Just Passin' Through...

RIP Candy Jenkins

2011-06-24T09:10:00.000-07:00

The first time I physically encountered Candy Jenkins was the year my mom died. I had seen her here and there around Shingletown and in passing, as I hung out with her niece, Stacey. But shy as I was, it was never more than just a casual glance, or a mumbled hello.

Then came that day in October 1983, when I was in front of the Shingletown Store, fumbling in a fog of grief, trying to figure out in which pocket I’d stowed my post office box key. My intended movements and destination were completely subverted as I suddenly became submerged in a big, warm, bosomy hug. I can’t tell you what she said to me in way of consolation at the loss of my mother, but I can tell you that Candy was the first person who had ever hugged the stuffing out of me. I came from a family of people who were not overly affectionate. I was positively enamored at a love that so overflowed.

Over the years, one of the things I have always associated with Candy is her amazing love for children—her own, those in her extended family, strangers on the street, it really didn’t matter. She leaves three biological children who enchantingly have carried on that legacy to their own children, and she leaves a lifetime of other people who have been touched and altered by such pure affection.

When I was eighteen or so, Candy and I both worked at Big Wheels for a while. I recall Candy being so happy and positive on the job. She made a great waitress—exuberant, friendly, quick, and hard working. She didn’t stay working long, ultimately quitting because she didn’t want to do dishes. She wasn’t indignant about it or anything. In her sunniest of dispositions, she simply said, “I just don’t like doing dishes. I don’t like doing them at home, and I don’t like doing them here, so it probably doesn’t make a lot of sense for me to do this.”

I have thought often over the years of that conversation, admiring her ability to be so honest with herself and others about what does and doesn’t work for her. It takes a solid degree of courage to be that way-- a courage I have yet to perfect in my own life; a courage that Candy herself sometimes forgot she possessed.

Also not surprising was Candy’s sense of humor. A highly-honed family trait, Candy was not often without some casual observation about life that would leave those around her in a fit of giggles. I found her ability to laugh at herself attractive, and her ability to transmute her sense of humor to fit any occasion almost beyond human, from the darkly sardonic, to the randomly flip.

The last time I saw Candy was a few years ago, at a Johnny Lang concert. I remember the visible pain on her face as she told me of her mom’s passing. This was also within weeks of her family losing her beloved granddaughter, Rebekah. I can’t help but smile now when I think of her existing, glory to glory with Jesus—home and happy with those many souls she’d loved and lost while here on earth—Effie and Jim, Carol Ann, Rebekah, and others. I laugh when I think of her at this moment, at her most effervescent, enquiring of Jesus about who works in the kitchen, because she didn’t like to do dishes at home on Earth, and she won’t be doing them there, either.

Today’s Gas Strike

2011-03-10T08:07:00.001-08:00

I don't want to be a capricious critic on this topic, but I'm going to start this missive out by saying: Today's gas strike will not work.

While I am wholly supportive of Americans coming together at a grassroots level to do something about fuel costs skyrocketing toward five dollars per gallon, simply not purchasing gas on a pre-determined date is not a consumer action that will have long-term impact. Either you bought gas yesterday, or you will do it tomorrow or the next day. All this gas strike is doing is changing a spending pattern.

We must address consumption.

Today, take five minutes before you load up into your vehicle and think about where you are going to drive and how you're going to get there. Are your routes the most efficient possible? Are there phone calls you can make instead of physically driving to a location? Are there ways to divide tasks so that you and a neighbor aren't both making essentially the same trips in two vehicles? How about you take all the kids to soccer practice, and your neighbor picks them up and grabs that quart of milk you needed, too?

Today, consider what you're driving. Yes, that SUV is great when it comes to luxury and space. Is that luxury worth the c-note you're gonna pay at the pump today, or tomorrow? A generation ago, we figured out how to get Johnny and Susie to practice, the tutor, and the dentist, in a much smaller vehicle. Sometimes, it was the only vehicle in the family. Convenience is nice when it can be attained. Ours is a generation that has become a slave to it. Has convenience become your master?

Today, consider whether you need to drive at all. Do you hear that bike in the garage calling you? Have you noticed the expanded routes and bus service in town? Yes, it takes a little more time to get to work that way, but it's money in your pocket when you literally drive past the gas station without NEED to stop. Today's gas strike is just a deferral of the inevitable, unless we change our patterns of consumption.

Tomorrow, do any or all of these things to continue decreasing your dependence upon oil.

Tomorrow, be a different consumer than you are today. This, and only this, will change the shape of what is happening at the gas pump.

The Grinch who Bagged V-Day

2011-02-09T14:49:00.000-08:00

Or, as a nameless friend just said, "The Bitch who Gagged V-Day"

The Thing About Valentine’s Day…

I’ve received a lot of feedback about my announcement that I “canceled” Valentines Day. In a nutshell, here are the thoughts and events that led to that decision.

Hallmark is a Whore. Legally.

I am once again compelled to take notice that the idea of loving others is taken to absurdly commercial heights, and that the notion of love and appreciation of others is obfuscated by a whole lot of unwarranted angst, politicking, strategizing, and misinterpretation. I don’t think that this is what Cupid intended.

Is it “Je t’aime,” or “Je t’aime bien”?

In France, ‘Je t’aime’ means “I love you.” Je t’aime bien’ translates “I love you well”, and is that culture’s sentiment for “I really, really, really, really like you a lot.” In my current love formula, I am not sure how one treats both sides of that equation. Something needs to be added or subtracted from one side or the other. My notion was to delay the drama and pressure of Valentine’s Day, until we’ve figured out how to modify the equation to each other's satisfaction.
I’d rather have the whole year instead of one day.

Much the same as how I feel about Christmas, I’d rather be doing a better job of loving consistently, daily. At the onset of Valentines’ Day, I’d like my lover to be able to say, “Nothing so special about Valentines’ Day, since I am loved and appreciated this way every day in life.”

Essentially, I guess I'm more interested in Cupid having careful aim than feeling compelled to hit the broad side of the barn.

It Gets Better, And Interesting

2011-02-09T13:57:00.000-08:00

I really had no idea what the last post on this blog was going to do to my in-box. I received over three-hundred emails from people who were moved by what I’d written. Survivors, those struggling through hurt. I laughed, I cried. I was humbled beyond belief. Despite the enormity of the prospect, I felt compelled to respond. Respond, initially, to all but five emails. I just couldn’t get over the notion that each of those voices—whether that of overcomer, or that of the hurting, deserved acknowledgement for what they shared.

I am proud to have made the electronic acquaintance of so many truly strong individuals who have triumphed through unimaginable abuse. I am inspired by the quiet strength, courage, and grace of so many people in this community. I encourage those of you who can find your voice, to tell others that they are not alone. Your stories have purpose, they have the power to heal, to help others overcome.

I have been moved by the heart-rending stories of people still struggling with the unrelinquished hurt, fear, and betrayal. I encourage those of you still hurting to take just one small brave step and begin connecting with someone who will hear your pain and help you find your way. It makes no matter whether that person is a professional, a neighbor, a stranger. It DOES get better.

What has kept me from posting a follow-up for over a month now, has been the other five emails. Four of them have had the audacity to assert that victims of sexual assault—including that which happens to the very young—bear some measure of responsibility in the act. To those individuals, let me be so bold as to speak on behalf of a multitude of people when I say this:

Any act that ends with someone saying, “And if you tell your mom this happened…” is pretty much not a consensual act. Any act that a child cries “No” to repeatedly, even when punched for doing so, is not a consensual act. Any act that leaves a child growing up to feel that he or she is not worthy of another person’s pure and genuine affections, is not a consensual act. Every adult bears the responsibility to not inappropriately touch a child… no matter how your twisted, messed up perspective might view that child’s behavior.

These are the most constructive things I can think to say to the four individuals who suggested that the molestation of a child is not the perpetrator’s fault. I have many other things I’d like to say, but will reserve judgment and take the higher road.

The final email I have wrestled with since the moment I opened it. Almost a month ago.

I received an email from someone who molested me when I was eleven years old. The email was succinct, remorseful, and requested the opportunity to meet with me to apologize. I have thought over the past four weeks as to how—and whether—to respond. It’s not that I haven’t forgiven what happened. I have. A long time ago. And without the fear and discomfort I imagine would come from such a face-to-face encounter. Thirty years is a lot of time to put between me and some very painful experiences. Thirty years is almost the amount of time it has taken me to get over it. I have not really been able to convince myself that opening old wounds is really productive in this instance.

Today, one of my Facebook friends posted on his wall: “Listening may be the most loving thing you do today.” I don’t know why, today of all days, this hit me so hard. Or why I connected it to this email I’ve been pondering.

Today, I emailed this man and suggested that I am willing to entertain meeting him, with some safeguards and conditions. Why? Curiosity? Closure? I guess I’ve been mulling that over for all these weeks. Today, I figured out the answer:

For love; of self, of God, of others. Listening seems a small price to pay for the privilege and opportunity that are contained in those gifts.

My Version of "It Gets Better"

2011-01-07T11:14:00.000-08:00

I read and mulled and watched and agonized a couple months ago as many great voices, large and small, shared their inspiring and moving testimonies of “It Gets Better,” as a way of raising awareness and providing encouragement for those who have been, or are being, bullied.

I knew I had things to share and say that would be beneficial. I was bullied as a kid, preyed upon for being fat, poor, smart, shy, awkward, and socially marginalized by my parents’ life choices. I have been bullied as an adult, in the workplace, in marriage, in family relationships. I am glad to say that after nearly 40 years, I finally found my way, and found the courage to draw boundaries, repair the damage, and make myself whole.

It’s not that I don’t have tons to say about what that feels like. Pain is pain, and it hurts. And much like many other things in life, I’ve managed to overcome and conquer. As always, I’d rather focus on the good, rather than the bad.

What kept me from sharing on this topic really comes down to a lack of zeal. I just couldn’t put my finger on some aspect of the matter that I felt truly resonated with me in a way that would translate to something meaningful worth reading. Until today.

A Facebook friend posted a version of this news story on his page about the suicide of Bill Zeller, renowned Princeton computer programmer. Bill took his own life after twenty-some years of unsuccessfully dealing with the aftermath of sexual abuse as a child.

As many of you know, I have long been an advocate for suicide prevention, having lost my mother, a co-worker, and a slew of friends to such tragic ends. I have compassion for those so enshrouded in hopelessness that they find this dark end the only means of ending their suffering. Life is truly rough sometimes. I have endless sympathy for those left behind, who must make sense out of such senseless and enormous loss. Moving on is rough, too.

Something I have not talked or written about much from my own experience is the way sexual abuse in my childhood impacted me. Other than succumbing to thoughts of death, I have experienced much of what Bill Zeller shared in his final missive: the darkness, the self-loathing, the pain, the fear, the isolation, the inability to find courage for real intimacy, the betrayals encountered in the search to repair the damage done. I can understand how and why a person would want permanent respite from these things.

I have been that person who bore daily physical reminders of such heinous violation. I have struggled to reach out of a darkness from which I sometimes could not justify my own escape. I have self-sabotaged aspects of my life because I was afraid—of what, I’m not sure. I have chosen poorly in nearly every romantic relationship I’ve tried to have, because somehow, latching on to someone I knew would hurt, betray, or otherwise neglect me seemed just dessert for damaged goods. I have hurt other people in my irrational and illogical attempts to keep myself “safe” from further harm, perceived or otherwise.

Thankfully, it does get better.

As I read Bill Zeller’s final words, my heart ached for a young man who never learned to love himself. The greatest spiritual battle we face is being separated from the love that was placed in us by creation. Every religion—Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Taoism, etc.—all speak to the importance of loving one’s self. Biblical scripture says, “loving the Lord your God with all your heart, even as you love yourself.”

I don’t want to get dogmatic or preachy, but those are powerful words. Love. Yourself. No matter what has happened to you in this life, you are a person worth knowing, worth loving, and blessed with a life worth living, and sharing with others. I read somewhere recently, a quote, “You don’t have to go looking for love if it’s where you come from.” Loving yourself is fundamental to sustaining the rest of one’s existence in a healthy, happy way. If you don’t love yourself, how can you believe that others—family, friends, God—love you, too?

For other Bill Zellers out there: You are not alone. Statistically speaking, one of every four females, and one of every seven males you meet on the street has been sexually abused. The things that isolate you are not entirely unique to your own human experience. You are precious, valued, loved. There is confidential help available through mental health professionals, sexual abuse hotlines, online resources.

For the rest of us: Recognize that every person you encounter has struggles in life. Some things that have been engrafted into the hearts of friends and loved ones are this plaguing, this monumental, this difficult for the individual; no matter how they are presenting on the outside. Be a friend. Be a confidante. Recognize the signs and symptoms of the seriously depressed and those predisposed to suicide:

• Ideation (thinking, talking or wishing about suicide)

• Substance use or abuse (increased use or change in substance)

• Puposelessness (no sense of purpose or belonging)

• Anger

• Trapped (feeling like there is no way out)

• Hopelessness (there is nothing to live for, no hope or optimism)

• Withdrawal (from family, friends, work, school, activities, hobbies)

• Anxiety (restlessness, irritability, agitation)

• Recklessness (high risk-taking behavior)

• Mood disturbance (dramatic changes in mood)

• Talking about suicide.

• Looking for ways to die (internet searches for how to commit suicide, looking for guns, pills, etc.)

• Statements about hopelessness, helplessness, or worthlessness.

• Preoccupation with death.

• Suddenly happier, calmer.

• Loss of interest in things one cares about.

• Visiting or calling people one cares about.

• Making arrangements; setting one's affairs in order.

• Giving things away, such as prized possessions.

And may we all remember that there is no problem so great that it cannot be conquered when the job is properly divided among friends.

The Party's Over... 'Cuz the Lights are Going Out...

2010-12-27T13:06:00.000-08:00

No more incandescent light bulbs? What? As if that’s not bad enough, I heard this from Doug La Malfa’s Facebook page. This cave I’ve been living in really is insulated from the outside world.

For those three or four of you who might be as sheltered and clueless as I apparently am, here’s the deal:

In 2007, George W. Bush signed some sort of energy bill which, in part, begins phasing out incandescent light bulbs. Those are the non-funny-shaped ones. The ones we’ve taken for granted all our lives. The federally-mandated phase out does not start until 2012. However, California, in order to meet its own energy reduction mandates, is beginning the phase out of 100-watt bulbs effective January 1, 2011.

Now, 100-watt bulbs, I can see eliminating. It’s like a thousand splendid suns in someone’s living room. But on the heels of that, my beloved 60- and 75-watt luminaries will also become contraband. I’m getting to that age where time and gravity have collided with good looks and grace, causing a wrinkling Armageddon across my face. Make-up only does so much. I rely on other people’s poor vision and good lighting to compensate for the rest.

And I’m left to wonder, what the heck was so important in the past three years that I missed this impending train wreck?

What Would Jesus Buy? Or, Why I’m Kicking the Eight Pound Baby Jesus Out of the Manger

2010-12-10T09:53:00.000-08:00

So, for the past several years, I’ve ranted about the commercialization of Christmas, and pleaded with friends and loved ones to put some magic back into this time of year. No amount of love from those I adore warrants a year’s worth of consumer debt, worry, stress, or consternation.

Instead of buying me a sweater, share a cup of tea with me. Instead of making me some trinket, spend time making memories with me that we both will be unable to erase from our legacies.

This year, the ‘back to basics’ epiphany has hit me this way:

Going broke buying gifts to prove you love me as much as you love the eight-pound baby Jesus, is like giddily leading Herrod to the Christ child. When we buy what we can barely afford, we are laying all our tribute at the feet of Target, WalMart, Macy’s, and Sears. If we’ve converted all our worth into commercial gifts, what do we really have left of value to share with one another, or with Christ?

This year, I challenge you to put aside your notions of tangible value on loved ones. Cast off your warm and fuzzy notion of the baby Jesus in the manger. Consider instead, bravely embracing the 23 year-old, 165 pound Jesus. Not much is written about him. I suspect that he was out and about, eating locusts, doing more of that 'I’m the Son of God' 40-day fasting plan, and generally being tempted in all manner of men. And at 23, he was likely bemoaning that day’s equivalent of walking the life of a man-child. He was finally able to go out and drink with his buddies, but not quite old enough to be getting a good driver insurance rate, due to his age.

This year has taught me more about faith than any other time in my life. Facing death makes one reconsider a lot about life in general, and personal circumstances in particular. I believe that in Christ’s young manhood, he had to be conflicted about his life path, knowing that he was headed for a road of rejection, condemnation, and betrayal, all in the name of the family biz. Still, we’re told, he counted it all joy. He was steadfast in his faith. That's what I want for all of us in the coming year-- a steadfastness that helps us endure challenges with joy, and a gratitude that makes us drink in every moment of goodness that comes our way.

