchange the entire way home. 

        Here's the thing, Random Grocery Store Stranger: You can go ahead and underestimate me. I've been doing it my entire life. I've doubted myself since forever. I've always been willing to make things harder for me if it meant making things easier for someone else. I don't know how to reset my default setting from Undervalue, but I can give you a list of things I've tried that didn't work. Thanks to my genetics, my frame is slight, but it's strong enough to carry the burden of crippling anxiety around everyday. So, I'm not sure it's a muscle problem. 

        Random Stranger, I made 479 right turns with Terrible Cart, and I warned you, so you wouldn't have to, and you paid me back with what I am sure you thought was charming humor, but I have to tell you, I was not charmed. Your response was like a slap in my face. It WAS the driver. It was my willingness to battle a damn faulty grocery cart, rather than let someone see that things weren't going perfectly for me. Logic tells me that the cart guy wouldn't have even bothered to notice me switching carts, but anxiety tells me that he'll think I'm too picky and hard to please. One side of me knows that nobody is looking, and nobody cares, but the anxiety tells me not to stand out in any way. One part of me is having a chill Saturday trip to the grocery store, while the anxiety is telling me to get from Point A to Point B as quickly as possible, without drawing any kind of attention to myself. Living with anxiety is like, well......battling a faulty grocery cart. I get through it, but I make it a lot harder than it has to be. Also, Random Grocery Store Stranger, may I say to you that I'm not going to be like this forever. The way I know that is that I recognize it. Next time, I will exchange the cart before I put any groceries in it. Next time, I will say what I wanted to say after I left, which was something like "Bless your heart" but less southern. 

Isaiah 41:10- So do not fear, for I am with you, do not be dismayed, I will strengthen you and help you, I will uphold you with my righteous hand. 

Tom Petty and My Dad

     My dad listened to country music. The twang-ier the better. As a kid, I didn't care much. I sang along to a lot of the songs and didn't think too much about it until a certain teenage boy introduced his baby sister to the wonder and joy of Metallica and AC/DC. I had several older siblings with an eclectic array of music playing in their cars, and my musical horizons expanded and at some point, I could barely stand to be in the same car as my dad's music, let alone listen to him croon along with the words. I turned sixteen in the winter, and when I got my driver's license, I didn't do a lot of driving 'for pleasure'. To school and back. Maybe to the grocery store if it wasn't icy. But the following spring, freedom was waiting behind the wheel of my dad's red Chevy S-10 with a topper on the back.

     My dad and I struggled for common ground quite a bit. We loved each other, but we didn't really understand each other. He was practical and went to work and came home and mowed the yard and expected his youngest to follow the rules and be home on time and do the dishes. I was sixteen and a girl. I was about discovering who I was and the world outside 538 West 10th and I could not give a rip about dishes. (But you better believe I did them!) He was a good guy. We just didn't always speak the same language.  If I asked for $5 for gas, most often he handed me a ten. Five dollars was enough to 'cruise the square' all night.  Ten was enough to  'cruise the square' all night, and get yourself a pop and (if my brother's friends were around or the right guy was working at the gas station) a pack of cigarettes.

     Once I asked my dad to borrow the truck to go out, and he told me that I could use it if I gave him a ride to work and put gas in. Then he handed me a twenty and told me that he needed to leave early to make a stop at the Warehouse before work. On our way to the truck, he tossed the keys and said, you can drive. This was an unusual situation, and I was nervous but I hopped in and carefully buckled my seatbelt, assuming it was some kind of test. I mean, I had passed the driver's test, but had I passed the Dad test? When I started the truck, I automatically changed the radio station, which visibly irritated him, but Tom Petty was coming out of the speakers, "You Don't Know How It Feels" was a bit of an anthem for me, as I was in a misunderstood, angst-y frame of mind. So I asked him to listen to the song, hoping to send him a message. I think I lost him at "Let's get to the point, let's roll another joint..." But he didn't change the station. When it was over, I said something like, "Isn't that a great song!?" and He responded with a shrug and said, "I didn't hate it as much as some of the shit you usually listen to. And change my radio back to my station when you get home."

     It wasn't exactly a rave review, but I felt like I had made my point. He didn't know what it was like to be a sixteen year old girl, but in all fairness, I didn't know what it was like to be a 48 year old father, husband, and grandfather.

