Not Our Finest Moment

I was stunned to read this piece in the local paper this week.

First of all, if I could meet Desiree, I would give her a hug. It took courage to share her experience, a kind of courage that clearly is lacking in some of those who give in our community.

I think various comments on the site have covered some of the basic etiquette issues, so I won't beat a dead horse, or a long-expired box of pistachio pudding mix, either.

I can't stop thinking about what Desiree's experience says about us all. When did we all lose sight of doing good works just for goodness' sake?

It doesn't matter whether you believe the Bible-- "Do all things as unto the Lord"-- or whether you're more comfortable with a more secular version of The Golden Rule-- "Treat others as you wish to be treated." Either way, clearly our community is missing the mark in some ways.

I'm a guilty as anyone. I have a lot of things to accomplish, places to be, and people to tend to. I find myself sometimes cutting so many corners that I create a whirling dervish in my wake. I haven't been thinking much about resolutions for the coming year, but one I think that I am going to demand of myself is this:

Do more things that matter. Do more things that are good. Do those things with a spirit of excellence.

This Deserves More Discussion...

… as uncomfortable, and sad, and depressing, and heartbreaking, and unimaginable as it may be.

Some time between Friday night and Saturday morning, a lovely, vibrant, 17 year-old Foothill High student died in an alcohol-related death. You can read some of the details here.

Hours before this story-- even without the name of the student-- hit the paper’s website, the details of this tragedy were hitting the cyber network, wending its way virally among the youth of our community. My son-- who attended classes at U-Prep with the victim a few years ago-- began receiving text messages about the incident well before noon on Saturday.

This is why we all should be discussing this situation: our children-- the victim’s peers-- are talking about it. They are texting about it. They are posting on MySpace, Facebook, and other social websites about it. They are emailing, voice mailing, cell phoning, writing in journals, and erecting displays in the community about it. They are communicating about it in ways many of us don’t even have access to.

We owe it to ourselves, our teenagers, and to each other to talk about what happened.

For a teenager, coming to grips with the imminent frailty of life through a tragedy like this can be overwhelming. And more importantly, the number one way a teenager (whose brain is not yet fully developed) is going to likely process this information, is through a filter of denial.

“It can’t happen to me.”

“I’m not like her. I drink something different that what killed her.”

“I am careful when I use alcohol or drugs.”

One of the more eye-opening aspects of this situation for me has been the level of sophistication that teens have about alcohol and drug use. Constant in the teen chatter I’ve heard about this incident has been comments like, “I wonder why no one remembered to roll her over?” or “I can’t believe that she didn’t stay sitting up.”

The prevalence of drinking to such excess is clearly more commonplace than any of us care to admit. This tragedy is far from an anomaly. In fact, this weekend's fatality is the THIRD in the past year that has touched my own teenagers' social circles locally.

If you have a teen or know a teen, talk to him or her about this. Steel yourself through the sighs, the eye rolling, the abrasiveness, the evasiveness, and the rest of the unease. This conversation could save a life.

For a parent, the loss of a child-- of a precious part of one’s own self-- is unimaginable. If you know this family, find a gentle, unobtrusive, meaningful way to extend your sympathy. And not just now. Remember them this spring, this summer, next year. Affirm for them the life that was their daughter.

As neighbors, we should be constantly dialoguing about what our kids are up to. If someone comes to you and tells you that they have heard your child is making risky choices, receive the information graciously, and investigate! Assume you’ve been given this information in a spirit of good will. Denial and indignation could cost you a child’s life.

As any parent of a teen well knows, 24/7 vigilance is impossible, and the teenaged desire to strike out on one’s own can lead to misinformation and outright prevarication when it comes to their plans and activities. Consider your neighbors and parents of your teenager’s classmates as allies in your endeavor to get your child to adulthood in one piece.

We cannot afford to remain silent. When one family suffers this kind of tragic loss, our entire community is the lesser for it as well.

This morning’s Wednesday Morning Album Track on Red 103.1 FM was Synchronicity by the Police. I tuned in about halfway through, while I was in the drive-thru at Starbuck’s slapping on make-up. As Synchronicity II blared through the speakers, I was awash with this strange sense of nostalgia that played completely inconsistent with every other thought I’ve ever had about that album.

Synchronicity was one of the best selling albums of 1983, and its voyeuristic ‘Every Breath You Take’ was the number one song on all the top Billboard charts. I must’ve heard that song five or six times a day on the radio. It was the theme song at three weddings I attended that summer.