Instead of casting our lot with the cute and cuddly little bugger in the manger, let’s worship the guy who went through who-knows-what, for you-know-who (us). Let’s emulate the dude who was strong enough physically, and mature enough emotionally, to move forward through the tough times, knowing that doing so gave us all a foothold to joy unspeakable.

Let’s trust one another, hold each other up, love one another in the non-trinket form; in ways that better sustain us, better propel us, and better bond us to one another in the coming year.

Accounting for 2010

2010-12-03T10:13:00.000-08:00

Let me tell you where this year has gone…

Divorce.

Salt Lake City.
The wintery star-filled skies of Wyoming.
Denver.
Albuquerque.
Winslow.
New Tattoo.
Matching piercings with Katy.

Rode the last Sunset Dinner train.
Golden Gate Bridge.
Drove up the coast.

Ate Well. Vintage. Rubicon. Tapas. Yama Sushi. Kobe. Mt. Fuji. Penny’s Diner. Tasty Mouse. Trader Joe. Waffle House. Black Eyed Pea. The Fort. Minerva’s. Taco Trucks. Quizno’s. Maria’s. Anette’s. Dad’s. Rick's. P.F. Chang’s.

Said hard good-byes.
Said sweet hellos.

Made choices.
Packed.
Loaded.
Stored.
Hauled.
Moved to Denver.

Found life again.
In a basement.
And atop a 14,000 foot mountain.

Manitou Springs.
Broadmoor Hotel.
Colorado Springs.
The Continental Divide.
Rode my motorcycle through the Rockies.

Stayed in the town that inspired South Park.

Saw the Nuggets play a few times.
The Rockies with Scott.
Bon Jovi with Josh.

Walked the beach at Santa Cruz with a loved one.

Barack Obama.
Drove myself back to California to face some unknowns.

Aspen.
Hotchkiss.
Durango.
Four Corners.
The Navajo Nation Rodeo.
Colorado City.
Zion National Park.
Las Vegas.
Death Valley.
Tonopah.
Mina.
Reno.
Susanville.
Burney.
Redding.

Bare Naked Ladies with Maria

Lost 70 pounds.

Cheryl, the loaner mom.

Nevada.
Utah.
Wyoming.
Colorado.
New Mexico.
Arizona.
Mexico.
Oregon.
Illinois.
Texas.
Washington, DC

Migraine.
Vomit.
Diarrhea.
Cramps.
Nightmares.
Bleeding.
Pain.
Non-stop Pain.
Jumped out of a plane.

Found clothes that fit well, simply by changing the way I see myself.

Found peace through the harshest of circumstances.

John Mayer with Maria.

Loved.
Lost.
Fought.
Won.
Been sick,
Been well.

Gained.
Lived.
Died.
Wept.

Lost fear.
Lost hair.

Found courage, faith, and grace.

Learned yoga.
Danced with a man under a warm summer sky.
Laughed, like I haven’t since I was a kid.

Drugs. Prescriptions. Medical Care.
Medical Bills.
Insurance.
Insurance Companies.

Found joy in the simplest of things—a flower. A phone call. A hug. A sunset. A day without a headache.

Laughter.

Met with dignitaries.
Awed in the presence of the poorest of folk.

Connected with positive energy.
Disconnected from the negative.

Found liberation through drawing of boundaries.

Been broken.
Been made whole.

Walked on the beach, while questioning my existence.
Been reminded in the most humbling of ways that I am valued, loved.

Written more in the past year than I have in ages, reminding me of where passions reside.
The environment.
The Holy Spirit.
Communities.
Big Foot.
Polygamy.
Health. Sickness. Death. Dying. Moving on.
Serenity.
Justice.
Peace.
Grants. Reports. Spreadsheets. Reconciliations.

Made new friends.
Found old friends.

Sat still.

Been humbled by the help of others.
Been inspired by those who heroically endured much.

Met lots of troopers.

Stretched.
Grew.
Been tested.
Slept.
Dreamed.
Hoped.
Loved.
Prayed.
Kicked Ass.

Possessed the courage and audacity to make it all so.

The Gift That Is Forgiveness

2010-11-14T15:40:00.000-08:00

Forgiveness has never been that difficult of a thing for me when it comes to my end of the gig. I have long understood the power and force behind owning one’s mistakes and doing what one can to make things whole for those I have hurt or offended.

I have forgiven others for transgressions from large to small. Whether spiritually speaking or not, I simply believe that the love which inspired the relationship is greater than any snare that could tear at it. From my theological point of view, forgiveness is imperative to honoring the work of the Cross. To withhold forgiveness is to say that Christ’s sacrifice was not greater than the transgression one has suffered.

To me, it has never mattered whether a person even asks for that forgiveness. It’s just my job to make my own heart right in the matter and forgive. In fact, upon reflection, some of the greatest hurts I’ve endured in life have been forgiven that way. I forgive and move on, while nothing really gets restored in terms of the relationship, for lack of the other person's contribution. It’s certainly not ideal, but it’s far better than letting bitterness prevail.

Recently, I was confronted with a request from someone for the opportunity to ‘clear the air’. This was someone who had broken my heart at a point in life where I really could have benefitted from his friendship and support, if not the love we had shared. Quietly, over the span of some time, I had made peace with the situation, with his absence, and with the lack of closure over it all. I forgave, silently, for the sake of both our souls.

I had not expected to ever hear from him again. As happens at times, his life took some unfortunate turns that apparently made him re-evaluate choices he’s made in the course of his journey. It is with a fair amount of shame that I admit I was reluctant to have this proposed ‘air clearing’. I was skeptical. I had made peace with things from my own end, and didn’t see the point in rehashing old wounds.

Ultimately, propelled by compassion for his extraordinary circumstances, I capitulated. We met.

In all my life, I have never had someone apologize so sincerely. No mitigations, no “I’m sorry, but,” just an apology-- succinctly, sincerely, and with humility, expressing regret and remorse for pieces of the past that could have been lived better, or with a greater degree of kindness. It assuaged a lot of sleepless nights, a lot of sorrow, and a lot of questioning of self. It humbled me. It made a very broken piece of me whole.

It was a gift for which I don’t even know where to insert the proper thanks.

Why I Should Not Shop Unsupervised, Part II

2010-10-24T13:52:00.000-07:00

MEN: Be warned, this blog post contains content that may not be suitable for you. Feel free to return to your Giants victory celebration. It may be safer for your tender souls.

Ladies, I know you’ll get what I’m saying here.

Yesterday, I shopped. Til I dropped. Y’all know by now I’m not much of a shopper. I put it off and put it off until I can’t put it off any more. I don’t like crowds. I don’t like spending money. I don’t really like all the dickering, though I’m pretty good at it. I am THE fashion disaster of all fashion disasters. Some say I am the reason there is an army of fashion police combing the streets.

But despite all these dangers for myself and others, I could delay no longer. I need new technology for work. My shelf in the pantry is looking pretty bare. The seasons have changed, and I need warmer clothes.

The Geeks at Best Buy got me rolling seamlessly into a purchase of a new Toshiba Netbook. At the sake of sounding old and codgerly, I couldn’t help but recall how my first computer took two trips into the house—hulking monitor, behemoth CPU, keyboard, box of cords. And this didn’t even count that cutting-edge dot matrix printer that could actually do ‘alternate fonts’.

Now, for a third of what I paid back then for that set up, I have a computer with about 100 times the memory, 50 times the speed, internet capability, and that practically fits in the palm of my hand.

It, an external DVD drive and all the cords, fit in a case barely the size of a hardback novel. Crazy.

The weirdest shopping experience today was in Target. I have discovered a couple things with the changing of the weather. First, I am still living with my parents. While I didn’t have a hard date in mind, I apparently did not intend on being here beyond the shorts-and-tank-top phase of summer, since I left all my warmer attire in my storage unit. Second, upon going to said storage unit, I discovered I have lost A LOT of weight since I last wore cool weather clothes. Nothing fits.

In Target, out of sheer habit, fueled by the voice of Big Fatty Girl who somehow mistakenly thinks she’s still part of my existence, I was drawn directly to the boulder-sized bra section. As in times past, this was a chore that lacked any kind of joie de vivre whatsoever. I hastily grabbed several freak-show sized bras and went to try them on.

Now, one would think that a woman as smart a myself would have figured this one out on the first try. But no, FOUR BRAS LATER, it finally dawned on me: these bras are too big. Why this flummoxed me so, I don’t quite know. Dazed, confused, and dreading another round of finding things on racks, I dragged myself back out to the floor to find something that would fit. Turns out, I am now an owner of breasts that fit in bras in the ‘normal size’ section of the store. It was sort of like Christmas and the 4th of July all in one. There were so many! Colors, sizes, textures, holy cow. And match sets.

Match sets of underwear. I’ve seen them before. I’ve just never bought them. Form and function over frivolity has always been my notion in the undergarment department. And seriously, most of my life, I’ve been a big-to-huge girl. And a single parent. The “Dear Lord Let This Bra Hold The Girls Up All Day and Through the Kids' Christmas Pageant Tonight” kind of undergarments don’t generally come in feminine match sets.

This day, I looked at them. I touched them. I pondered. Ultimately, I decided to purchase a bra and panty set. For me. With no guilt. No regrets.

It was so fun, I grabbed a few more sets. And then found a manager to give me a discount. Yep. Not only do I own ‘normal,’ matching intimates, I own them at 15% off the retail price.

I feel like Wonder Woman. If you see me coming, you might want to look out. I may be matching. And in these moments when I like myself so well, there's just no telling what this woman might do!

Ghosts of Shingletown Past

2010-10-24T09:47:00.000-07:00

I went to Wal-Mart yesterday. I’ll admit it. I do try to stay out of there—shop local, all that. However, one of the things I’ve learned this year is that Wal-Mart’s pharmacy is darn hard to beat on prescription drugs—especially some of the ridiculously expensive ones I’ve been burning through lately.

I promised myself I would just be in-and-out.

As I entered on the grocery side, I was already bracing myself for impact as I headed toward the pharmacy. Wal-Mart is one of those places that generally contains entirely too many people for me—especially the inconsiderate, the ignorant, and the otherwise not-so-bright. And I’ll admit, it’s a “me” thing. I just don’t have the patience for it.

So, as I plunged deeper into the store, I sought to find the straightest path to the pharmacy and get the heck out. I was stopped short in my tracks at the make-up aisle, as I saw a woman, with the same lovely frosted and permed hair, the same mischief in her eyes, and most shockingly, the same look as if she was about to fire off a ridiculously funny—and highly inappropriate—missive, as Carol Ann Dinning.

The way this woman looked brought to mind a day when I was 18 or so, and Carol Ann must have been about 37ish (going on 29, of course). Carol Ann was prattling on enthusiastically about how much weight she’d lost, how great her jeans looked, and what that meant in terms of ‘trouble’ for her husband that night. I really loved her spunk. It was a look from the time that will always be my frame of reference for Carol Ann—radiant, beautiful, smart, funny, and so full of life. It was as if she was the whole genesis of life itself; a force of nature, a woman with her own zip code—not for her physical size, but merely as the most apt way to contain all her moxy.

I deposited that nice memory and got back to the reality of getting to the pharmacy and getting on with the day. Seated in the pharmacy waiting area, I heard this laugh. No, actually, it was more a cackle. As I turned my head to see who was letting out such a distinctive noise, I thought, “that sounds just like Crazy Carol…”

At the moment that thought was registering with me, my eyes cast upon a woman, about five-foot even, with short, feathery, highlighted hair peeking out from under a fedora-like hat, arm clutched around a handbag that looked expertly hand-constructed, and cerulean blue eyes that bespoke a brand of waggery all their own. Had I not known that she had passed on a half-dozen years ago, I would most surely have thought that the woman before me was the same woman who used to call me “Bratinella”, the same woman who loved my dad at a time in his life when he was heartbroken, and fairly unlovable.

I don’t really know the significance of these déjà vu sightings. As has been said a lot lately, maybe it’s just a “mountain thing”. Maybe it’s just precious memories. Maybe it’s just life’s way of re-gifting to us treasures of the past.

Just Out and About...

2010-10-19T11:08:00.000-07:00

I had to go to the doctor this morning. Not a big deal. For those of you who know me well, you’ll understand that running a fever was a far lesser concern than getting halfway to my destination and realizing that I didn’t have my Droid. The doctor hooked me up with a prescription for some antibiotics, and a plethora of encouragement about how everything’s still normal, and still on track. However, miracle worker that he is, he could do NOTHING about the fact that I went nearly two hours without taking or making phone calls, texting, facebooking, web surfing, stock checking, map routing, hot spotting, listening to my Booty Shaking music station, or taking random photos. How was it that I functioned before this nifty little device danced into my life? I can’t recall.

The component I was missing the most this morning was the camera. After the doctor’s visit, I stopped at Trader Joe’s. While there, I noticed Brussels sprouts. They were still on the stalk. For some reason in my mind, I had always thought they grew underground, or low-lying. I was intrigued by the revelation. Their stalks look similar to a broccoli stalk. It sort of made me think of giants and bean stalks, like maybe on the days bean stalks weren’t available, little ol’ Jack could have used the Brussels sprouts as a trellis to the terrible giant.

Curious as I was, I did not leave the store with any of the stalks. I have never acquired a taste for them, and have yet to find a way to prepare them that can overcome the issues I have with their taste and their texture. But I really wanted a picture. I was bummed I didn’t have the camera. I think I’ll try to go back in a couple days, since I need to return for the dried unsulfured, unsweetened Mangos they were out of as well.

On my way home, I had another “I wish I had my camera!” encounter. A dark-skinned gentleman, wearing a blazing orange, white, and black Giants jersey, rode through the intersection at Lake Boulevard and Market Street on a cruiser-type bicycle. A lavender bicycle, with purple and white streamers on the handlebars, and several shades of violet cutouts in the spokes, no less. The cacophony of color was dazzling. The grin on his face was priceless.

And my dear Droid was at home.

Waking the Dead

2010-10-02T14:15:00.000-07:00

Everyone in my house is still laughing about this…

So, for whatever reason—meds, stress, pain—last night was not an entirely good night in the sleep realm. I slept some, but not that pure, recuperative kind. I got up this morning to try and start the day, and just couldn’t. Back to bed I went.

I slept for a few more hours, before I awoke to bickering. Doesn’t matter who or why, just that it wasn’t over anyone’s life or limb, and it was at a volume that I couldn’t sleep through.

Then, almost as suddenly as I’d been roused, there were a few brief moments of celebration as I realized that I had somehow become the only human in the house. I contemplated running a bath, reading a book, but ultimately, too weary for much else, went back to bed.

Just about the time I had drifted off, DamnDogs started barking and yapping, which sent BigDyingDog into mournful howls. I went and got the dogs all quieted down and crawled back into bed.

I slept for about half an hour before the doorbell rang. I tried to just ignore it. Anyone who’s anyone around here just walks in or uses the garage door. Because of their persistence, I finally got up and answered the beckoning.

Upon opening the door, I was face-to-face with what appeared to be mother and son proselytizers. Before I could even say hello, the young boy, probably about six or so, began backing away from the door, bug-eyed and screaming, “Mama you just told me there was no such thing as zombies!!!!!”

Still a bit bleary-eyed, I just watched as the confused woman attempted to stay engaged with me, and chase after her son, who was already scampering back down the driveway. Finally, after issuing a hasty good-bye, she ran after the terrified young boy. Shrugging, I closed the door and headed for the bathroom.

As I looked in the mirror, I began to laugh as I realized the source of the young boy’s terror. I had no scarf on, and my head was sporting a strange array of small patches of hair. There was a bruise near my eye that I acquired some time in the night. My eyes were so bloodshot, there was barely any white visible. Small dried streams of blood framed my face from where my ears had apparently bled while I was asleep.

At that moment, my brother stuck his head in the door and said, “Who was that running down the street?”

As I explained the situation to him, he put his arm around me and spoke to me through our reflections in the mirror, “I’m not gonna lie, if I didn’t know you, looking like this, you’d scare the Jesus out of me, too!”

Damn, I Hope This Works...

2010-09-29T20:08:00.000-07:00

This has been a stressful week. Stress, thankfully, has become something of a stranger that I have not allowed to darken my doorstep in many, many months.
The last time I consciously felt stressed out was February 10th of this year. That was the day that I left Redding for Denver, via California’s central valley. I had my friend Michael helping me with all the moving logistics, and the driving. With a few nice good-bye gatherings behind me, I was left to deal with a couple uncomfortable and awkward good-byes and severances. I went to my old house to pick up the last of my belongings, closing the door for good on my failed marriage. Painful and unnecessary were some of the parting shots.

My son, who was at the time consumed with a ton of adolescent anger, angst, and pure rage, pushed every guilt button I had over my decision to leave the state. On many fronts, I felt like I was letting others down, disappointing people I love, including myself.