     Later that evening, I pulled into the gas station and grabbed that crisp twenty and bought myself a fountain pop, which, upon leaving, I set on the roof the truck so I could dig my lighter and cigarettes out of their hiding place. Then I promptly drove away, and the pop when sliding down and cascaded over the windshield, and into the open window. Not the best start to an evening out. Some time later, I smelled something strange, and the truck wasn't running the best but I remembered that I was supposed to have put gas in, so I pulled up to the pumps at a different gas station (I'm no glutton for embarrassment!) and pumped five dollars worth of gas. Surely that would fix the problem. I picked up my dad at eleven that night. When he came out of the jail (where he worked! Not where he was incarcerated!) , he found his truck overheating, covered in Dr. Pepper, and Tom Petty's American Girl blaring from the stereo. He, believe it or not, was even less impressed with this situation than he had been with the earlier song review. I distinctly remember a vein appearing down the side of this forehead. "DON'T YOU BOTHER TO LOOK AT THE GAGES!?"

"I promise to start looking at them right now, Dad!"

"JESUS HOLY CHRIST, JENNIFER!"

*Oh, yeah, alright. Take it easy, baby, make it last all night! She was, an AMERICAN GIRL!*

"MAYBE IF YOU TURNED DOWN THE RADIO, YOU COULD HEAR MY TRUCK BLOWING UP???"

"Good tip. Will do!"

He had to have my brother in law help him replace the head gasket. And the door remained a little bit sticky for as long as he owned that truck. Plus, he found my secret cigarette stash and I never found out what he did with them, but I would be willing to bet that he smoked them, one after the other, while he watched his engine smoke in the driveway.

    Twenty-five-ish years later, I sat by his stone at the cemetery where he is buried. I don't often feel connected to him there. When I was young, I visited the grave of my mother and felt comforted because that is the only place I remember her being. With my dad, it was different. I remember him being at home. I remember him being outside in the swing, I remember him almost everywhere except a cemetery down a gravel road on the outskirts of a town I don't really know. So, often, when I sit with his stone, I try to connect by talking.  "Well, dad, as I'm sure you know, things are ok. I'm kind of struggling with some things and I'm wondering we ever get to figure this 'life' thing out, or if we just have to keep guessing?"

 I didn't get an answer from the trees, or the granite. But when I got in my car, Tom Petty was singing, "The waiting is the hardest part, every day you see one more card, you take it on faith, you take it to the heart. The waiting is the hardest part."

     I'm taking it on faith that when I asked dad a question, he answered me in a way he knew I would hear.