In the years since, the ragged vocals, edgy lyrics, and cacophonous, haunting melodies, have always reminded me of the pain of my mother’s sudden death that year. With just a few notes of “King of Pain”, and I am usually jettisoned directly back to a place in time that was cold, wet, shivering, empty, and a very slippery slope for a teenager.

I’m not even fully sure what it is that was so different about today. Perhaps it’s simply 25 years of hindsight and the kindness of time that has dulled some of the jagged edges of such piercing memories. Perhaps it was the bounty of a quarter-century of hard work and unmerited blessings that include a husband, two amazing children, and abundance in most every sense of the word.

Whatever it was, today’s reckoning with Synchronicity was completely different. Today, I recalled the year I first loved a boy. I relived the moment I knew that in some fashion or another, I would always be a writer. I remembered the birth of teenage friendships that have endured time, geography, perspective, and life choices. It was the year when who I am became more emergent than my circumstances.

It was the time of lip gloss, 501 jeans, moccasin shoes, and BIG 80’s hair.

It was a time of Synchronicity.

Winter Memories

Last night, as I listened to the weather forecast which is predicting a cold snap, and possibly even snow to the valley floor, it brought to mind the winter I was in the 5th grade.

The week before Christmas vacation, it began to snow intermittently. I went to school the first two days, trogging nearly four miles to the highway to catch the bus. On Wednesday of that week, the snow was up to my waist. My mom kept me home to help my dad shovel snow. The following two days, school was canceled. By the following week, the snow was almost level with the redwood deck around our mobile home, totaling around five and a half feet.

I can remember the entire forest seemingly transformed into a quiet nether-world. It was how I had always imagined C.S. Lewis’ Narnia. The neighbor kids and I bundled up and set out to discover this new world. We must have been quite the site-- Dale, age 15, Bonnie, age 14, and me, age 11. Dale took the lead, forging our way through unbroken snow. I brought up the rear, working extra hard to literally jump into the footsteps of the other two.

It was so cold that the small ponds we shared were completely frozen over. Using plastic garbage bags, we slid down hills and onto the ice, screaming the whole way. I remember vividly the feeling of jettisoning completely out of control onto the frozen pond.

Once we tired of the multitude of steep climbs back up the bank, we ambled off in the direction of Ken Knowles’ abandoned property. After much pushing and tugging of one another, the three of us managed to climb the 25 feet or so up onto the roof of the metal shop building. The view of the tops of the snow-laden trees was impressive.

After a few primitive calculations and the calling out of a couple triple-dog-dares, Bonnie and I shoved Dale down the sloped roof and into the deep snow below. Bonnie, ever the dare devil, slid off right behind him. I, never quite as agile as the other two, held fast to the roof until my comrades suggested I was a coward and questioned my parentage. With my good name in the balance, I let go from the roof and slid down into the deep snow below.

I’m not quite sure what it is about free falling that I find so exhilarating, but that 25-foot drop was wonderful, each of the half-dozen or so times we did it.

Once we had flattened all of the snow around the building, we decided to wander over toward the old trading post. What normally would have been about a 15-minute walk, turned into over an hour of pushing and pulling one another through the deep snow drifts, only to find ourselves about half way to our destination. We decided to continue on, knowing that there would likely be a warm woodstove at the other end of the journey.

We were amazed at the complete change to the landscape. Where there had once been rocky trails, Manzanita bushes, and other facets to the terrain, was obfuscated by an indistinguishable blanket of white.

While I was in the process of trying to get my foot jammed back into the boot that had become wedged in a tight snow step, Bonnie and I heard a garrulous whoop from Dale, who had vanished in front of us. Bonnie and I looked at each other for an instant before we heard Dale hollering from a snowy cavern below us.

Where Dale had fallen through the snow, there was a huge hole, and down below was Dale, standing on bare dirt among a vast Manzanita forest. Without even thinking, Bonnie and I jumped down as well. We roamed around among the Manzanita bushes, with which we were well acquainted, as if we had fallen down a rabbit hole. I’m still amazed when I think of how those bushes held up five feet of snow.

I was enchanted by what seemed to be our own secret fortress. Comforting for the moment was the fact that we were able to dry off some and warm up our extremities. When we grew tired of our subterranean adventure, we pondered how to get out. After several false starts, we found a place where the snow was perpendicular to the ground and began digging our way out.

Fortunately for us, we actually recognized our surroundings when we resurfaced into the winter wonderland. Since we were closer to home than to the trading post, we tromped to my house, where a warm fire was awaiting us.

If this week's weather brings along this kind of winter wonderland, I hope there are kids out there somewhere enjoying the fun!