Michael, in his instinctual way, reminded me of how each of those things was a lie or misperception that I had the choice to discard or glom onto. By the time we got to Denver, my entire countenance had changed. Denver gave me the much-needed space to heal and grow and redefine myself in a way that the permutations of too much stress and pressure in life had not allowed, ever.

It's not exactly that I haven’t encountered stress since then, it is just a matter of responding to it differently, perhaps. Even those around me have said it's eerie the calm I've had through most all of this year. For me, it's been a wonderful transformation. I strive to manage conflict, stress, and the unexpected with more reason, less reaction; with more authority, less indecision. I am happier, stronger, and more resilient for the change.

This week I was confronted with more financial stressors. This thing inside me continues to empty bank accounts and drain resources. I resent the implication that this thing could lose the battle inside me, but win through the thorough annihilation of other aspects of my existence. I continue to resist that notion by taking on more work to pay for more fees, services, and medical supplies. The work drains me. It’s a vicious cycle, but I refuse to let this thing beat me over a few measly bucks.

The greatest stressor this week was on the medical front itself. On Monday, my doctor informed me that he feels he cannot in good conscience continue with my current treatment, as the results are not as he expected. I am still progressing, but not as well as he thinks is necessary to justify the collateral damage which is occurring in this battle. We debated for almost an hour about his preferred alternative (surgery), and mine (continue with drugs). I called the doctor who diagnosed me in Denver and asked his opinion. He requested my latest rounds of tests and scans, and we talked yesterday. He agrees with me that my current treatment, with a possible tweak in medications, could continue to get the job done.

Agonizing, has been the thought, prayer, reflection, and contemplation, over what to do next. I have worked judiciously to separate my fear of the surgery from the logical aspects of each course of treatment. Even in doing so, I cannot find a place of peace in the decision to have that operation.

I’ve pretty much always been a pleaser by nature. I don’t want people upset with me. I don’t want to disappoint others. It is an extraordinarily difficult conclusion to reach, knowing that in order to follow the path of peace, I am going to have to be contrary to the medical professional who has been managing my care. I spent a good portion of yesterday and this morning investigating and interviewing new doctors/practices all over northern California in search of someone who shares my vision of how to conquer this thing. Thankfully, I found the medical care I want to pursue close by. I am extraordinarily thankful for the team and staff of people who have gotten me to this point. I am relieved that my current doctor was so compassionate and caring as I explained my decision to him. He hugged me good-bye, wished me well, and offered whatever transitional assistance would be helpful in my case.

I go tomorrow to my new providers, cloaked in peace. Before I went and said my good-byes with the other doctor, I was nervous, stressed out even, at the thought of making this change. It felt like a bit of a free fall. After saying good-bye, I was filled with peace. I know what I am doing is right. I cannot speak for certain as to the outcomes of the decision. I still pray for healing, and continued wisdom to make the choices consistent with that. But what I do know is that this is the right course for me, with a peace that passes all understanding.

Patience is a Virtue

2010-09-27T20:16:00.000-07:00

Dear Lord, thank you for all the patience you bestowed upon me today. These are the things I did not say, when I had the chance:

To the lady at Trader Joe’s who looked at me, then in my cart, and spying a chocolate bar, said: “Dear, do you really think you should be eating that in your condition?”

I wanted to say, “Well, it’s for my dad, for all the amazing stuff he does, but even if I ate it, I’m sure that it wouldn’t do me near so much harm, even in my current condition, as that case of Two Buck Chuck and that bag of chips is gonna do to you…”

Instead, I just smiled.

To the man in Hayfork who said, “Don’t you think your kind have done enough damage to our country?” I inquired what he meant by that remark, and he indicated that because I had a scarf on my head, I must be a “damned Muslim terrorist.”

I wanted to say, “damned ignorant fools like you have done a lot of harm, too, and no one’s shooting their mouth off at you now, are they?”

Instead, I touched his shoulder and told him I’d be praying for him—to Jesus—and maybe to the God of Mohammed, just for kicks, and to hedge his bets.

To the woman whom I encountered in the mall who used to be my friend until she accepted advances from 'him':

I wanted to say, “Your hugs and concern are awkward for me. Admitting to me that going out with him while we were still married might have been a little precocious --and more succinctly, hurtful to me-- would be a lot better way to clear the air. Not that I expect it. I’m just sayin’…”

Instead, I smiled and then ran off to the restroom to hurl. Maybe I didn't call this one right.

To the sweet man who helped me get bags loaded into my car and told me that hilarious off-color joke:

I wanted to say, “I love you…” but I doubt he’d have understood the context.

Instead, I laughed like a crazy woman. Felt good.

To the mail man who delivered lots of scrills today. I wanted to say, “I love YOU…” but the mail came while I was away.

Instead, I will leave him something sweet to eat tomorrow.

Lord, I'm hoping you don't test me quite so much tomorrow. :-)

Love,

Susanne

Mr. Whiskers Meets Jesus

2010-09-23T21:38:00.000-07:00

When I was 20, I was married and living out on a logging job near Paynes Creek. One day, I had driven the 15 or so miles down a series of logging spurs to the store and post office. As I was loading up groceries into the back of my pick-up, a man came over and offered to help me load. I watched him as we hiked grocery sacks over the side of the truck bed, noticing that he was a rather scruffy sort, especially for someone so young. He couldn’t have been much older than I was then, and yet, he had this scruffy beard and long, thick, unruly hair. In my head, I called him Mr. Whiskers.

For the rest of that summer and fall, I’d see Mr. Whiskers nearly every time I drove through Paynes Creek, whether going to the store, or heading over to Redding. Sometimes, he was just loitering around the store, sometimes searching for treasures along the highway, sometimes walking his equally scruffy dog, Bandit.

That year, we moved from the job at Paynes Creek and spent time in Burney and Shingletown, before eventually pulling our trailer to Susanville so my husband could go to work for his uncle.

About four years after I’d met Mr. Whiskers, I encountered him again in Susanville, at the newly-minted Wal-Mart. By that time, I had a baby under each arm. Mr. Whiskers had lost his teeth. His hair was matted, his face marked with sores. He was succumbing to the effects of methamphetamine. He smiled at me, and touched Katie’s cheek as my eyes filled with tears. I was sad to see him in such a condition, and was at a loss as to what to do to help him, as he walked away. I called him Mr. Whiskers in my heart.

Off and on, I saw Mr. Whiskers from time to time over the years. It was a curious thing the way our paths would cross. About ten years ago, I ran into him in south Redding, on his way to an AA meeting. He was cleaned up, with short hair and nothing but a smile across his clean-shaven face. Though he was definitely healthier than I’d ever seen him look, there was something haunting about the look in his eyes. He shared with me, “a lot of bad living has come home to roost, I’m afraid.”

He had AIDS. Contracted as a consequence of years of IV drug use and sharing needles, Mr. Whiskers was living on borrowed time.

Over the past decade, Mr. Whiskers and I would see each other from time to time, share a cup of coffee, a few stolen moments in the market, or the occasional lunchtime visit. He responded well to drug therapy for several years. The past few years, he began to decline.

Over the weekend, Mr. Whiskers had been on my mind, and in my dreams, telling me that he was ready to go to Jesus. I called him on Monday, just to see how he was doing. His mother answered the phone and said he was weak, and not doing so well. She welcomed my offer to stop by the following day.

On my way home from Weaverville, I stopped in to see Mr. Whiskers. He looked thin, weak, and tired, but happy to see me. He gingerly sat up in his bed and visited with me for almost an hour and a half. At one point, he told me that he was ready to go ‘home to the Big Mac Daddy’. “I have peace about the timing,” he confided. Mr. Whiskers indicated that he’d said most all the good-byes he could stand, and that he was ready to go be in the heavens.

As I readied to leave, Mr. Whiskers put out his arms, and I embraced him, shocked by how small his frame had become, and awed by how tightly he clung to me. He told me that he couldn’t see the sense in saying good-bye to the likes of me, because he was certain that he’d be seeing me later, in a much better place.

Mr. Whiskers died this morning, in the arms of his devoted mother. She said that it was a peaceful passing. Now, I call him Mr. Whiskers in my spirit.

The Random, the Funny, the Cool...

2010-09-17T19:26:00.000-07:00

Just some random, funny, cool things from this week…

Pandora. Love it. My Steve Miller radio channel is coming along nicely.

For a few brief moments this week, I felt like I was sixteen again. I was sharing some information with a gentleman in a work setting, and he moved in for a closer look at what I was showing him. There was that look, those gorgeous soft eyes, that smile, that electricity, and then it was all about the work. Frosting on the cake was getting to share the moment with a good friend who demonstrably understood.

My daughter Katy had supper with us the other night. It was one of those sort of ‘homecomings’ where she looked markedly different. Grown. Breathtakingly beautiful. I hadn’t seen her in a week or so. She now lives on her own. Under her own steam. I’m so proud of her. That such a smart, beautiful, dedicated young woman calls me “Mom” is a blessing beyond belief.

I’m still grappling for an appropriate way to fully share this amazing story, but because so many of you have been asking, here is a snippet from ‘the letter’ I picked up at the doctor’s office:

“My wife died the day she found out she had cancer. It was almost three more years before she stopped breathing and we buried her. I would have given anything for her to have even a little of your grit and moxy…It gives me inexplicable hope to see you fighting the same fight with a future in front of you. Helping you in your fight helps me feel a little less grief in my own losses…”

QUOTES

Work:

“I’m not running again. I’m just a free range supervisor…” name withheld (til he’s out of office!)

“We’ll be admin-kabobs. What do you want to be marinated in?” name conveniently forgotten

“We sure could use Susanne over here in Plumas County,” old colleague

Home:

“I’m in one piece today, but who knows what tomorrow holds?” Jesse

Life:

Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is not putting it in the fruit salad.

Living or Dying: There is a Difference

2010-09-14T21:25:00.000-07:00

Living has crippled me. Whether it’s been circumstances along the path of life, my own mistakes, random misfortune, fear, ignorance, or physical malady, a good many things have gotten in my way of living life, let alone an abundant one.

It wasn’t until this week, when I honestly started giving frank, analytical consideration to dying, that I discovered how little I’ve been living. Don’t get me wrong-- my life has been rich in a multitude of ways. I have the two greatest kids on the planet, I have indescribably wonderful friends, and I’ve been afforded a life full of experiences that leave me indebted for their inestimable value.

I do not fear death. When I was young, I think I was rather anesthetized to it. I saw a few dead and near-dead people when I was very young, growing up in an urban area. By the time I was 14, my grandparents and mother we all deceased. Death was a fact of life.

When I got older, I came to know God, and grew in the belief of a heavenly afterlife with a joy far greater than what we live here on earth. Death is just the final transition in a life that’s been filled with them.

As I have been working with my medical team over the past week to decide how to proceed from here, I have had to face some harsh medical opinions. The options I want to pursue are, in my doctor’s estimation, going to lead to death more imminently than the ones he recommends. I, with just my fair (yet unprofessional) amount of intelligence and my “gut” instinct, believe the outcomes will be just the opposite.

I called my old doctor in Denver, and he agrees with me. The cynic in me tells me that it wouldn’t have taken many more calls to find someone to say what I wanted to hear, had the call to Denver not panned out. Everyone has an opinion for sale these days.

I drained every dime of the money I’ve made in the past two months on the series of consultations that ensued from that one phone call. Insurance companies, apparently, aren’t big on expensive speculation when it comes to managing my health care needs.

I’m quickly learning that whether this is a path to better living, or a path to quicker dying, the trip ain’t cheap.

Friday, while weighing all the pros and cons with my local doctor, I went ahead and asked him to show me the costs associated with each of the options we perused. I figured that the moment I was absorbing the shocking news of another round of not-completely-successful treatment, I may as well deal with the sticker shock of what lies as well.

It’s all expensive. Surgery. Chemo. Radiation. More meds. Even doing nothing will inevitably be expensive as I just wait to literally fall apart. Over and above what the insurance will pay, I am looking at another $1900-$15,500 out of my own pocket, depending on the treatment I choose.

I have been thinking, talking, seeking advice, reading, writing, praying, praying, praying, and waiting for that guidance to come. In considering things like, ‘would it be better to live or die?, I have realized that living has been a fearful, subsistence kind of thing for me in a lot of ways.

I am afraid of disappointing others.
I am afraid of being hurt.
I am afraid of hurting others.
I am afraid of failing.
I am afraid of trying.
I am afraid of succeeding.
I am afraid to take authority of those things that are inherently mine.

Good Lord, could I be any more of a mess?

Friday night, I awoke, scribbled some things on the pad on my nightstand and trundled back off into a troubled sleep. In the morning, I read the notes I’d written: “$9,728” and “Know the difference between living life and a life lived.”

I’m still meditating about the latter scrawl. The former, however, became much clearer today. I’ve been praying about that number all weekend, asking God to bless it, to let it be a number of blessing to me and to others; to let it be a harbinger of comfort and peace.

This morning, I spent a good deal of time getting all the logistics in place to do another 30 days of drug treatment. In between a litany of work calls and emails, I was getting bombarded by calls and texts from the doctor’s office.

At noon, I made arrangements to personally go into debt for $9,200 to cover additional treatment. That was a difficult thing to do, as I am adamant about trying to stay debt free through this situation—so much so, that I requested that the loan not be formalized until this Friday, so that I could try and settle the total unrest I had about my decision.

At 5:30, I was really ready to turn the phone off on everyone. Because I have a busy day tomorrow, I decided it would be more efficient to take the one last call from the doctor’s office rather than have to return the call in the morning.

I answered the phone and was greeted by the billing manager at the doctor’s office. I began explaining to her that I would have the money she must surely be requesting by Friday. She listened patiently as I rambled on.

When I stopped, she chuckled and said, “You have to be one of the most operationally savvy people I’ve dealt with,” so impressed was she by her perception that I’ve been handling the long list of medical to-do’s efficiently. Then, she told me that I needn’t make payment arrangements, but only stop by to pick up a letter.

I stopped for a second as I thought about that, and then I asked her, “Do you realize that I engaged services for the next 30 days?”

She laughed again and said, “Yes, and someone has made a payment today.”

She asked me how I would like to handle the $272 credit that I currently have on account. I asked her how much had been paid toward my account, because I couldn’t make sense of the $272. The office manager told me that $10,000 had been paid on my account. I did the math. Between the $9200 for new services, and the $528 in miscellaneous charges that had accrued, my bill was $9728.

I told her to hang on to the change… I’m sure it’ll get spent before it’s all over.

And once again, I am left here speechless, feeling too many things to even wrap my own brain around. Someone, something, continues to speak life into my circumstances in ways that are incomprehensible to me.

Dear Amazing Person Out There: I can’t wait until tomorrow when I can pick up your letter. In the meantime, please know that I am going to do everything in my power to bring dividends to your investment, and to live life in a way which might somehow make my gratitude seem like it could be enough. In the meantime, know that I am praying for you, and for God to show you a hundred-fold what you've helped show me.

Because So Many Have Asked...

2010-09-14T11:43:00.000-07:00

My Thoughts On Skydiving:

Better than sex. Way better.

The next guy who entertains the notion of some 'sweet time' with me is likely to hear:

"Hmmm... with you? Well, here's the thing: You're gonna have to show me that you have an AMAZING package, and that you're BRILLIANT at performing that thang, because for $100 and a whole lot less headache I can strap myself to a gorgeous man and fall out of the sky. And no one's been able to get me naked and replicate THAT feeling!"

And that's all I have to say about that.

Amen.

Living in the Land of Five-Foot Giants

2010-09-12T18:33:00.000-07:00

Challenges in life come in a variety of shapes and sizes. We’ve all known them, battled them, been laid flat by them, and triumphed over them. Adversity is the tool that refines and defines our character. It builds for us the perseverance, the tolerance, and empathy to enlarge our tents and continue being a greater vessel for ourselves and others.

One day last week, I was on the phone, discussing a project obstacle with a client. We’ve been working on this single project for weeks now, and we keep running into the same stumbling block—a five-foot tall woman, a flaming red-head, with a temperament to match. We have worked patiently, diligently, and with as much objectivity as we can muster to address this woman’s concerns about the defined course of action and the outcomes on the project. Every permit, funding source, authorization, and minor go-ahead has been obtained. Hers is the only voice of dissention on an otherwise fruitful project.

During the length of the phone call, the client and I developed our final plans for obtaining this woman’s agreement on the last details of the project. Basically, we decided that we are going manage the situation one issue at a time, and move on. In looking at the project from some different perspectives, we discovered a political equation that we believe is going to compel this woman to cooperate with us. Her dissention was, upon further evaluation, only a problem if we continued to look at the project from the same angle we always had.

As the client said his final good-byes, he commented, “Great job taking down this giant, Susanne.” We both laughed as we hung up.

Upon checking my phone, I discovered the grossest of dark ironies; a missed call from the doctor’s office, informing me of more test results, and a request that I come in for a consultation. During the very span of time that I was on the phone slaying one five-foot giant, another was rearing itself to further engage in battle.