Of Eyebrows and Deep Thoughts

     I've got a lot on my mind, and bedtime is looming.
     I grew up in a family with a lot of 'steps' and 'halves' and such. There weren't many of us that did things in the order that we were taught was correct. A lot of babies before marriage and divorce, and remarriage and his kids and her kids and their kids. When I was a kid, it didn't occur to me to care, or notice. It was what it was. These were the people I loved. When I started to get older, I started to recognize a gap. A difference, of some kind. It took a long time to put my finger on it. And a lot of heartache, and in truth, a lot of therapy, to learn that people don't necessarily love you the same way you love them. If you're reading this, and you already know that, count yourself lucky. If you didn't know that....first, I am sorry to break the news, and second, it's ok. You'll learn to live with it. You'll find the people who love you beyond measure, and you'll find yourself outside the bounds of what I will refer to as 'obligation' and you'll be ok. But it isn't easy. For a very long time, I enacted my right to remain silent. I wordlessly hoped against hope that these people who formed me would confirm for me that I was worthy of their love. Then, my dad died. and what I THOUGHT were slight gaps turned into great, dark, deep canyons. So I found myself grieving the loss of my father, and the loss of the relationships with others who also loved him. It was a complicated time.
     At some point, after the revelation that not everyone I had spent a lifetime loving, loved me the same way, there was an accident. It was very scary, because it happened to someone that I love deeply and have a damaged but manageable relationship with. We were called to a hospital, and I spent a long drive wondering if the relationship had reached a point that we could both be satisfied and at peace with one another.
     I was surrounded by people who love this person, who have very different relationships with each other, and with me. All of them, I have known for as long as I can remember, but age had given me a different pair of glasses with which to view them. I sat in the waiting room, surrounded by these people who were present because of love, but not necessarily love for each other. Or, maybe we all had love in common, but there wasn't a lot of "like" to go around? It was a bizarre setting. Uncomfortable and caffeine fueled silences lingered. Some of us on one side of the room, some of us deliberately on the other, almost all women.
     At approximately 3am, a woman from the other side called to me as I stirred sugar and creamer into my coffee. "Jennifer? Is that your natural hair color?"
     And, after a long sip of my too hot coffee, I responded, "No. Are those your natural eyebrows?" (Spoiler Alert: They were definitely, definitively,  NOT her natural eyebrows.)
     The lone man in the room immediately got up and headed for the elevators.
     I don't know where it came from. It was a word burp that, had I been rested and not on the verge of experiencing a caffeine overdose, I would have chocked back down. But there it was. So, I sat back down and grabbed my phone, thinking that it would be smart to start recording, because I was about to be killed and my children would someday want evidence, that YES, their mother was stupid enough to pick a fight with a pride of lionesses.
     I wish I could tell you that I remember what happened after that. I don't. It's not because somebody knocked me out with their purse. I just....don't know. Sooner or later, a doctor came in to tell us that the accident had been severe, and recovery would be long, but would happen. Sooner or later, I left that waiting room. Sooner or later, I left that hospital.
     This morning, while I was getting ready for work, for some reason, the whole scene replayed in my mind. I have no idea why. I've been thinking, on and off, all day about it. Am I sorry? Possibly. Am I as sorry as I should be? Probably not.
     What had really and truly happened that very early morning, was that I stopped being silent. I stopped considering the feelings of people who hadn't, probably ever, stopped to consider MY feelings. It was equal parts liberating, and terrifying. So, tonight, I am thinking that perhaps it is time that I, once again, revisit my silence?
     I write a lot of things that I don't share. I don't share out of consideration for folks who may read my words and recognize themselves in the pages. Maybe it's good. Maybe it's bad. But maybe it's also time to honor what truly makes my heart happy. So. If, in the coming weeks, you find yourself among words I have written on this blog....I promise to change the names to protect the guilty. Unless it's me. Then, I promise to own it.

Teaching Under Fire

     Well! Things have certainly gotten.....interesting, haven't they? 

     It's Monday. There are currently 18 confirmed cases of COVID-19 in Nebraska. Zoe's school has closed for what we hope is two weeks. Supplies are flying off shelves. We're smack dab in the middle of the strangest time, my brain has never been this happy to play it's favorite game of Worst Case Scenario. I spent my weekend furiously updating websites. I went to bed last night and I couldn't sleep.

     I went into work early today at the request of the director. We've implemented new procedures at drop off that require staff and I was torn between wanting to stay safely ensconced in my house under my blankie, Googling, or if I wanted to get out into the world and see if everyone else seemed as shell-shocked as I feel. I couldn't make up my mind, even as I pulled into the parking lot. 

    As it turns out, it was pretty much business as usual. Do you want to know why? Three year old's don't much care about COVID-19. Three year old's care about toys, snacks, and who is the morning helper. We washed our hands more than typical. We talked about germs and where they like to hide at Circle Time. We created an obstacle course out of packages of extra toilet paper. We made shamrocks and rainbows and read a book about a Leprechaun. We carried on. Preschoolers help keep your feet on the ground. When you ask a preschooler where germs like to hide, they might say something like, "Down your pants." and it will drag you back to reality and make you giggle and try your hardest to find a way to say, "Yes, that's true. Please keep your hands out of your pants" while also trying to figure out what choices you made in your life that led you to a moment where you have to say things like that on a pretty regular basis. 

     I don't know what tomorrow is going to bring. I don't know anyone who does. But I know this, tomorrow, I will go to work, and I will be happy to see all of my daycare babies, and I will worry about who isn't there, and I will worry about the ones that are there who have a little cough. And I will carry on, business as usual, because there is no crying in baseball, and no social distancing in daycare. I will wash my hands and I will wipe their noses and I will remind them to cough into their elbows and that we should be keeping our hands to ourselves. (Not just because of a virus.) 

      If you're stressing, I encourage you to remember what your friendly neighborhood childcare provider is telling your children. 

1. Wash Your Hands.

2. Don't touch that. Or that. Or that, either.

3. Kleenex, not fingers.

4. Pick that up off the floor and put it in the trash, please.

5. We need to use nice words to our friends. 

6. Sharing is caring.

Have a good one. Stay safe out there. 