I was pleased to learn that the current medication has been successful in eliminating most of the growths. The problem, as the doctor explained it to me, resides in a five-foot stretch of area that bridges both the small and large intestine, where the tumors continue to resist treatment.

The doctor and I are at odds over next steps. He is suggesting surgery, and I am resisting. I want to try one more round of a different medication. That five-foot giant inside me reminds me of an intestinal problem my mother had when she was in her 30’s. She wound up losing a portion of her intestinal tract, and things were just never quite right afterward. We never really knew the cause of her problem, but I had always assumed that it was due to a lot of hard living—drugs, alcohol, and inadequate medical care. Now I wonder.

Last night, I had the family chat with my folks about where I’m at and what I’m wanting to do with regard to my condition. I am fortunate to have family who, when it comes right down to it, support me when I need them. We drive each other bat-crackers crazy most of the time, but when things are on the line, everyone manages to drop the dysfunction for a minute and pull together the right way.

The strangest most unexpected thing happened as my dad, step-mom, and I were talking about my condition, options, and how I should manage the five-foot giant in my intestines. While trying to compare my situation with the mystery ailment of my mother’s decades before, some of the old frustrations of her suicide surfaced. From a purely strategic perspective, not having more information from her, even anecdotally, leaves me at something of a deficit in choosing a path to wellness.

Pretty much, the prevailing emotion for me when it comes to my mother is ambivalence. I try not to think about how much she’s missed of my life in the past 27 years—high school, marriage, career successes, my children--and their entire young lives’ worth of living so far. Lately, it’s leaned more toward anger and some quiet resignation. I could really use a mom right now. I am thankful for my step-mom and how much she has taken over that role over the years, but sometimes, it’s just not the same. We love what we know, even when it’s just a memory.

Part of my ambivalence for my mother comes from having long lived under her shadow. She was beautiful in every sense of the word. She had this charisma about her, that even though she was sort of just average in looks, everyone knew when she entered a room. Petite, at just under five feet, she had a svelte figure that no amount of diet and exercise will ever reveal to me. I’m bigger boned and fuller figured, much more plain in appearance. For all the talents she possessed—poetry, sewing, art—my skills and abilities always seemed to pale, in part because the things at which I excel seem to be less tangible than the gorgeous afghans she would crochet, or the amazing meals she would cook.

She had so many gifts, and so much to offer, and in her mental suffering, she chose to throw it all away. Others in my family have dealt with that loss by idolizing my mother posthumously to extraordinary heights. Even in her death, I am still compared to her, as if all that I am was her achievement alone. She is another five-foot giant I’ve battled my entire life.

As my step-mom was talking about her, she mentioned casually, as if I knew, “…it’s why your dad and I still keep some of her ashes on the shelf…”

I had no idea. In 1983, when we cremated my mom, we put most of her ashes under a fruit tree, as she had long requested. After that, I recall vaguely one of our cats spilling some of the ashes that had been placed in a vase in our home. I guess I just really never knew what happened to the rest.

I looked at Debbie and said, “What? You have her ashes?” My step-mom looked stunned, realizing that this was information that I did not previously possess.

“Can I see them?” I asked, through tears that I am still at a loss to understand.

Debbie led me into the dining room and pointed to a cobalt blue vase sitting about six feet up the wall on a trinket shelf. I gently removed the vase from the shelf, veritably staring through the ceramic in my hands.

Sobbing, I took the cork out of the vase and poured some of the remains into the palm of my hand. These small flecks of human ash are all that remain of my mother, aside from some memories that seem to have really morphed out of proportion.

In that moment, I realized that one more five-foot giant had just been deflated. I carefully poured my mom’s remains back into their container, gratefully laughing with my dad as he said, “Yep, that’s my Jeannie in a bottle!” Gawd, my family is weird, but I love them.

I walked away from that encounter realizing that I need to find a better perspective in which to manage my mother’s memory. Infinitely doable, I think. Somehow, holding a handful of her remains really put into focus how askew my own self perception has been over the years in light of the experience that was and is my mother.

With all the slaying of ‘giants’ this week, I have also found some reserves and the additional resolve I need to keep fighting this five-foot giant in my belly. The past few weeks have been hard, and I’ll be honest, the news that I’m not done yet was a real blow. The physical part of this is getting hard. The mental part has been a real challenge, too. I have spent a lot of time lost in thought and in fervent prayer over what to do from here.

What I’ve learned this week is that it is yet one more problem that I need to look at from a different perspective, noting that its relative size is much more diminutive than that which my perspective has lent it. This thing inside me is still on the track for eviction.

I am bigger than any five-foot giant that is put before me.

Sometimes, I Just Wonder...

2010-09-09T20:57:00.000-07:00

I have been grieved, saddened, and even embarrassed lately by things I’ve seen and heard from fellow Americans.

For instance, telling Muslims not to build a mosque near Ground Zero. Aligning all of the Muslim faith with terrorism, is like branding all Christians as bad because of an abortion bombing, or the acts of Timothy McVeigh and his bombing of the federal building in Oklahoma City. Every religion, political leaning, and social agenda has its fringe following. The Bible (which I endeavor to use as my moral compass), speaks about judging things by the fruit they produce. It’s hard for me to argue that the mosque—which sports a community center as well as other cultural magnets—and it’s historically peaceful worshippers have the same agenda as the terrorists who slammed planes into national monuments.

It shames me to see such ignorance and intolerance. While some will argue free speech and the first amendment, I find it difficult to rationalize the bashing people of a different faith. I can’t help but think doing so is the polar antithesis to what this nation was founded upon.

Burning the Quran. I can only wonder, at some point in eternity when we are all judged for things we have done or not done, how are some folks going to feel when they learn that much of what is in the Quran—live well, be kind to others, love God, etc.—is mirrored in the Bible and other Judeo-Christian literature? I have thought often of the Apostle Paul, a Pharisee-turned-devotee-to-Christ, and his writings where he harkens to the early followers of the Christian church to look to the things within us that speak to Christ, and not the outward appearances, differences in languages, etc. I believe even Christ himself would have broken bread among the Muslims, choosing to reach them in love, not in hate or violence.

This is the one that really got to me today. A license plate frame that said, “Question the Holocaust.” Seriously? As if the genocide of 6 million Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals, and others deemed socially undesirable didn’t happen?

It’s not that I think folks with these sorts of opinions should be censored. I just wish they had better personal filters. I remember a co-worker once getting a Chinese fortune with her lunch that said, “Not all things must be voiced.”

I sincerely believe that to be a wise word in our day and time. If we want to see change in our nation and among our people, we need to consider whether our thoughts or our words are edifying, and whether they profit us, our neighbors, our communities, and our nation. Sometimes I cringe at people who errantly throw around "God Bless America," as if our own patriotism is based merely on our ability to get a personal god to shine kindly upon us.

Isn't it time that America blessed God, no matter whose you choose to believe? Shouldn't we speak kindness to one another? Tolerance? In a manner that builds us up as a nation and as a people, as opposed to tearing us down?

"And then HE said..."

2010-09-09T15:12:00.000-07:00

I should be reading through the Gemmill Thin Project Draft Supplemental Environmental Impact Statement right now. At least some of the reasons why I can’t quite get excited about diving into that should be fairly obvious. The piper will be paid in full tonight, I suppose.

Less apparent motives include a mind that wanders to the conversation I had this morning with a friend, and the conversation I’m trying not to overhear in a coffee shop right now. This morning’s conversation was about my friend’s inability to get his former girlfriend to accept closure to their relationship. Painful stuff for all involved. The current conversation I’m trying to ignore (but failing, due to the volume and exuberance of the speaker) is about how the cheating boy continues to do her wrong.

Big, fat sigh. Why can’t people be nicer, kinder, more honest with one another? Why can’t motives and agendas just give way to two human beings pleasantly spending time with one another for nothing more than the enjoyment of each other’s company? A good conversation, a shared interest, an evening of fun companionship, these things seem to be something of a lost art.

Perhaps I am naïve in thinking that things could be so simple. Lord knows I’m not the most successful person when it comes to relationships. It makes me grateful for this place in life I am now, absolved of even being able to take the risk.

Yet Another Reason I Should Not Shop Unsupervised...

2010-09-08T17:42:00.000-07:00

I am not a shopper. I don’t like to shop. For whatever reason, I just never inherited that gene that seems to be somewhat inherent in the female half of our species. And when I say I don’t like to shop, I mean, AT ALL. Not clothes, cars, furniture, food… nothing.

Today, resigned by the need of a few household items and some personal essentials, I braved a trip to Shopko, chosen for no other reason than it’s proximity to my parents’ house, and the fact that I can get there by traversing but a single traffic light, if I take the back way.

I made it to my consumer destination, list in hand, firm grip on my pocket book. It occurred to me to find someone to go with me, but I just didn’t have the energy to make the calls. Thankfully, a friend of mine broke some of the monotony by texting me as I roamed the aisles, distracting me with a conversation about his latest stalker.
Anyway, I was feeling pretty good about the effort. I found a pair of shoes for a business event later this month. I managed to uncover the location of electrical outlet covers without any assistance. No problems at all finding a little lip gloss.

Things got a little more complicated while looking for the mascara. First, it was apparently the afterschool shopping hour, as I had to make my way through a dozen giggling 'tweens and teens who were all agog at the great sale prices on electric blue eye shadow and lime green lipstick.

I finally found the plain old Cover Girl section and grabbed my standard tube of mascara. One of the young girls looked at the mascara in my hand, looked at my face, and boldly said, “Why are you buying that? You barely have any eyelashes!”

For a moment, I thought about explaining to her the whole notion of using it on the fake eyelashes I’ve procured, as a means of giving them a more natural look. As I studied the young girl’s face, shellacked with a few layers of foundation, half a tube of eyeliner, and enough glitter to light Las Vegas, and realized that she probably hadn’t quite garnered the meaning of “natural” yet.

I smiled at her and said, “Sweetie, it’s probably about the same reason as why you wear a bra. Even old ladies like me seek to be comfortable and secure while we wait for our hopes and dreams to manifest!”

Awkward as that all was, the crew of girls gave me a rather wide berth to exit the cosmetics section. Next on my list was finding a camisole and some underwear. Camisole wasn’t too hard, other than having to try on two, since I seem to constantly be between sizes these days.

Underwear was the place where I unwittingly hung myself out to dry. I’m down another size, which I’m surely not gonna complain about. Faced with too many choices in undergarments, I considered what was really important, ultimately deciding that getting comfortably and economically to yet another downward size was probably my most reasonable goal.

Having lost some 70 pounds since the beginning of the year, I have a lot more choices than just the standard granny-panty fare. Noting a sale rack of underthings, I took a look. All of garments on the rack were, in my estimation, rather ugly. They were, however, at a fabulous price. I decided that wearing ugly underpants was really a great incentive to get down to the next size in short order, and it’s not like anyone’s gonna see them, right? So I grabbed myself three pairs and headed to the cashier.

It was not until I got home, that I realized something dreadful about the purchase. As I entered the driveway, I was met with a deluge of rain, thunder and lightning. While unloading the booty from the trip, the lights began to flicker. Finally, as if tired of trying, the lights just went out. That’s when I noticed. The new ugly underwear casually strewn across my bed were GLOWING. How did I manage to get out of the store without noticing this key feature?

Why would I want glow in the dark underwear? It’s not like I can’t find my nether regions on my own. Just to make things interesting? I have no hair, for Pete’s sake. There’s a lot more things interesting about me right now than glowing undergarments. One of my girlfriends has boldly suggested that perhaps it will be helpful in directing traffic. Seriously? Do I really want to meet anyone—let alone find out intimately!—who needs that much assistance to find the family jewels???

This has left me with yet another conundrum. I want to take them back. I do. But I don’t want to have to face someone in a retail setting with the reality that I do not have the smarts to buy lowkey underwear on my own.

So, if you notice me glowing these days, say nothing. Just assume it’s me, taking yet another of life’s strange events in stride.

Getting Down to Earth...

2010-09-06T12:40:00.000-07:00

This past week has been by far the most challenging in my path to wellness so far. The physical challenges have mounted.

A seemingly incurable headache that is at 69 days and counting.
Nausea. Vomiting. Dry Heaves.
Diarrhea.
Hair Loss.
Dizziness.
Difficulty concentrating.
Nightmares.
Chills, sweats, fever. Sometimes all within a matter of minutes.
Fatigue.
Tremors.
Bleeding.
Loosening teeth.
Abdominal pain.

I had to have a blood transfusion this week. Big shout out to the two AB-positive blood donors who made that possible. The blood episode exacted a cost I wasn’t prepared for, as well. For the second time in as many weeks, I have been faced with the financial realities of getting well. I had to decide whether to pay for my cash share of the blood transfusion or pay my Verizon bill. Unexpected medical bills don't meld well with working on a billable hour/consultant pay basis. I made the obvious choice at the time. In retrospect, I wonder.

After 36 hours of no cell phone, withdrawal set in—twitching thumbs, irritability, attention deficit. I’m not so sure I would make the same decision again. Should there be a next time, I think I’ll choose the cell phone and upload pictures to my Facebook page of me sitting all thumbs up in the laps of Jesus, Josiah, and the Apostle Paul.

Anyway, the week was a tough one. By the time Sunday rolled around, I hadn’t eaten in a couple days. I hate to admit this, but I just sort of gave up. Nothing was staying down anyway. I had been contemplating how to get back on top of the mental game of all this, but I wasn’t coming up with much.

I was sitting at Starbuck’s trying to focus enough to finish a few work things on my computer, when I got a note indicating that there was a skydiving special going on in Lodi. My friend Maria, her sister Jennifer, and I have all been trying to figure out how to go for a while. I texted Maria and asked her if she was interested, but she had other things going on. Jennifer was in the middle of her three days of 12-hour nursing shifts.

With a few more phone calls, I was able to hustle up companions to at least drive with me to Sacramento, so I only had to drive a few miles on my own. It was something of a compromise situation, my compatriots telling me I should wait until I’m feeling better, and that, “someone has to be the adult here…” Fine.

I drove the last handful of miles to Lodi, and met up with Wendi, one of my Facebook buddies. She agreed to take photos of my jump. The next hour or so was one continuous shedding of fears, some of which, I’d never really consciously considered.

The first, was being in a crowd. After my number was called, I was directed to the gear room of the hangar, shuttled in with about twenty other people, in a fairly small space. It was kind of the same degree of angst I feel when in a crowded elevator.

Then, I was introduced to my tandem buddy, Logan. This handsome stranger began strapping me into my harness, clicking clasps and threading straps across my shoulders, around my thighs, and across my belly. I’m definitely not used to strangers being that close to me.

Once in the harness, Logan led me to the staging area, where he talked me through the basics of a 13,000 foot free fall. A tiny bit of fear began to set in. Before I could do much in the way of change my mind, he had me on the plane. Did I mention I’m also afraid of heights?

On the way up, Logan, Wendi and I made small talk over the roar of the engine. Logan began to strap me onto his harness. I warned him, “The last time I was this spooned up to a man, my son was the result, so pleeeease be careful back there!” He laughed and assured me that he was taking a lot of precautions.

As we neared jumping altitude, my stomach started to wretch a little. It made me wonder if anyone had ever lost their dentures or anything. Logan told Wendi and me that he’s been peed on, seen people ‘lose their lunch’, and the most curious: broke one of his head cameras. As he described it, “I was jumping with this woman, and all of a sudden it was, blue sky to the left, blue sky to the right, and then, BOOM- vagina!”

And he was worried about his camera?

As we waddled to the door of the plane, the fear momentarily set in, but I was resigned to jumping, as there were some huge guys behind us looking to get out of the plane, too. I as we edged to the door, I had that one ‘Oh Shit’ moment as I looked downward. When Logan instructed me to push off, that fear evaporated.

In realizing that I was strapped firmly to a guy who has been doing this for almost 20 years, fear gave way to awe and wonder. The feeling of sheer cold and wind was invigorating. I noticed in that moment that my headache was gone. The altitude and adrenaline rush had worked some magic.

During our 130-mph plummet back toward earth, Logan initiated some spins and turns that were invigorating, as if we were truly in flight. I was completely in awe of the enormity of the earth below us-- just one small section of it. As Logan pulled the cord on the parachute, we slowed, and I watched Wendi continue to fall at a much greater speed.

For a while, Logan handed over the pulleys to the parachute to me. It was fun to ‘drive’. With as much grace as I can muster (which admittedly, hasn’t always been enough), I’ve had to let go of so many things lately—control of my body, control of my living situation, relationships, and even parts of my future. It was nice to have control of where I floated over the farmlands of the Central Valley, even for just a few brief moments.

The scariest, most frustrating part of the whole experience was when we landed. I am far from the most graceful creature, even more so when strapped to someone else. Upon our landing, I went down. Down. On. My. Butt. And I could not get up. In that moment, I was confronted again with how weak I am right now. Fear of that weakness set in, and worse, fear of being judged for it. Before I could burden myself with too many more of those thoughts, there was a hand reaching down for me to help me up.

The whole experience made me think of how all the things that had overwhelmed me in the previous week were, just a small slice of my life, over time, and in this existence. I can make it through two or so more weeks. I can make it longer if I need to. I can do whatever it takes to kick the intruder’s ass. I’ll have help, I’ll have grace, and I’ll have the strength.

If for no other reason than there are surely more brilliant jumps from the sky in my future…

Filling in the Blanks

2010-09-04T09:39:00.000-07:00

Susanne Baremore wants to (blank) with (blank) at (blank). Legitimate offers only, please. :-P

Last week, just for giggles (cuz my sense of humor is ESSENTIAL to getting through life these days…), I posted this on my Facebook page. The typical sophomoric discussion ensued, which was, in and of itself a nice distraction. I was flattered, curious, and even a little piqued by some of the submissions I received privately.

The winning submission though, was such a delightful and unexpected surprise.

My friend Karen texted me, “Susanne Baremore wants to lie in a hammock with lightly sweetened green tea at Karen and Dan’s house.”

Karen and Dan are friends I’ve known since I lived in Quincy. I met them in the middle of a dark night on Highway 36, when they stopped to help me with a flat tire back in 1995. Dan was then a forester, so we had lots of things in common, and Karen is the older sister of a colleague of mine from back in those days.

Upon receiving the text, I replied, “Oh heck yeah!” and made arrangements to go get me some hammock time. Karen and Dan own a home along the Sacramento River, with lush green grass and a superfluity of shade trees that gently meet at the river’s edge. Tied between two trees is a soft mesh hammock, which I rolled into, and almost immediately fell asleep. My slumber was caressed by a soft breeze, the sweet smell of green grass, and the sound of water winding its way to the central valley.

Even more satisfying was the fact that my dreams that afternoon were infinitely more pleasant than the medicinally-induced nightmares from which I suffer lately. The dream I had was reminiscent of a time when I was about nine or ten, and at my friend Bonnie’s house. Her step-mom Gloria, decided to barbeque for supper. I loved hanging out at Bonnie’s house, for no other reason than it was so different from mine. Bonnie’s family had a military background, and things were always bright, spic and span; a sharp contrast from the, um, less organized domestic infrastructure that was my childhood home.

The dream was full of the sounds of ice clinking in glasses, the sizzle of meat on the grill, the smell of butter melting on cob corn, and the liberating feel of eating outside of the confines of the traditional dining area. While we were waiting to eat, Bonnie and I raced to complete jigsaw puzzles on the picnic table. As usual, she was kicking my butt, being three years older, and an infinitely better sequential thinker than me.

As Karen gently roused me from my nap, I realized that the smells and sounds of my dream had become reality, as Karen guided me to a feast on their own picnic table.

I felt so rested and refreshed, as I ate a few small pieces of some of the best barbequed steak I’ve ever had, and spent time in the company of people who ‘get me’ in ways that most don’t.

As I was returning back to my parents’ house, I thought again of the inspiration of the day—throwing out some blank spaces and being brave enough to see how life might fill them in. I think I’m going to create more opportunities in life for things to unfold this way…

Thank You Will Never Be Enough

2010-08-23T22:59:00.000-07:00

I am still grappling with the day’s events. I anticipate that I will, over time, write several blogs about this day, from various perspectives. No matter the angle from which I choose to view today’s events, I am unable to find a perspective that fully encapsulates the enormity of it all.

So, let’s start from the beginning.

I awoke this morning and dragged out the door to the doctor’s office. Today was the day that we were to discuss the next phase of medical options. In a nutshell:

Existing tumors showing no further response to treatment. New tumors growing in spite of it.

Remaining options:

1) Do nothing, live life with a tumor garden inside me, to an anticipated early death.

2) Try chemo, even though the pros aren’t sure that it will actually be any more effective than what I’ve been doing.

3) Opt for surgery which may or may not work, and will result in some significant life changes from here on out.

4) Quadruple current medications and add something else that will accelerate drug results.

Door number four is the decision I made. The doctor said that the prognosis still remains extremely good with the use of the new drugs, and that the fact that things have not progressed as we’d hoped to this point is more a matter of having to experiment to find the best and most effective treatment, than it is of being on a single course that simply won’t work.

The doctor suggested I take some time and think it over. I pointed out to him that the first three alternatives were identical the last time I had to make this decision, and nothing about my circumstances at this juncture compels me to feel any different about those options. The only option that has changed is trying new drugs. Bring ‘em on, I said.

Not that I would have necessarily made a different decision had I known, but the conversation from that point forward was all about the cost. The office manager told me that my share of cost for the next thirty days’ treatment (drugs, labs, imaging, etc.), above what the insurance will pay, is $20,000. She told me that there would not be a problem in getting it negotiated down to $10,000.

I’ll be honest. Some ugly and horrific thoughts bolted through my mind at that point. First: Is my life worth that much money?

I did the mental math. This morning, I had slightly more than half the cost for the treatment in my savings account. I thought about how much any number of people in my family could benefit from that much cash.

I decided, all things being equal, it was worth it to ME to find another $5,000 for the possibility of extending my life. I made arrangements with the doctor’s office to take the money off of my bank card later in the afternoon, after I transferred money between accounts. I said aloud, “Gosh, I guess I’d really best get to living right, so I can justify the expense of my existence.”

The office staff laughed courteously, and then hugged me and said good-bye.

The first part of the drive to Weaverville lacked much conversation as JC and I drove over Buckhorn. The CD player blared Talking Heads as I contemplated how to manage this latest medical/fiscal development. Finally, after mentally turning over a lot of ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’, I turned down the radio and shared my morning’s events with JC.

Upon expressing my concern about the cost, JC contemplated for a moment, and then said, “How many pies would you have to bake?” We both laughed as we thought about the time in 2004 when I raised money for my reconstructive surgery by baking pies and taking donations for them. All of a sudden, it almost seemed like a doable plan.

JC offered to do a benefit concert, and change the name of his garage band to 'Rapunzel's Sister', a nod to my current state as the antithesis to the namesake of the fairly-tressed fairy tale.

Our collective resourcefulness made me think about how, for the preceding two hours, I had been making the financial piece of this equation much bigger than it actually is. Shameful.

By the time we pulled into Weaverville, I had determined for myself that I would put the whole medical thing out of my mind and focus on some things I could manage at work. I banged away at things that needed to be completed, gaining a sense of satisfaction at seeing results.

Around 10:30, my cell phone rang. The doctor’s office. I answered the phone, immediately launching into my plan for moving funds, etc. The office manager stopped me. She explained to me that purpose of her call was to report that someone—who wished to remain anonymous—had written a check for the patient balance of my treatment. Someone—whom I presumably do not know—wrote a check for $5,000 so that I can continue taking up space, using up oxygen.

I have been struggling all day to find words to express what the knowledge of that feels like. Thankful. Humbled. Grateful. Amazed. Awed. Shocked. Inspired. Fearful. Loved. Relieved. Appreciated. Alive. Curious. Blessed. Challenged. Eager. Indebted. Grateful, Thankful, Thankful, Grateful.

I am curious to know what compelled such an amazing act of generosity. Was it something I did? Or didn’t do? Or maybe it’s not me at all, but the memory of a loved one. Or the burden of compassion placed on a stranger’s heart by a spiritual force bigger than us all. The enormity of the grace-- the pure, unmerited favor-- of it all has left me staggering.

I am not a woman who generally runs short of words. Long ones, short ones, in between ones, I usually have from one to too many for any occasion. I just don’t know how to properly say thank you to someone for believing that my life is worth living. It feels like a situation where the only real way to show appreciation for such a precious and invaluable gift is to demonstrate gratitude through a life lived well.

Even that sounds trite and clichéd, but I think in this instance, it’s sort of all I’ve got. The chance to live life, and life more abundantly, no matter the terms in which it’s granted, is both the gift and the expectation.

Chivalrous S**t: Or—The Bad Example Some of Us Set in Weaverville Today

2010-08-20T17:42:00.000-07:00

Because some of my friends have been so kind as to chauffer me around on some of my longer trips, I saw fit today to return the favor. JC and Dave needed some help in shuttling for today’s Trinity raft trip, so I gladly obliged. My job was to go swap out a 2-seater sports car for my car, and pick them all up back in Weaverville when they returned in the van.

I loaded my phone, laptop, etc., and got on the road, with yet another friend, Amy. The whole trip was going swimmingly well as we made all the appointed stops. I was able to blow through some work on my laptop, and stay abreast of email, etc. When I was a kid in Shingletown, much of my time growing up was spent without a telephone of any kind. It’s hard for me to put myself back in that time and understand how we got along. My cell phone is a permanent appendage now.

When everyone met back up in Weaverville, I ran a few errands, including a stop in the courthouse. Bonus there—I FINALLY made it through the metal detector without setting it off, having rid myself of wig, underwires, jewelry, and shoes. Go me.

After exiting the building, I walked down the main drag and met up with my friends for lunch. I enjoy dining in Weaverville just because of the close knit feel of every place in town. It’s like a good friend’s mom is in every kitchen fixing up a meal just for us.

Upon filling all our bellies, we walked out to the parking lot to begin our trek back to Redding. Just as we were rearranging gear in the car to accommodate the extra people, my cell phone rang.

“I have the doctor on the line. Is this a good time to speak with you?” Some faceless soul asked me. She told me her name, but given everything else that transpired in the conversation, her moniker is a buried memory. Her voice though, the echo of it is burned into my brain.

I motioned to my companions and wandered under the shade of a large oak-like tree, dropping myself to the base of the tree’s broad trunk. One of the things I like about my doctor is that he’s direct and to the point. With tactical and technical precision, it took him less than three minutes to make my body physically deflate and fill with that brand of fear and dread that makes one think that their innards have just emulsified to pure liquid. It wasn’t until I finished with the call that I realized I was crying, or that my friends were all gathered near me.

Someone said, “OMG, what’s wrong??”

Someone else, who shall remain N*amy*less (oops!) said, “Dude, can’t you tell? She just found out that her s**t’s all f**ked up!”

What made that comment so hilarious is that I’ve never in all the years I’ve known the woman heard her say so much as ‘darn’ or ‘shucks’, let alone s**t or f**k. I laughed.

While I was laughing, Dave said, “So, you still have cancer?”

I laughed again, not because of what Dave said, but because I was still thinking about what Amy said, and trying to decide if I should classify it as a cute-yet-inappropriate euphemism, or considering the exact nature of my current circumstances, a deeply sardonic metaphor. My mind is a strange place, I know.

Before I could even fully finish that thought, I heard a big smack as JC threw a punch at Dave, saying, “She doesn’t HAVE cancer, you moron. She’s kickin’ it’s ASS!”

As Dave swung back, both men fell to the ground and began that peculiar wrestling between males that seems so odd to me. I began to laugh again, tears still streaming down my face. Everyone turned and looked at me.

Points to JC for so fully investing in my vision. Demerits to both boys for hitting a friend. Violence solves nothing, so said Ghandi, MLK, and ME.

At that point, it seemed as if we’d all been sucked into a vacuum. I didn’t hear the traffic from the highway, the breeze in the trees, or anything at all. For just a moment, I felt like JC had swung and landed that punch by proxy, for the damnable way I felt as the words of the doctor filtered through my brain.

“Am I supposed to be honored that the two of you are fist-to-cuffs over my ‘shit’? How chivalrous!”

Somehow, as the sarcasm oozed, I felt the life begin to creep back into me, as if now there was more adequate room for it.

Slowly, as the shock wore off, I stood up, dusted myself off and said, “The mission hasn’t changed. Just the length of time required to accomplish it.”

As we drove back to Redding, I began dealing with tactical details—scheduling additional doctor appointments, extending medical coverage, strategizing over how to traverse another month of treatment.

Honestly, the fear only lasted but a split second. What I think I initially succumbed to, was just disappointment. I had been so hopeful that I would be done on Monday. I had put my faith to work and made plans—sky diving weekend, house hunting, etc.

This is far from the first time in life I’ve suffered a large-scale disappointment, and it’s sure not to be my last. I refuse to stay mired in that setback, though. The things I’d planned will keep until I’m done with this phase of life.

I’m choosing instead to embrace the opportunities before me. I have the chance now to discover how much greater a degree of endurance I possess within me. I have the option of prevailing through the unexpected. I have the privilege of continuing to learn to live life in ways I’d never considered.

Since my locks will be ‘vacationing elsewhere’ longer than I’d anticipated, I think I’m gonna go ahead and find one of those shirts that says, “I’m too sexy for my hair.”

I think I’m gonna continue taking advantage of the opportunity to write.

I think I'm gonna continue enjoying the scope and focus of the work I'm doing, because for whatever reason, its is a huge component of sustaining my good outlook through all this.

I think (KNOW) I’m gonna drink some really great wine tonight.

And all the rest of my ‘shit’ can take a holiday while I continue to kick ass like a ninja, because that’s what I’m gonna do. For another 30 days. Or however long it takes.

Attitude is Everything, Even if You Have to Borrow Someone Else's

2010-08-14T09:41:00.000-07:00

Last week I was in Shopko, trying to find a swim top that would contain my busty self. I learned this is not an easy task in August in Redding. I just wanted to find something that would stay put, convey comfort, and that was C-H-E-A-P.

Consumer options are limited on the best of days in the Redding retail world. I believe that the presumption on the part of retailers in Redding is that by August, everyone who’s gonna be suited up, is suited up. And maybe that’s true. It wouldn’t be the first time I didn’t deal with the season’s wardrobe needs until half past the season’s change.

The swimsuit selection was narrowed down to a single small rack of suits that clearly just weren’t going to sell. There wasn’t a single top in my size. Frustrated, I wandered over to the sports bras and found something attractive, which honestly, meaningfully covers more of me than any of those swimsuits would have.

By this time, I was feeling pretty burnt out. Shopping wears me out on a good day. I was tired and nauseated to boot. And then there was the whole seeing myself in the dressing room mirror thing. I look fat(ter) without my hair. My skin hangs off my face. The dark bags under my eyes make those orbs look haunting. I dragged myself to the checkout counter feeling like 180 pounds of death-warmed-over-crap-on-toast. No matter, it was really the perfect accompaniment to the pity party I’d been pitching myself all day like it was time for high tea with the queen.

As I approached the cashier, a smile drew across my face as she commented on my head scarf—a blue, yellow and green number with a “Peace” and “Love” design on it. “You really do that scarf some justice,” she said.

Noting her name on her name tag, I said, “Thanks, Val.” I wasn’t feeling too hospitable. I just wanted to get out of the store.

“My sister wore scarves like that when she was getting rid of her cancer.” This made me perk up. It’s not all that often that I hear people use vernacular similar to mine. I refuse to say that I “have” cancer, because it feels like then I’m admitting that it has me, too. I’m not going there.

I smiled at Valerie again as she handed me my change, and told her to have an awesome day. Valerie looked at me again and said, “You smile just like Aimee did, too. You’re gonna kick this thing.”

I thanked her and walked toward the door. Like Aimee “did”?

I exited the building, bracing myself to take on the next challenge of recalling where I parked my car. As I was scanning the parking lot, I felt someone’s hand on my shoulder. Startled, I turned around and faced Valerie.

Quickly, almost furtively, Valerie asked me, “Can you come back in on Wednesday or Thursday next week? I have something I want to give you.”

I was a little confused as I answered her tentatively, “Sure?”

Recognizing my reluctance, Valerie explained to me that she wanted to give me a scarf that belonged to her sister, Aimee. She told me how Aimee fought off cancer and lived another two years before she was randomly hit by a drunk driver while crossing a street in Sacramento.

I didn’t even know what to say to that, but agreed to come back and meet her.

When I returned to Shopko earlier this week, I met up with Valerie, and she gave me the scarf, as promised. Upon reflection, I don’t know that I had any expectation of exactly what kind of scarf she was talking about. As Valerie handed me an ordinary looking white bandana, I was struck by its simplicity.

I listened as Valerie told me about how much Aimee’s battle with cancer changed her own perspective on life, and how rich it made Aimee’s life as she made the most of two more years of “life’s second chance” by traveling, finishing her master’s degree, and designing her own home.

“We all live on borrowed time,” Valerie told me.

I don’t know that I agree with that. I believe we live in our appointed time. Our allotted time. But sometimes, I think we keep that appointment on borrowed faith and hope. I am grateful for those who share.

I Don't Know What to Call this... Must It Have a Title if I Wish to Speak?

2010-08-12T20:14:00.000-07:00

Really and truly I have some much more lighthearted things lined up to write about, but this has been streaming around in my head for a few days, and on the ride home from Hayfork today, it just sort of finally gelled.