Spring Fever

     It's the second to last day of February. There's a foot of snow on the ground and temps have been hovering near 20 degrees for what feels like weeks. I'm done with Winter. Done with bleak and cold and gray. I'm tired of being warm only immediately before the dogs have to go out or the alarm goes off.  I'm praying for the green of Springtime and a place to sit in the warm sun. I close my eyes and see myself on Scott's boat on the river, with a cold drink and the hot sun, and kicking myself for not appreciating it more. "Next summer", I say to myself, "I won't take it for granted. I'll soak in the sun and heat and hold it deep in my soul like a savings account for next winter." But I know that I won't.  I don't imagine I'm any different than any other person in the region, but as endless as the Winter seems, it's brought some joy with it.
     I'm sitting in my office, newly decorated and organized. Finally got my own room, after many, many years of joking. I'm typing on a computer that was a Christmas gift, with my favorite things all around me and candles burning behind me, with a blue topaz crystal (the Writer's Stone) hanging in above my monitor. This is my space now. This is my sanctuary from the desolate and ceaseless winter. And I love it desperately.
     The problem, for me, with having my own territory, where I can write and write and write, is that I have to write. And there's nothing scarier than a blank page. My blog page has seven unpublished drafts. I wrote things that scared me, and I wrote things that made me sob, but they aren't ready yet. They've got to sit on the shelf awhile longer until the brave parts of me are ready to push the Publish button and let them free. So, until I can, let's have an update, shall we?
     As of this moment, we are three in the house. (Well, five, including the dogz.) And so, in our three bedroom house, the third bedroom evolved into the very office that I write to you from. Three is so quiet, sometimes. But three can also be very loud, especially while discussing Zoe's Freshman schedule for next year. A Freshman. And to think, that just yesterday I dropped her off at preschool three days a week and watched the two hours drag by. We are well, but everyday we creep closer to empty nesting and WOW, it's strange to be on this side of the parenting hill. I find that I wish I could go back and do it all again, do it all better, be more and appreciate more and laugh more. I suppose that's what grandchildren are for? We are anxiously anticipating number nine in early May. Another reason to hope for Spring.
     We moved last May. We have neighbors again. Neighbors that have watched me drag my reluctant dogs into the cold yard to do their business while dressed as what I can only imagine scientists in the Antarctic dress like. It was a surprisingly easy adjustment, moving back to civilization. It's not as though we moved to a booming metropolis, you could fit the whole town in a regular size envelope and mail it for less than a dollar, but I did think I would miss the peace of the country. Turns out, I thoroughly enjoy paved streets that get plowed and the diner that's a half a block away. (Try the cauliflower and cheese! Or the pork tenderloin sandwich, hand breaded! Or the gyro! Or.....)
     There's more. So much more. It will have to wait. Today I'm feeling a little braver than I did yesterday. Today I wrote this, so that tomorrow I can write something else. Something braver, something deeper. I don't know what the Something is yet. But it will come. It's not too far away, I know. Like Spring.

The Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing But The Truth

Long time, no type, Bloggies. (I don't know if that's a thing, but it sounded good.)
I can not come up with an excuse for my long absence. I can only say that I promise to tell you the truth about where I have been since November, when I promised myself I would write often and without care for the dissenting voices in my head.
     I have been in a battle. Truth be told, I do not know when, exactly, it started. It came upon me slowly.     
     I noticed sometime around Christmas that a lot of me was gone. A lot of my hope and most of my joy and a terrifying portion of my personality. It all just POOFed on me. January, and turning (gasp) 40 took a lot out of me, and pretty soon I was facing February mostly from the safety and security of my bed, where I would find myself pretty much every moment of the day that I was not working. Sometime in mid-February, I was driving to work one morning, trying to decide how fast my car would have to be traveling in order to kill me if I intentionally crashed it. Then I caught myself counting pills in a bottle of pain medication prescribed to me last summer for a back injury, and Google-ing what the estimated fatal dose would be. There was a great deal of trouble in River City. It took until mid-March for me to admit, aloud, to another human being, how deeply I was suffering and how far down the rabbit hole I had fallen.
I made an appointment with my doctor. I got a prescription for an anti-depressant and the name of a therapist that I made an appointment with for the following week. I've seen her every week since the third week of March. I have missed very few doses of the medications. I see the light at the end of the tunnel, and it's getting closer every day.
     That's a long winded way of saying that I am being treated for depression and anxiety, and that, at this point, the treatment is working, so I am one of the lucky ones. And I'm grateful. It all seems so simplistic, typed out into a neat paragraph like that, but it's been hard, and complicated, and I am only just now, realizing the impact my mental health has had on me, and my family. The problem with falling down the rabbit hole is that when you climb your way back out again, you have to stand in the light an let your eyes adjust to it.
     A couple of weeks ago, my Facebook feed was jam packed with the news of Kate Spade's suicide. I was sad. That's a sad thing to hear, even though I do not know her, and I have never owned anything she designed. Then, days later, Anthony Bourdain ended his life, and I was even sadder. I was a fan. Something about me is attracted to his brash, unapologetic world view, and there's the added sadness of knowing that even two people who seemingly "have it all" couldn't handle the demons they battled. Days later, I logged into a blog that I have been reading for years. The woman who writes it has inspired me, as a mom, a teacher, and a woman. I have never met this woman, she does not know my name- but I was devastated to learn that she had attempted suicide and had spent two days in ICU and a week in the psych ward of a hospital.
     In March, or even April, this depression seemed insurmountable. I couldn't wish or pray or hope my way out of it. The news of these fellow warriors who lost their battle, and almost lost the battle, have made me nervous. I don't want to go back to that, I'm scared every day that tomorrow I will wake up and feel hopeless and useless again. I worry that I will look in the mirror and only see the woman who failed at so many things.
     I'm grateful that I have a support system that allows me to have a bad day and celebrates my little victories with me, but I can't know if that's going to be enough. I'm happy to have put an end to house hunting and the stress of having to move, but I can't know if that will be enough. I am thrilled to be able to feel the love from my family again, but I can't know if that is enough. The demons are so strong, and so far, I am winning the battle, but I can't know if that's forever, or just for now. I'm a girl who likes a plan, and all of this not knowing is hard to live with, but I am living with it, and I am deeply grateful that I recognized just how dark the world had gotten and that I had to power to ask for help in locating the light switch.
     I'm only now, months into this journey, realizing that it's a marathon, not a sprint, and there are going to be setbacks, but a bad day doesn't mean a bad life. My therapist is helping me learn to ignore the lies that the depression feeds me, and the constant scroll across the screen of my brain that lists my faults and failures. Make no mistake- depression is a liar. The battle to sort out what is truth and what is fiction is exhausting. I don't know what to make of the fact that my own brain sort of turned against me. Or that it isn't the first time it's happened, which is how I recognized the problem to begin with. Depression, and her best pal, Anxiety, are unwelcome house guests who overstay their welcome and eat all the good food from the place. The good news is, I'm done with being a good host to them and I have decided that they should go, the bad news is, it's a process that doesn't happen overnight.
     So, there's my truth. I have depression and anxiety. I'm working on it. I'm doing better than I was last week, and the week before, and the month before that. I'm winning this today. I will wake up and try my hardest to win this tomorrow, as well.