I know that it may seem like a fine line to some, the emotional place I’m walking these days. I think of my present state of mind as grace and acceptance. Others like to call it denial or delusion. As much as anyone, I would like to have answers to most of the questions that burn in my head lately—why am I sick? Why me? Why now? I cannot get my friend Heather out of my mind, thinking of how in 2007, she lost her two year-old daughter Rebekah to a long struggle with cancer. Why?

At no other time in my life, do I think I could have continued functioning in any practical manner without obsessing over all the question marks.

A few months back, when I began dealing with my health issues, I had a strange memory that I have been clinging to lately, like a precious gift. I think of this seemingly insignificant event almost daily, seeing the careful seed that was planted then, bearing fruit that is sustaining me now.

Back in the spring of 1995, I was at a Board of Supervisors’ meeting in Quincy, CA. That season had brought a lot of nervousness and unrest to our region and our nation. It was the time that the Oklahoma City bombing occurred. I lost a friend and mentor in that event. It was in that same time that the Unabomber struck at the California Forestry Association and killed its president, Gil Murray. Even strangers Gil had never met lost a friend as he opened a mail bomb in his office.

As the Plumas County Board of Supervisors commenced their meeting that day, Supervisor Bill Coates gave the ritual invocation that started every meeting. I’ve been to hundreds of meetings where the prayers, whether due to nervousness, politics, a busy agenda, or other unknowns, seem to come out full of pomp and pretense.

In the time I knew Bill, one of the things I truly appreciated about him was that he had that kind of comfortable relationship with his god that was illustrated in prayers that came out warm, intimate, and sincere. He didn’t throw up a bunch of words to the heavens and hope they’d stick. His prayers were those of a man who knows the God he serves. That day, Bill prayed, “God, I ask that you help us all find peace, even in the face of not having answers to the questions that burn in our hearts and in our minds.”

Back then, they were words that brought comfort in a time of grief and stress. Lately for me, they have been words that have challenged me to prove that I can be a good steward of the grace and peace and faith that I am finding in such superfluity.

I don’t think it matters where one’s spiritual compass exists—whether you believe in a Christian god, a karmic universe, the Golden Rule, or guide your life by the list of ingredients on a box of Cap’n Crunch—at some point in time, we are all faced with dilemmas in life that we cannot control, cannot answer, or cannot sometimes even fathom. We all have to find ways to accept the things we cannot change, preferably with enough grace and courage to propel us forward to better things and as better beings.

Most of my life I have not been one to let things lay. If it’s broken, I want to fix it. If it’s unjust, I want to seek justice. If it’s wrong, I want to make it right. I want to seek information, formulate a strategy, and implement a plan. It’s not easy to be still, listen, and wait. I’ve never given those tools the merit or respect they deserve until now.

I’m learning a lot about grace and patience these days. I don’t need to know why anything around me is the way it is in order to be who and what I’m called to be. I don’t need to know how things are going to turn out in order to make the most of the gifts I’m given in this present day.

Great Expectations -- My Own

2010-08-10T22:00:00.000-07:00

In recent days, I’ve had a few things happen to me that have brought me an amazing insight into my interactions with others. Since I’ve been dealing with my medical condition, I have been almost militant in my decision to march through this thing like I’ve got no business but to be victorious on the other side. This has required me to really step out of my comfort zone. I’ve had to lovingly remind others that this is my life, my ‘fight’, and I am the one most impacted by the decisions.

By nature, I am a pleaser. Getting sideways with people is not really my thing. I will generally avoid conflict at all costs. In sticking to my guns about some of my recent life decisions, I’ve had to be a bit bolder with folks. That does not come easy.

I don’t know if it’s because I tend to avoid conflict, if it’s because I have a way of coming off more casual than I should sometimes, or if it’s my appearance or something else; but I’ve realized recently, that a good number of folks over the years have underestimated me. It’s been frustrating, disappointing, and even hurtful at times, and I’ve never really known how to deal with it or address it. Unfortunately, I’ve pretty much just let bitterness and disappointment in others take the reins in these situations.

People have dismissed my ideas because they do not come with the full force of a college education. People have discredited my ability to parent because I was a single parent for most of my children’s upbringing. People have sold me short in what I bring to relationships or partnerships.

What I’ve learned in the past few days is that none of those things really should have mattered, then or now. The key thing that I need to change is what I do with that kind of information. To what extent I let others’ perceptions of me impact what I can and should do is MY RESPONSIBILITY. The fact that someone else does not see the full force and effect of what I am doing or what I have to offer should not deter me from actually putting forth everything I have to give in a situation.

That’s gonna change from here on out.

Today, I was pent up in a doctor’s office all day long, waiting for my five minutes with a specialist. I worked from my Droid and some other borrowed technology in the lobby all day. The office manager was very disapproving. I remember thinking, “This lobby may not be my office, lady, but this lobby is also not my LIFE, and you’re treating me like I’ve got nothing better to do.” My consulting work may not be of consequence to that office manager, but my clients don’t feel the same. Miss Wendy, for instance, was rather panicked.

I try not to make a big deal of these things, but I pulled the C-card on her. I told her that I may not have long to live and debating how I use my time in ‘her’ lobby was silly.

Later, when I FINALLY got out of that place, I was able to convince JC, my 23 year-old lifeguard friend, to go out to the lake with me for a quick swim. We went to one of the more deserted trail areas across from Oak Bottom.

I am sensitive to the fact that my decision to go for a swim in public right now has the capacity to make people uncomfortable. It’s part of why we chose a more secluded area. We walked about a quarter-mile down a trail to a place where there’s lots of water, sunshine, and a fair amount of privacy. I stripped down to my bikini swimsuit—stretch marks, ass fat, cellulite and all; and took off my jewelry and my head scarf. Just about the time we were getting in the water, an older woman, in probably her late 50’s, walked by, and stood looking aghast at us (me).

The woman shouted down to us in the water, “Should you really be out here swimming in your condition?”

I looked at her and said, “Actually, swimming is really therapeutic for me right now.”

JC and I looked at each other and turned to start swimming on our predetermined route.

“Do you realize you have no hair?”

I laughed. JC looked at me with wide eyes and said, “OMG, you have no hair! Susanne, is there anything else you’re not telling me???”

The woman on the shore then said, “Obviously, you’re sick. Should you really be swimming?”

JC told her, “Uh, that’s why I’m here. I’ll help her if she gets stuck.”

The woman then stomped off. JC and I began swimming to a small nearby island, I, stroking methodically, he, pulling along a floaty in case I got tired, and both of us still laughing about the “you have no hair” comment.

When JC and I got back from the island, our woman friend and a park ranger were waiting for us at the shore.

Apparently, the woman had gone and found a ranger to ‘tattle’ on me for being in the lake while bald and in poor health. Of course, upon our exit from the water, the old gal was doing all kinds of back pedaling.

“I was just really worried for her safety. What if she would have drowned?”

Upon assuring the woman that I appeared none the worse for wear, was in the company of a strong, qualified swimmer, AND had a flotation device, the ranger hiked back out to go find more worthwhile ranger-like things to do, and thankfully, took the worry wart with him.

I sat on the shore with JC and thought some more about the woman, realizing that she too, had underestimated me. The swim today was one of the best things about the day, after being cooped up in a doctor’s office, and stressing over work stuff. It was nice to move, it was nice to be in the water-- a place where my body hurts a little bit less. It was nice to be tired because of my own exertion, and not because of what’s going on inside me. And it was nice to swim a good distance, because I KNEW I COULD. What someone else thought or expected of me was not relevant. A year ago, I probably would have gotten out of the water to placate the woman. I would have missed a nice swim, and the fulfillment of my own great expectations.

OMG, is that YOU?

2010-08-05T22:04:00.000-07:00

Call it a coincidence, a divine appointment, or whatever else suits your tastes, but I just had an encounter that I would never have envisioned in the rest of this lifetime.

I was downtown this evening, the obligation of taking my dad and his dogs to the vet being canceled at the last minute. I took a quick stroll around Marketfest, a bit disappointed that I’d managed to arrive there while Los Penguos were on break, and lacking the energy to stay for their next set.

As I was walking back to my car which was parked in front of Market Street Steak House, I was momentarily immobilized by the view of someone out of the corner of my eye. I watched as this man strolled into the vestibule of a building across the street. I was cognizant of the breath that finally left my body as I unlocked my car door and got inside. Could it really be him? I was desperately trying to think of the last time I’d seen him. 1988? 1989?

I started my Honda and whipped a U-turn in the middle of Market Street so that I could negotiate a left turn onto Sacramento St. Before I made the intersection, I saw that he was two cars behind me in traffic. I pulled into a diagonal parking spot on Market. I use the term “parking spot” loosely, since the curb at my front bumper was blazing red.

I opened my door and got out of the car, standing like an idiot as I watched his car pull up to the light. His brake lights went on well short of the intersection, and then he backed up and rolled his passenger window down. I couldn’t believe I was staring at him. He looked older. How could either of us not, with the two decades that had passed?

Ultimately, he pulled into an adjacent parking lot and got out of his car. The gaze we initially shared was some strange combination of, “Is it really you?” and “Doesn’t this seem like the most natural occurrence in our vastly separate lives?”

This was the first man I’d ever loved with that wholly irrational, unconditional, follow-him-to-the-ends-of-the-earth kind of devotion. We’d met when I was working at the Big Wheels in Shingletown and he used to make vendor deliveries there. We dated off and on for over a year. The “offs” were as deep and dark as the “ons” were high and mighty.

He walked up to me and hugged me like only mere minutes had passed since the last time we shared an embrace. He has grandchildren now. I have grown children. He has hair that is more gray than not. I have hair that is more fake than not.

As I gazed at him through our conversation, I realized that I still felt 100 percent of that same spark that united us when we were younger. The difference today is that I am about another 1000 percent more of a person now than I was back then, as he is, too. The love that once filled almost the entirety of my existence, now only covets a small spot, for the expansion that decades of life does bring.

What was enormously comforting about the entire encounter was his comment, “As soon as I saw those eyes, I knew….” With so many changes going on about and in me lately, I’ve been struggling in some regards with who I am, on multiple levels. It was truly awesome to connect with someone who could look into me transcendently—through decades of time, births of children, failed marriage, sickness, successes, failures, obstacles, and victories, and see into the memories of a time we shared that was cherished, and beautiful, and apparently, resilient.

Courage and Bravery, With a Side of Noodly Knees? Please...

2010-08-04T20:27:00.000-07:00

I have been mightily blessed by so many people sending prayer, positive thoughts, and well wishes my way lately. It is humbling to hear people talk of their perceptions of my courage and bravery. This is in part, because even managing the mental piece of this situation is a daily struggle, sometimes on a minute-by-minute basis. I often feel more like a scared little mouse than a roaring lion.

Today was a really stellar day. I drove out of town to do some work for a client. My driving companion and I had a blast on the way there. And, good news, I didn’t even get sick. That alone was enough to make me feel like Wonder Woman by the time I got to the job site.

It was really nice to spend the day thinking and focusing on something besides a body that’s trying to fail me. While I don’t really see myself as a control freak (any more… that’s what my 20’s were all about), I do tend to do better when I can occasionally delude myself into thinking that I am the master of my own little universe. Today was one of those days. It was fun.

On the way back from the mountains, my ride buddy JC and I stopped at Whiskeytown Lake for a quick swim. Winding around one of the paths near Oak Bottom, we swam, unfettered by others, and enjoyed the beauty of our surroundings. JC amused me with details of his raft trip down the Trinity earlier in the day, and his angst over whether or not to call the ‘smokin’ hottie’ who was in the raft with him for most of the trip. Just how many people on the planet get to end their work days in such perfect surroundings? I fully realize how fortunate I am, and resolve to remain focused on those kinds of joys in life.

I am also in awe of just how well 150 SPF sunscreen works. I didn’t even know sunscreen could be that protective, and yet, here I am with the same uneven truckdriver tan I’ve had all summer, no darker, no lighter.

By the time I got home, I was tired, but in a really good way. I made it through the day only getting sick once. I was overjoyed. As I began to unreel through the evening’s rituals, I received a phone call from my doctor’s office. This week’s tests are not what any of us had hoped. Tumors have showed no additional shrinkage, and according to the doctor, my bloodwork doesn't indicate that my "body is fighting the fight the way it needs to be.”

I couldn’t believe that the doctor used a fighting metaphor, because his words, at that moment, threw me the equivalent of a sucker punch. My mind raced as he continued talking, and I began readjusting my strategy and game plan as he explained things in loathsome medical jargon.

Bottom line, I will be doubling my medication for the next three weeks. Increased and new side effects will likely follow.

I’ll be honest. These are the moments I don’t feel so brave. It is extremely difficult to not succumb to fear, despair, sorrow, anger, and righteous indignation. Since I've started treatment, I've had to learn to adjust to life's interesting indignities, like apologizing to a high-ranking official for vomiting on her at a meeting in the Colorado state capitol. And dealing with the laughter and horror of a group of teens in Target when I threw up into my own handbag, lacking any other discreet means of managing the situation. I've lost all my hair, I can't drive on my own, sleep comes only in doses of too much or not enough, and the list goes on. And maybe that's part of what keeps me in the mental game of this-- do I really want to add unmitigated whining and blubbery tears to the list of personal embarrassments linked to this situation? I think not.

Ever the planner, these moments make me want to start working on plan B. What if the drugs don’t finish the job at all? What if chemo after that doesn’t work? What if surgery fails, too?

It is practically a physical effort to put that kind of speculative planning out of my head. I’m an analyst by nature, designed to constantly be looking at options, trade-offs, building contingencies. Then I remember that at the beginning of all this, the one thing I decided to predicate all other decisions upon was the fundamental notion that I WILL NOT GIVE THIS ‘THING’ PLACE OR PRESENCE.

In all of my contemplation over how best to deal with this situation, I resolved that I would stick to that one principle. As such, I do my best to only talk in terms of this thing leaving my body. I have refused to even let the doctor tell me the ‘formal’ name for what is bugging me. I decided that it would be easier to eradicate it if I don’t become friendly with it. I told the doctor, “I don’t really need to know who the invader is, just help me tool up so I can kick its ass.”

My logic is similar to how we deal with unwanted humans. If someone invades your home, you do what must be done to remove that stranger, up to, and including killing it. Shooting someone, harming them, or otherwise incapacitating them, are not normal actions in our daily context of life. In the same vein, I can’t imagine pointing a gun at an intruder and saying, “Hey, before I shoot you, can you tell me what your name is? Exactly how long were you intending to stay? Do you have an ETA on when you were planning to kill ME?”

With human relationships, a whole different social order exists once you become acquainted with someone. You learn names, you discover backgrounds, you find common points of interests, you begin to compensate for them and sometimes even justify their behavior. In no way do I wish to establish that kind of kinship with what’s inside me. I just want it gone.

So, despite today’s news, I’ve decided to see this as an opportunity. A former co-worker encouraged me last week by saying, “This trial you’re going through will change you, and it’s up to you whether that change is for the better or for the worse.”

I’m choosing ‘better’, come what may.

Sounds Like Bigfoot… Smells Like Bigfoot… Tastes Like… CHICKEN!

2010-08-03T20:24:00.000-07:00

So, today, I traveled to a small nearby mountain town to attend a meeting for work. One of my able chauffeurs, Julz, went along for the ride and the fun. This was the second trip she and I have made to said town. We went last week as well. On last week’s trip, she was driving, and I was riding shotgun on our return to Redding. At one point, we had to stop because I was going to be sick, motion sickness getting the better of me because of the medications I’m on.

Julz, ever the able helper, pulled into a paved turnout at the summit of a hill along the highway, and I rocketed out of the car, scurried into the brush, and deposited lunch all over a lilac bush. Unbeknownst to me, Julz was standing along side the highway, winking it up with these two fellows who were parked across the highway, eating lunch out of large coolers.

Apparently, when I was getting sick, these two guys looked at one another quizzically until one of them finally broke the silence with, “What IS that???”

Julz, looking for an entre into conversation with them, volunteered, “Oh WOW… it kinda SOUNDS like BIGFOOT!”

When I finally got myself back to rights and returned to the car, both fellows were staring oddly at me. Friendly sort that I am, I waved. They smiled and waved back, as Julz trotted back over to the car and got us on our way.

I immediately asked Julz, “What’s their story?”

“Oh, they route cables or some s**t like that, I didn’t really get into that much with them,” she reported.

Interesting.

“Feel better?” Julz inquired of me.

“Uh, yeah, a little,” I said.

“That’s good. You were yakking pretty loud. Those guys were kinda weirded out. I played dumb and acted scared and said that the noise sounded like Bigfoot.”

Bigfoot? Seriously, what’s not to love about this woman? She’s adorable.

So, fast forward to today. We left Redding around 11:00ish after my doctor appointment and headed for the same mountain town. I was driving, as I seem to do better through the curvy 8-mile stretch near the lake if I’m behind the wheel. Despite being the driver, I still got sick. Quickly, I pulled the car over in a turnout (about 12 miles away from the one the previous week) and proceeded to hork up whatever was left in my stomach.