Giving Thanks

     When my eyes opened at 5:05am today, I thought two things. First, that I had 'slept in', because for the previous two mornings, I woke up for no particular reason whatsoever at 4:30am, like that's just a thing I do now, and Adulting is getting more fun by the minute around here. Second, I realized that I had to go to the grocery store. It's 48 hours before the biggest food holiday of the year, and I have to go brave it alone.
     I showered and said a prayer in front of the mirror, "Please God, let this go smooth. Let me stick to my list, let any impulse buy be chocolate. Let me keep a little faith in humanity. Let my journey be safe and swift and, if it's not too much to ask, let stuff be on sale. Let me find a little joy. Let me always remember that if I die in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart, it is Your Will."
     Spoiler Alert: I didn't die. Am grateful.
     On the quiet, windy drive to the store, I started running through Holiday's Past. Once, the boy ate an entire Thanksgiving dinner and then barfed, prompting everyone to play our favorite holiday game, "Food Poisoning or Stomach Bug?" The boy turned 18 in October. This is the last holiday season that he is legally required to attend.
On a Thanksgiving Eve, years ago, my dearly departed mother-in-law bragged about a garage sale find- a $1 hand mixer. She pulled it out of the box and started mixing something for the next day's dinner, and then the mixer blew up and the roasted turkey smell competed with the smell of burnt plastic.
My dad loved to take a perfectly roasted turkey from the oven and soak up all of the praise for it, even though I have never been sure what exactly he did to it besides put it into the oven and then take it back out again hours later. But, in all of my memories, I see him standing with his electric carving knife smiling.
Holidays are like that, huh?
I wanted to give my kids picture perfect holidays, straight from a Thomas Kinkade painting holidays,  I wanted Thanksgiving with a perfect turkey and a 'tablescape' straight from the pages of a magazine. But, I'm staring down the barrel of 40, and I'm learning, ever so slowly, that those paintings aren't real. They come from a bottle of paint. (I should note that at least a little of my holidays are going to come from a bottle, too. Thanks Winery of Ellicottville!)
On my trek to the grocery store, I was standing in what I thought was a low traffic area, trying to rearrange the items in my cart to make room, when a lady came from behind. She had a cart piled high with all of the usual suspects and I heard her say, "I converted the recipe wrong, so I was short on green beans." And I honestly wanted to say, "Same." Aren't we all just a few beans short of a full casserole?
I made my way to the beverage aisle and there was a tiny old lady trying to reach a 2 liter of Ginger Ale from a too high shelf, so I offered to help. Maybe I can't give my kids the perfect holiday, but I can reach the Ginger Ale for somebody's grandma. Maybe I can't have everyone at the table that I long to sit with, but I can be grateful or the ones that are there, and hope for the best next year.
     If you are reading this, then you play a role in my life, and I am grateful for you. I give thanks that you're reading this. I hope and pray that you have a smooth and tasty holiday. If you're missing someone special from your table, let me say that I am sorry, and I feel you. If you're alone for the holiday, and you don't want to be, call me, we'll figure something out. If you're expecting the perfect holiday, worthy of a canvas, I hope that you aren't disappointed and that you tell me how you did it. If you still have to go to the grocery store to prep for your dinner- the prayer in the first part of this story seemed to work out pretty well for me.
Happy Thanksgiving.

If You Want To Walk

Life got crazy. It's nothing earth shattering, and in the grand scheme of things, it's all minor and will be short lived. But it's hard to remember that when you're in the thick of it, isn't it? It's difficult to keep moving forward when you feel the weight of life bearing down. For me, I keep hearing myself say, "I just want to lie down." Which is usually the best indicator that I should do the exact opposite.
I asked Zoe to go for a walk with me yesterday. I had work and a thousand things to do around the house, she had homework and SnapChat and a thousand other things to do, as well, but we went. Whenever life gets a little crazy, I start to feel guilty because I don't feel like I am giving enough of myself to her, and despite her insistence that she's "FINE, MOM", we set out on the trail to spend at least a little time together without the distractions that pop up on a regular basis these days.
As we were walking past her best friend's house, we decided to stop to see if her friend wanted to walk for awhile. The friend wasn't home. The friend's dog, Bella, was. We patted the dog and headed on our way, but the dog had already accepted the invitation on behalf of her absent young lady, and Bella ran ahead of us on the trail for a mile, stopping to check back with us every so often. We lost sight of her at one point, only to have her pop out of a corn field, and scare a little pee out of at least one of us. (No names.) (It was me.) We got back to Zoe's friend's, but the dog wasn't ready to end the adventure yet. So we walked around Placek Park for another 20 minutes, trying to convince her that my calf muscles have an expiration date. Zoe called her friend, the dog ran out in front of a car and gave us a collective heart attack. The dog ran towards a family, we screamed that she is "SUPER NICE! SHE DOESN'T BITE!" After crossing the street and checking very carefully into some dumpsters, where Zoe and I finally just sat down on the concrete of the walking trail and clapped a lot and called her name, Zoe's friend and her mom came and got the dog, and we gathered our exhausted legs and walked the rest of the way back to my car, where we clocked in with over six thousand steps, two thousand of which we owe solely to Bella the Dog.
To the general public, we looked like a couple of girls who weren't smart enough to put our dog on a leash. To the dog, we looked like easy marks in a game of tag. To my tired, somewhat overwhelmed heart- we looked like exactly what I needed.
We will keep moving forward. When we come across problems, we will put our heads down and clap and look silly to the people standing around us. We may even walk around with the problem for a while, just to see if it resolves itself. We will come out on the other side, tired and sore, but stronger. And then we will wake up tomorrow and do it all again.
"If you want to walk fast- walk alone. If you want to walk far- walk together."- African Proverb

Taste Your Words

When I was eleven years old, I wrote a poem. I worked for days to perfect it. I searched the thesaurus in the school's library, I read it aloud in front of a mirror. I worked harder than I had ever worked on any assignment. I labored. I shared it with exactly one person. A trusted teacher. I remember the butterflies in my stomach when I left it on his desk and shyly asked him to read it. "I wrote this thing." I said, unwilling to even label it as a poem, because, in my sixth grade mind, poems were for professionals.
Two days went by, I studied his face during every class. He gave no indication that he had any sort of reaction at all, and for little while, I wondered if I had actually left the paper, or if I had somehow dreamed the entire thing.
On the second day, during the last class, during the last minute of the day, he requested that I stay after the bell rang. I spent the next few minutes in a kind of frozen hell. I wanted to throw up, and then run, or run while throwing up.
After the last classmate had left the room, he said that he had liked my poem, that he could tell that I had worked hard on it. My spirit lifted. Then, he said, "Do you know what the word 'plagiarize' means?" I said that I did. Then he went on to detail what happens when a writer steals another writer's work. That passing someone else's work off as one's own is dishonest and hurtful to the person who put their best efforts into whatever they were writing. I got the message. The poem was good, so good, in fact, that my trusted teacher didn't believe that I had written it.
The poem found it's way into the trash can, I faced a long, sad walk home. I hadn't copied anyone's work. The words had been mine alone. I couldn't be angry with him. He had been as kind as an adult could be who was crushing the inspiration of a preteen girl. I am nearly forty years old, and all it takes is a second to remember the shame I felt, needlessly, sitting in that empty classroom. Words matter.
Two days ago, I shared a post about my father's death. A teacher I trusted and adored (and still adore!) in eighth grade commented that I should write more often. Her praise of my words lifted me up and made my feet light for the rest of the day. She had that effect in the eighth grade, as well. Words matter.
I write all the time. I write long, elaborate stories in my head. I write while I am reading and cooking and folding laundry. I write because it's how my brain works. I just don't share because that is also how my brain works. Sometimes I sit at the computer typing for hours. I reread what I wrote, and then I wish for anonymity because writing is a whole different animal from sharing. Sharing doesn't come anywhere near as easily as writing. Every single time I have shared a blog post, I feel like vomiting. Or running. Or running while I vomit. I always, without fail, want to take it all back and shove it back inside my head for another day. But the words matter.
I am happiest when I am putting thought to paper (or screen, as the case may be). So, I just wanted to say, thank you for reading my words. Thank you for your comments. Thank you for your 'likes' on Facebook. Thank you for the texts you sent. Thank you for what you said to me out loud, with all the world around us to hear. Your words? They matter. I carry them around with me, sometimes for YEARS.
There's a great quote, "Be sure to taste your words before you spit them out". This week, all of your words tasted sweet and light- and I am really and truly grateful.