While I was dealing with that situation, I could hear Julz talking to someone. I was curious, of course, but still a little too distracted to scurry off to find out who she was talking to. When I was finally ready to continue on our journey, I walked back up to the car, as Julz was once again crossing back over from the other side of the highway.

I asked her what she was doing. She smiled, devilishly. “You won’t believe it, but those same two dudes were across the highway, so I went and talked to them. Don’t worry, I’ve got your back. I told them a-gain that those grotesque sounds must DEFINITELY be BIGFOOT!”

So, we get to the town where my meeting is, and I stealthily seat myself in a rear row of the hall next to a young youth corps member who was there, with about eight other cohorts, to give a presentation about the wonders of their youth program.

I think these kids must have been camping out in the woods somewhere, because they smelled—I’m not really sure of the right word—Strong? Burly? Musky? Pungent? Unshowered? As much as I love teens, I have to admit, I was a bit grateful that they left before I did.

When I finished with my meeting, I walked down the main drag to a small coffee shop where Julz was waiting for me. Between the youngsters in the meeting and the exotic and strong smell of brewing coffees wafting out the doorway, my stomach churned, and I lost it again. Right. On. Main. Street. By the time we got to the car, all I was able to utter was, “The smells… like Bigfoot!”

I slept most of the ride home, curves and all. I was tired. Julz slowed the car at the lake on the way home, and we decided to take a quick dip. As I changed into my suit, I noticed in the rear view mirror that I must’ve been touching my face in my sleep. A LOT. The eyebrows I’d carefully penciled on this morning were gone. Is it still considered your ‘brow’ when there’s no brows there?

The absence of brows was enough to make me adopt a devil-may-care attitude about our little swim. “Eyebrows gone, wig off, Julz let’s hit the trail and see who we can scare now!”

As we closed in on the shore of the lake, we encountered a small clatch of young 20-somethings from Louisiana. We chatted, we swam, and then, as any good youngsters from the south would do, they whipped out a small bbq and began cooking a feast.

I was still in the water, enjoying the relative liberty I feel there, where skin and bones seem to ache just a little less these days. When I finally got out of the water, Julz had something meaty looking hanging from a stick. She asked me if I wanted some, and I declined. She tried again, saying, “Give it a try. It’s ALLIGATOR! All the way from Louisiana!”

I’ve eaten it before, so I wasn’t that impressed. Julz, however, was chowing on that stuff like she hadn’t eaten all week. When she finally stopped for a second to catch her breath, I asked, “So, what do you think?”

“OMG, you have NO IDEA how bad I want to tell you that it tastes like BIG FOOT! But pretty much, it just tastes like chicken…”

Why the Hair is No Big Deal...

2010-08-01T15:45:00.000-07:00

Or at least why I’m telling myself it’s not...

So, I’ve been bracing myself. Optimist that I am, I had hoped that it wouldn’t fall out. At the end of last week, I had to face facts—my hair is one more collateral casualty in my ongoing conquering of cancer.

It was the oddest thing. I awoke in the middle of the night, because something was tickling my nose. I turned on the light, and noticed this chunk of hair was the culprit, and it was no longer attached to my head.

I was grateful that most of it was in this one single chunk, and that the splay of hair strewn across my pillow was at a minimum.

In the middle of that night, as I cleaned up the hair, and inspected the new bald spot near my temple, I came to some conclusions about my next moves. Practically speaking, I did not want to clean up a continuous shedding of hair. Emotionally speaking, I did not want the grief of watching my hair come out in stages. Spiritually speaking, I did not want the continuum of the shedding to give cancer more legitimacy that it deserves. It is an unwelcome, short-term presence that I intend to irradicate. Giving an ongoing acknowledgement to its side effects seems counter-productive to my objective of annihilating it from my body.

Hair is non-essential. Like hubcaps on a car, I can keep driving even if they fly off. And the hair, it in all probability, will grow back.

Early on Saturday, I went to Shopko and bought a baseball cap and some scarves for the short term.

Then, I went to one of the many quickie shops to get the rest of my locks shorn. I drove by several places, and tried to find one with as few customers as possible. I finally settled on one near the local Target store, and entered the shop. When it was my turn, I quickly sat down in the salon chair, pulled my hat off, and briefly told the stylist, “I’m going through medical treatment and am losing my hair. With a minimum of fanfare, I’d like you to just shave it off for me, please.”

The young stylist, sporting blonde locks halfway down her back, looked at me through the reflection in the mirror, horrified. “Really?”

“Yes,” I said, “really.”

She stammered some more. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

She turned the chair so that I was facing her, and said, “You’re positive?”

I began to tear up, without knowing why. I told her, “Look, if you can’t do this, I understand, but I need to get this over with. Is there someone else here who can help me?”

She grabbed her clippers, and keeping the chair turned away from the mirror, began to release my recently-dyed auburn locks from their station upon my head.

I’ve never had a ton of hair, and I’ve never really managed to find a style that works for me. It was too wavy to wear straight, and too straight to wear curly. It was, thanks to my mother’s genetic influence, frizzy, and not very thick.

Now, I’ve been released from a lot of fruitless and frustrating rituals. For the interim, no shampooing, conditioning, moussing, gelling, blowdrying, ironing, spraying, combing, fussing, etc. The loss and the liberty of it all exactly cancel each other out. Upon returning home from the salon and running my fingers over my head, I realized that I really had no feeling about it one way or the other.

What has gotten to me though, is everyone else. I was thoroughly unprepared for some people’s reactions. A close relative cried, saying that seeing me without hair makes my medical condition more real to him. Upon reflection, I guess I can understand that.

My daughter looks at me in a rather estranged way. She stands in doorways now, instead of talking to me up close. I guess I can appreciate that, too.

I had been extremely worried about appearances on the work front. I have an important meeting this week, and thought that the absence of hair would be a real distraction. I wound up looking at wigs on Saturday. My friend Maria came with me for moral support. I didn’t expect to find anything that would work for me. Surprisingly, four of the five I tried on all looked great. I settled on the one that had the most complementary color for my skin tone, and the one that most looks like my last hair style.

I think it looks great. I feel good in it, other than the discomfort of having something that hot on my head in August in Redding. I suspect that I will spend more time in scarves because of the weather. It’s what makes me comfortable in a time that is full of discomfort for myself, and apparently others around me as well.

I hope in time, others can be as comfortable with it all as I am.

Where Am I, and What Am I Doing Here?

2010-07-22T17:42:00.000-07:00

So, just to catch everyone up a bit on things…

During the last week in March, I suffered from an intestinal blockage which resulted in trips to the hospital, emergency procedures, and a bit of ingenuity to resolve. During that process, the doctors discovered that part of my blockage was being caused by tumors. Yikes.

During April and May, I went through a continued battery of tests—scans, biopsies, etc. Eventually, I got that dreaded news: the tumors, they are cancerous.

My doctor explained the good news and bad news of it all like this:

“The good news is we found it so soon. Your prognosis is good. The bad news is that almost any treatment for this is going to be aggressive.”

Aggressive? I soon learned that my options were like this:

1. Do nothing. The tumors grow, spread, mutate, and ultimately kill me prematurely, while creating some less-than-socially-acceptable side effects from now ‘til the day of doom.

2. Have surgery. Remove some of my intestinal tract and at 41 years old, learn to love life while chained to a colostomy bag.

3. Do chemo and radiation. A viable option, but with some concern due to the number of treatments I’ve already had in my past.

4. Try drug therapy. Poison myself for 2-3 months as a means of shrinking tumors, while suffering side effects ranging from nausea, vomiting, fatigue, rashes, fever, dizziness, dream disturbances, insomnia, depression, etc.

Analyst that I am, I mulled things over, built spread sheets (yep, I did!), prayed, sought advice, and ultimately, chose door #4. Why not add poisonous pill popping to my litany of strange-but-true phases of life, no?

My next series of decisions had to do with how best to manage this degree of sickness. Stay in Denver? Who would help me? What about my job? What about my apartment? What about my new life that was so much FUN?

In a strange turn of events, I began considering moving back to northern California. I’ll admit, when the notion first crossed my mind, I resisted. I LOVED my job, I loved my new single life in a new place, and I was, for the first time in a long time, loving myself.

Eventually, I decided to quit my job, raid my savings account, and come back to Redding. During a break in drug trials at the end of June, I packed my stuff, loaded the U-Haul, and drove back to California to start treatment. On the face of it, it was a decision that should have brought me much angst and regret. I was leaving a life and independence and prosperity that I had suffered and sacrificed greatly to achieve. I received some scathing criticism about the choices I was making, and even lost my best friend through the decision.

Oddly enough, I drove back to California, zigzagging through the southwest, with that peace that passes all understanding. I had to laugh, when at one point during the trip, I was updating my Aunt Mari about the status of things, and virtually every question she asked, my answer was, “I don’t know yet.” I realized at that moment how childish, ill-conceived, and a little sophomoric it seemed to keep repeating that same line to such serious questions as, “Where will you stay? How will you live? Do you have a doctor here? Do you have a job? What if you get sicker? What are you going to DOOOO?”

And yet, there has been this perfect equanimity about everything. I have been at a total loss to explain it. I’ve gotten more than one strange look when I’ve patiently explained to someone, “I have faith that I am where I’m supposed to be right now, and that I’m here for a purpose, and that everything is going to work out as it ought.”

This week, I’ve started to see the fruit of that faith in some very tangible ways. My first set of tests came back from the doctor. The tumors are shrinking. The drugs, harsh as they may be, are doing their job.

When I first got diagnosed, it occurred to me that in my lifetime, I’ve given way too much place—both literally and figuratively—to pains in my ass. I’ve decided that this is the dividing line. From here on out, I refuse to give those pains presence or priority on my radar. As such, I’ve been doing my best to do things I want to do—visit friends, go places, do things; and do them without being held back by people, plagues, or pestilences that don’t have my best interests at heart.

I have started doing some consulting work, and it’s been very cathartic. It’s nice to have something to do, and it’s nice to focus on something besides being sick. And it’s nice to laugh, even if it is at the inane absurdities of what some of my work entails (“with fuel loads that high, you’re going to put a drip torch to the forest? In the name of forest health?”).

I am reconnecting with family and friends in ways I’ve never managed when I lived a hurry-up-and-go life. I still don’t fully understand my circumstances—why here, why now, why THIS? But I am enjoying the journey of watching those answers unfold.

Top Ten Signs I’m Watching Too Many Old LOST Episodes (And I Blame Cheryl Cates!)

2010-05-21T13:39:00.000-07:00

10. While shopping, I pass on the peanut butter because I can’t find the DHARMA brand.

9. I think the leftover sand in my shoes from last weekend’s adventure is “a sign”. Of what, I don’t know…

8. I now address all males by their name, followed by, ‘Brother’.

7. I enter 4 8 15 16 23 42 as the cooking time on my microwave. The charred remains are also a sign.

6. The only Netflix recommendations I get as pop ups are LOST seasons and selections featuring LOST stars.

5. The span of time between the first and second alarms on my cell phone is 108 minutes.

4. I refuse to book any flight listed as #815.

3. I tell my boyfriend, “Gosh, if you grew your hair out just *this much* it would look like Jack’s…”

2. My frame of reference for describing others is via LOST characters: “She’s cute like Kate,” or “He’s crazy like John Locke.”

1. I’m wondering if it’s possible to watch two and a half seasons of shows between now and Sunday night! Maybe if I stay on the beach, and away from the jungle?

The Taco/Hot Dog Deja Vu

2010-05-19T14:38:00.000-07:00

Last week, on my way to Turlock to surprise Michael, I stopped at a taqueria truck in Modesto to grab a little something to eat. It was 1:00 in the afternoon, and I was famished. By that time, I hadn’t eaten since the night before, and I’d weathered an early morning flight from Denver to Sacramento—including a plane delay, a business meeting, a dead phone, and strings of phone calls and texts once the phone was resurrected.

Given the choice, once in Modesto, I will generally choose a taqueria truck as my preferred dining experience. The smells, the people, the taste of some of the best mole sauce on the planet, and the off-the-beaten-path fare such as goat meat, all draw me in like nothing else I’ve eaten in the area.

On this day, I had something of a cross-cultural déjà vu moment.

The place I stopped was just off Highway 99, and the taqueria truck was parked in the shade, under a tree. The breeze was blowing just enough to make me realize it was hot out. As I approached the truck and ordered food, the two fellows inside chatted me up in a strange mix of Spanglish that seemed to work well for all of us. As I waited for a quick order of nachos, I breathed in the smell of cilantro and salsa. My mouth was watering. I asked one of the guys on the truck for a soda.

The dos hermanos on the truck in Modesto didn’t charge me for the soda. Dressed in a skirt and heels, I don’t think that I was their standard-issue blue collar customer. They helped me with my broken Spanish, and were patient as I butchered their native tongue. They asked me where I was from, and where I was headed. When I told them I was off to see mi novio, they just smiled and nodded, one of them saying, “he’s one luuuucky muchacho!”

As he handed me the soda, I was somehow transported back about 25 or so years to Shingletown. For some reason, the whole moment at the truck in Modesto reminded me of that little hotdog stand that was across from the Shingletown Store for a while back in the 80’s. I think it was called Wheelie Weenie. The two brothers who ran it were always so nice to me. They never charged me for soda, even if it was the only thing I got from them that day. For a while, Wheelie Weenie became the place to stop and visit with whomever else was standing by at the moment. Partly because, well, once a person had checked their PO box and bought a newspaper in the store, there really wasn’t much else to do while one was out on the highway.

I think the real connection between the two moments in time was the fact that in both circumstances I was in a place where not much else mattered but the beautiful day, the good people, and a few moments unfettered by the demands of the rest of life.

The Chick Cave

2010-03-25T22:34:00.000-07:00

So, finally, after much delay... pictures of The Chick Cave. Taken at night, so I'll have to grab y'all some exterior shots when it's light.

In the meantime, for your viewing pleasure, help yourselves to the shoddily photographed nickel tour!

My dwelling is what's called a "walkout basement", which means that I live in someone's basement, but have my own entrance. My "front door" is the garage, with a padded security opener. Upon entering the interior garage door, I land at a shared vesitbule that I share with my landlady, Amy.

From there, my private entry looks down into the Chick Cave...

This flight of stairs descends into what I refer to as Subterreanean-Chic-Meets-Functional-Bohemian. Look on, and you'll see what I mean. At the bottom of the stairs sits this trinket shelf, highlighted by some recessed lighting.

This is my grandmother's clock, a Seth Thomas, that is over 100 years old.

The living room, as those of you who know me well will note, is decorated far beyond my abilities.

The chair and couch were already in the apartment, and because MC and I could not get the love seat or the "porn" couch down the narrow flight of stairs, I just went with what was in here. For the legions of fans of the "porn" couch, do not fear. It is safely tucked in storage.

I am still toying with lighting, as the string of fluorescent lights is a little harsh, especially after sitting under them all day long at work.

I bought the pub table set from a young couple before I left Redding. MC and I high-fived over not paying asking price. It fits perfectly in my cozy little space. The built-in desk, as you can see, has become sort of a catch all, as I never really use it as a desk. Most of my lap-top shenanigans happen on the couch, bed, or preferably, somewhere outside in the great viewshed of Colorado's Frontrange.

This is a view from near my kitchen area.

The kitchen shelves just got rebuilt, along with the closet shelving and hanging rods that collapsed a few weeks back. Ladies, of particular note, all-- and I mean ALL-- of the tupperware on that shelf has its appropriate corresponding lid with it. This has been the case for 39 days and counting!

My kitchen, in this modest apartment, is bigger than the kitchen in the 1700+ square foot house I came from in California. Strange how things work that way. And yes, that IS my scale on the kitchen floor. It lives there because my bathroom is small. The up side to it is that its current location really makes me think before I eat...

Yep, it's Shelby. When I was packing to move, I couldn't bear to leave this picture behind. At the moment, it's pretty much the only thing on my frig, until I get a little more settled. And it's been a good thing. Every person that has visited me here has asked me about her. Some presume that it's a picture of my daughter, Katie. I eagerly explain to people that Shelby is not my daughter, but she could be. Or she could be their daughter. We all need to continue to spread the word about the dangers of drinking, especially for teens. The message is the same in Colorado as it is in California. Drinking+Vomiting=911.

This, some might argue, is the world's least used stove. I seem to only be cooking about once a week. Figuring out portions for one is a challenge, so I eat lots and lots of leftovers.

This is a half-shot of my bathroom, merely to show off the shelf that I assembled all by myself. :-) The bathroom is small, but not the smallest I've ever had. Joanie and Linda and my family can probably attest to the fact that my bathroom when I lived in Quincy was about as small as they come. I'm grateful I have a little more space than that here.