Post Game Analysis- Eclipse Edition

Let's clear this up right off the bat- I wasn't excited about the eclipse until the tenth article I read, WAY too late last night. I didn't get special glasses. I didn't intend to keep the kids home. I was pretty ambivalent about the whole thing until I started reading online articles describing how rare and beautiful of an event it was going to be.
I woke up this morning, I signed the permission slip allowing Zoe to watch the show, I drove her to school, came home and poured my heart out in a blog post that had little to do with the eclipse, but also, everything to do with it. I was exited. I was observant and watchful of the sky, which, in truth, was pretty cloudy in my little corner of the world.
Here are some of my observations.
1. My dogs were acting very strange. From about 10am until 1pm, they paced, and repeatedly went to the door and barked. I don't think it really had much to do with the eclipse, though. They're pretty strange on any given day. Also, they like to go outside and play with the cats. There may have been a leaf blowing in the yard that they were barking at? Maybe I witnessed the effect of the celestial event on their behavior, but I think it was far more likely that I witnessed Just Another Day With The Abramo Dogz.
2. The cats outside could not, and probably would not, have given two craps about what was going on in the heavens. Not that I saw, anyway.
3. As the time approached what was said to be nearest to totality, it gradually got pretty dark. Crickets and the like were chirping. The light around my house was kind of eerie. I went back inside to check on the weirdo dogs and when I came back out, low and behold, John came gunning down the driveway, back from an extended weekend in Buffalo, NY with family. He pulled in two minutes before the maximum moment of totality. He likes to push the envelope.
4. We BOTH stared up at the sun, sans protective eyewear, despite all of the warnings. It should be noted that I did keep the dogs inside to protect THEIR eyes.
5. We didn't see much. It was pretty cloudy.
6. It gradually started to get lighter again.
7. I felt off-centered and jittery. At first I thought I was having some kind of "One with the universe" moment. A psychic/medium, who's page I like on Facebook (don't judge me!) said that if you were to feel anxious before, during or after the eclipse, you should 'ground down'. Literally, go outside and stand on the ground, barefoot. So, I was heading back out to do just that & figured the dogs needed to go potty by this point, and took them out, too. Then I realized that I was standing barefoot in what is my dog's bathroom, so I stepped back up onto the deck and waited for them to finish their business. While waiting, I realized that I had drank a cup of coffee, my first in almost two months, on an empty stomach. So, I went inside and ate some cheese crackers and I felt a lot better.
8. John and I watched part of the latest episode of Game of Thrones, I went and picked up Zo, he fell asleep.
The whole thing was kind of anti-climatic but I checked out Facebook and I saw a lot of very, very cool pictures of other people's eclipse experiences and something occurred to me. While I stood outside (unwisely) staring at the heavens, an awful lot of people were doing the same. A number of my fellow humans were out there, searching the sky for an experience. Waiting for the light to fade, and then shine again. Maybe some of us were frightened of it not shining again. Maybe some of us just wanted a break from the work day. Maybe some of us are fascinated by the fact that we know so much about the universe, and yet so very little. But, we were all out there, looking. Democrats, Republicans. Conservatives and liberals. Black and white and every color in between. Men and women and everyone in between. We were rich, and poor, and middle class, and we were watching.
"No matter how dark the moment, love and hope are always possible." -George Chakiris

Eclipsed

Today at 11:37am, the moon will begin to cover the sun. At 1:03pm, it will reach maximum coverage, and will continue to move across the sun until 2:29pm. For a few minutes the day will become night. The shadows will take over. An event that astronomers say hasn't occurred in the United States, in this capacity, in nearly a hundred years.
But I know better.
Seven years ago today, on a hot afternoon, surrounded by people who love him deeply, my father died. The light hid in the shadows of grief and I couldn't feel the sun shining. I remember the beginning. I remember when the shadows began their journey across my sun, but the details surrounding it grow murkier every day. Because I have learned that it wasn't all about the darkness. Seven years ago on this day, my sun indeed went dark, and it was incredibly painful, and it was hard to navigate in the twilight, but with time, the sun began to shine again, if not quite as bright as before.
In the beginning, I had a difficult time just walking around with that darkness hanging over me. My grief was heavy and weighed down every moment of the day.   My world seemed to constantly exist in a perpetual state of gloom. Inky blackness threatened everything. I couldn't remember anything but the darkness. Seven years later, I chose to remember the moments when the sun shined so brilliantly. I chose to remember, not the moment of maximum totality, but all of the moments before that, when I lived with his laugh and the warmth of his smile.
Last week, I was shopping in a local store. The cashier's phone began to ring from her pocket and from an aisle close to the registers, I heard her say, "Hi Mom", and then she let out a big laugh and said, "Sorry, Dad!" When I put my purchases on the counter, she apologized to me for taking the call. I told her that there was absolutely no need for an apology. When I got to my car, I nearly wept with the knowledge that my phone isn't going to ring. And then, that night, I had a dream about a house on west 10th Street, with my father peeking over the top of a cup of coffee. We didn't speak. It only lasted a moment. But for that moment, the sun was bright.
He was funny and sarcastic and flawed. He cried when his dog died, he smoked like a chimney. He drank his iced tea with no ice. He liked his coffee black and his jokes R-rated. He worked hard to have a beautiful lawn. He was a night owl. He hugged me like no one ever can, or will again. He drove slowly. He listened to country music. He hated potatoes. He shook his head when words escaped him, and you could understand exactly what he was saying. He was stubborn. He could be cold and unmoving. He could be warm and welcoming. He liked socks that reached his knee caps and tee-shirts with pockets and western shirts with pearly buttons. He was lightness, and darkness, and all the shadows in between, and I love him deeply and I miss him the same as the number of stars in the sky.
Seven years ago, when the shadows moved over the sunshine, I could not fathom a moment where I would not feel broken and lost. I have since learned not to fear the shadows of my grief. Shadows exist because there is light nearby.