The bedroom is huge, compared to the rest of this place. I love it! I am not entirely sold on the bed set, but I got it at a great price. Funny thing, I found the heart in a box of old stuffed trinkets when I was unpacking. Robbie Geeter gave that to me the summer between 8th and 9th grades. It was on a hot Shingletown day when we were riding three-wheelers. He had gotten it for me from Circus Circus on a family vacation. I'm doing the math... that was 27 years ago. Good grief. Crazy, huh?

I've gotten a few pictures up, lopsidedly so. I probably need someone to come in and help me with this. These are the kind of decorative touches at which I regularly fail.

These are two of my bedroom closets. I have no qualms about leaving closet doors open, since all my weird relatives and skeletons are back in California. ::Note to family: time to draw straws to see who has to admit they're my 'weird' relative!:: :-)

The wide closet is the one that had the meltdown a few weeks ago. All of a sudden, the entire rod and shelf came tumbling down, shearing hangers, and leaving a heap of clothes. Apparently, my wardrobe was just too much. Since then, with all the weight loss, I've gotten rid of a lot of clothing, and Amy had someone come in and reinforce everything in the closet so that it should be able to withstand whatever shopping I decide to do eventually in replenishing my wardrobe.

Also note the guitar. Lessons start in two weeks!

This, is my single window in the entire Cave. I am looking forward to the summer when I can keep the drapes and blinds open more regularly. The plant and the empty soda bottle are from MC. He left me the plant the day he flew back to California. The plant came with a card thanking me. He had just driven me 1200 miles, loaded and unloaded furniture and boxes, and he was thanking ME for things. It's a huge blessing to have such a good friend. The soda bottle showed up (full, of course) at my old house, on February 3rd, along with a pretty red rose. It was THE day that I had seriously thought about backing out of this adventure. Fear, criticism, pressure, sorrow, heartache, betrayal, were all pressing in. A soda and a flower reminded me that I don't always hold myself in as much esteem as others do. And for no good reason. Sometimes, just knowing that someone else believes in you makes all the difference. I like to remind myself now that it doesn't matter whether that bottle is empty or full, it just is. And that's more than enough.

That, ladies and gentlemen, concludes this tour. Feel free to come back for a visit any time. :-)

Traveling the Great Divide

2010-03-22T20:51:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I drove down to Manitou Springs to pick up a few trinkets for the kids, and for MC, before my whirlwind Easter weekend trip to Redding. MC and I had been to Manitou the weekend I moved here, so I sort of knew the lay of the land. It’s funny the difference that just some weeks can make. When we were there on February 15th, the streets were fairly empty, and some shops were even closed. Yesterday, the place was alive. As if lit by the warm spring day, the streets were a-buzz with musicians busking, kids juggling, lovers strolling as if they were the only ones on earth. I was enamored with the vibrance—the colors, the smells, the sounds of merrymaking at its best.

I stopped in a shop called Taos Maos to pick up some you-know-whats for MC, and was transported to a major déjà vu moment from more than twenty years ago. Working the counter of this shop full of curious things was a middle aged woman, named Mari. "Let’s get it straight," she told me right off the bat, “It’s M-A-R-I, with an ‘I’.”

I couldn’t help but smile as I thought of my own Aunt Mari-with-an-I, and how both she and the Taos Maos proprietor had the same sort of spunk. Some twenty years ago, my Aunt Mari had a small shop in Shingletown, where she sold all sorts of things for which one might never think to go purposely shopping—old wooden boxes, small glass trinkets, and the like.

I asked the Taos Mari if I could take her picture, and she studied me for a moment and said, “Sure, but make sure it’s an ACTION shot. I don’t do any of that sitting pretty portrait kind of business.” So, Mari’s precondition, combined with my less-than-stellar cell phone photo skills resulted in no picture. One of these days I will learn how to photograph stuff in a way that's fit to print!

I also stopped in the little shop around the corner from the Heart of Jerusalem Café, where one can find crystals, oils, herbs, massage, and tarot card readings. I bought some lavender oil to spruce up the dusty smell in the stair well at the Chick Cave.

I don’t have as many photos as I would like, as I didn’t think to bring my camera, and was stuck with just my cell phone. I intend to go back and capture more of this charming little place. It’s sort of like Santa Cruz, only without the beach. Lots of alternative clothing—like the guy below with kilt, knives, and dogs; lots of tie-dyed everything, and even those cute bumper stickers urging one and all to “Keep Manitou Weird.” As if even a universe of erstwhile karma could keep it from being anything but.

The day had started out a little disappointing, as my friend Lynne was supposed to come with me, but opted (rightfully) to spend the day with her son who surprised her with a visit mere days before he leaves for the Army. Without a companion, I had decided to try and get my motorcycle started and scooter on down there. That also didn’t work, lacking the right kind of jumper cables to get it started at the storage shed. I had mentioned to MC on my way down that I was a little disappointed by the lack of a companion for the day.

Much as he always does, MC shared that kind of companionable wisdom that comforts and challenges at the same time. He reminded me that sometimes solo adventures are better than those with company, as one can travel where they like, without considering input from others. With that, I drove west from Manitou Springs, up into the Rocky Mountains.

I tried the Pike’s Peak Highway, but found it closed. I continued west along Highway 24, and ultimately landed in a place called Divide. Yep, THE divide. The one that geographically speaks to water flowing east from one side, and west to the other.

I stopped at the highest point in town, and thought about the enormity of where I was. At 9,615 feet in elevation, living in that small mountain town would be very nearly equivalent to living atop Mt. Lassen, at 10,457 feet. At that elevation, I could peer over, almost shoulder-to-shoulder, as it were, at Pike’s Peak. It was a strange perspective. It made the grandiosity of the peak somewhat diminished in stature, and yet, somehow sharper in focus.

The geography did a couple things for me that day. One, it helped to settle a mild case of homesickness from which I’ve been suffering for a couple weeks. The drive up to Divide was along the same kind of mountainous roads that I have lived and loved in Shingletown, Burney, Quincy, Weaverville, and elsewhere. Being in pine trees, with the smell, the sound, the feel, was a much needed respite. That was even confirmed when I shared the observation with MC and he said, “Divide has always reminded me of northern California.”

The other thing I couldn’t get off my mind was the literal sense that I was standing in a place of manifest division. The west is its own bastion, completely separate from the east. It made me think of the many things that have become divided in my life in recent months. Some of the divisions are tragic, like my marriage. It’s a separation that rips at my heart, and makes me question much about my very existence. Some of the divisions aren’t so bad. It occurred to me as I stood afoot of the Continental Divide, that some of the challenges I’ve faced in the past year or so have been a result of my unwillingness to divide some things that should never have been commingled together. Hindsight, fabulous thing that it is, makes me realize that I should have divided the circumstances I knew to my core were right, from the unrealistic expectations of others. I should have divided the need to be true to one’s self from the impervious indiscretions of those near to me.

Like wheat from the chaff.

Like the east from the west.

Come to Me, My One True Love...

2010-03-06T09:41:00.000-08:00

Dear, Sweet, Trader Joe…

You know how I love you. Surely, you have not forgotten the days when I would travel, ice chest at the ready, all the way to Sacramento just to take in your goodness, and bring home some small tokens of our time together, have you? Despite the pitfalls of our long-distance relationship, I was faithful and ardent in my love for you. I even introduced you to other fans and followers. We all loved you, even when it was from afar.

Then, you (and that darling friend of yours, Chuck) intoxicated me beyond my wildest imagination—you came to Redding, California, so our relationship could grow and deepen. Remember those last-minute, surprise flings we would have? I would just stop by out of the blue, pick up a little vino, maybe some exotic cheese, share a few laughs and be on my way? Gosh, those were great times.

Well now, as life tends to do, things have changed, and I must say, not entirely for the better, between you and me. When I decided to move to Denver, I guess I just took for granted that you would be there with me, and for me, in my new life’s adventure.

I’ve looked everywhere for you, and you’re just not around. I’ve even called your mother, and the corporate office, and they confirmed. You are not in the Denver metro area.

I know that some will say I should just move on, and Lord knows, I’ve tried. I tried hooking up with Natural Grocer. I don’t really want to kiss and tell, but let’s just say, his produce isn’t as firm and juicy as it ought to be. You know how I feel about those things.

I tried hanging out with Sprouts, and while socially, it has been a good time meeting people there, he just seems a little lost and unfocused. He says, “healthy foods”, and yet, virtually everything in there is sugary and too well refined. You and I both know that someone like that just isn’t good for me.

I have tried a few l’il independent guys as well, and you know how they can be—just so inconsistent in their relations. Some days things are okay, the next day, they’re just not around, or they’re out of the very thing I’m needing at that moment. And you know how I am, Joe, I just want that one guy I can count on.

So, I ask you again, my love, my dear, true, Joe… won’t you please, please consider coming to Denver?? I miss your sauciness—the piccata, the masala, the vodka tomato. I miss your occasional starchiness—fine rices and pastas. And I’ll admit it, I really miss your delicious Pirate’s Booty. Yes, I know, I should be above that, but I’m not.

I have done some initial reconnaissance for you, my love. Denver is a veritable implosion of empty retail space, just the size you would need, with ample parking, and great access. Demographically speaking, Denver is one of the most health-conscious cities in the nation… we are a people here who are literally hungry for your foodie, healthful goodness.

Trust me, my sweetness, you would have no problem making a go of it here. And you know that I’d take care of you.

Please, won’t you come?

Forever yours,

Susanne

The Other Side of the Tracks

2010-03-01T17:26:00.000-08:00

When I first landed in Castle Rock for my second job interview (the first interview, thankfully, was by phone), I was rather unimpressed with the environs. Much of Castle Rock's north end is strip malls, shopping centers, big box bonanzas and the like. It feels plastic, forced, contrived. Nothing about that end of town seems to make the slightest attempt at embracing the landscape or giving a clue about its inhabitants.

So turned off by the area was I, that when it came time to begin thinking about finding a dwelling here, my first thought was, "anywhere but Castle Rock!" Only about one-fourth of my co-workers live in town. About another third or so live scattered to the south along I-25 in towns betwixt and between Castle Rock and Colorado Springs, which is about an 45 minutes or so south.

Trying to house hunt from 1200 miles away is futile. The internet is a scary place, as we all well know. In my transition, I finally decided to just wait 'til I got here and deal with the whole episode in real time.

Ultimately, and fortunately within 24 hours of arriving, I found a cute little walk-out basement apartment in the mid-section of town. It's cute, it's quiet, the neighbors are nice, my landlord is lovely, and I'm only about two miles from the office. I sort of figure that I can camp out here until I get my bearings about the area a little better, and make further decisions-- if warranted-- later.

Today, forced out of my already-established daily 'commute', I drove a bit to the south, in search of The UPS Store. Why I was there is a whole other story, involving a certain Senior Logistican, his pants, shoes, jacket, and an airline policy. Picky, picky they are, out at DIA.

While in search of a place to put Michael's pants back in the mail, I discovered a completely different side of Castle Rock. Sitting most literally to the south of the town's namesake, this older part of Castle Rock is filled with smaller shops, more diverse architecture, and infinitely more character than the newer north part of town.

I am looking forward to exploring, starting with this little music store, and continuing on to a curious array of shops around the corner on Wilcox, which is the main drag of this part of town.

Life is Like a Bowl of Soup

2010-02-28T19:15:00.000-08:00

One of the consequences of packing up and moving to an unknown frontier is living with the fruit of educated guesses on how best to prepare. Not knowing what kind of place I would be landing—how large or small, how public or private—made for some trade-offs on what to bring and what to leave behind.

Some of my guesses were right on target, like picking up a used pub table and stools for dining. The set I found was exactly the right fit in my new basement apartment.

The same cannot be said for either of my ‘small’ couches. Both are in storage, being too wide to make it through the narrow doorways to my dwelling.

Some choices can only be filed under, “What was I thinking??” A ten-quart soup pot? There is no way that the small nation I could feed with that thing would ever fit in my comfy walk-out basement abode.

A few nights ago, I decided to make a pot of soup as the vehicle for using up the many odds and ends I had in my refrigerator.

I was conceiving in my head something creamy, that would encompass all the vegetables I intended upon throwing in the pot. I opened one of my cookbooks and found a recipe for a creamy cauliflower soup that I thought I could use as the basis for my creation.

Let me first say, making two quarts of soup in a ten-quart pot is just weird. The entire time I felt like I was missing something BIG in the process. And yet, lots of stuff went in the pot: chicken stock, a couple red potatoes, cauliflower, radishes, cucumber, a little broccoli, onion, carrots, celery, a few spinach leaves.

Then, I realized that some of the more exotic spices, I did not have. So I improvised. Cardamom became arugala. Beyond a stretch. Lemon juice became baked garlic. What? Yeah, I know. But as I always say, garlic is the culinary equivalent of duct tape. That stuff will fix whatever’s wrong in the pot! Kind of reminds me of a certain someone I know.

As I began simmering all the ingredients, another key problem hit me. I left all the food processor-y type appliances behind with the other community property holder. Kinda hard to make a creamy soup when you can't cream all the stuff up, no? So, fork in hand, I began mashing the soup along the side of the pan. It took close to half an hour, but I got stuff sort of smashed up. And when it was all said and done, the texture was actually really great—better than pureed.
As I sat eating what turned out to be a rather delicious concoction, I realized that the evening’s meal was something of an allegory for many of the changes going on for me lately.

Sometimes, we don’t have what we think we need in life to get by, but when we’re open to working with what we have around us, sometimes it all turns out for the better.

Just Passin' Through is Just Catchin' Up...

2010-02-28T17:42:00.000-08:00

I haven’t blogged in ages. Eight and a half months to be exact. And it feels like an eternity. A lot has happened in that time, some of it I’ll never talk about. And some things, I’m dying to throw out there.

For the good of the order, let me set a couple things straight for everyone. This is a blog. MY blog. No one is forcing you to read it. If you find it profane, in poor taste, whiny, poorly written, inappropriate, or some other disdainful thing, please feel free to not read it. Not everyone gets my perspective, my sense of humor, or my proclivity for unearthing the absurdities in my own existence. I accept that, and even embrace it. Diversity is what makes us all unique.

I don’t mean to sound bitchy here, but this space is optional for all of us. No one is tattooing it to your person, or forcing you at gunpoint to read it. Stay or go, I’ll love you either way. Please just understand that I may not be as moved by your criticisms as you’d like me to be.

Now, with that said, a few highlilghts:

As some of you may know, the past year has been one of extreme, exacerbating, and excruciating change for me and some of those around me. My son is now living with his dad in Canby. My daughter is in college. I am living and working in Colorado, due in part to California’s shipwrecked economy. I am re-writing the first draft of my first novel because the computer and flash drive that the manuscript was on have vanished off the face of the earth. Or at least that’s what it seemed like after I accepted what felt like an upending defeat.

I am divorced from the man I’d intended on spending the rest of my life with, having learned, among other things, that he is fervently delighted that I and my “considerable ass” have left the state. I will refrain for the moment from speaking about the cross-application of the term “considerable ass.” Life goes on, whether we want it to or not, in ways we sometimes cannot expect and for which we cannot prepare.

Moving to Colorado was initially just for financial reasons. I wasn’t making it on my own in California, due to the economy, my still unfinished education, and the crush of outside factors converging upon my life’s path.

What I’ve come to understand is that this move has had the positive, but unintended consequences of being cathartic, regenerative, and a real time of personal discovery. I’ve learned that I possess a resilience I didn’t know I had. I have learned that northern California is not the only piece of this nation’s landscape that has woven itself into my very being. I have learned that as terrifying as it is for me to trust people, there are some amazing folks rooting for me, and even going to bat for me.

On February 10th, my Senior Logistician and I loaded up a U-Haul with an assortment of my belongings. After a couple stops in the Central Valley so that he could interview for jobs, The Senior and I headed toward Colorado, via I-80, through the Sierras, all of Nevada, Utah, and a bit of Wyoming, before landing in the Rocky Mountains.

Honestly, that much of life’s experience was rather numbing and overwhelming. New job, moving logistics, emotional good-byes to family, friends, and what has been home for most of my life.

On February 16th, I started a new job with Douglas County Human Services. I am working as a grant and contract administrator. A job I know well, and am enjoying. I work with a great bunch of people. I have an honest-to-goodness office. Not a cubicle, not an officle (word attributed to Melissa Janulewicz), not a desk shoved in a corner somewhere. A four-walls-and-a-door office. And if that weren’t enough, a window with a view.

A view of the Colorado “foothills.” That’s another game changer for me. Being from California, my frame of reference for ‘foothills’ are rolling inclines of 1-2,000 feet that meet with their higher, more mountainous counterparts. In Colorado, because we’re already a mile high, foothills start at about 6,000 feet or so.

Strange juxtaposition. And probably just one of many that I will be sharing with you here. Stay tuned.

How Did This Happen?

2009-06-13T08:57:00.000-07:00

It's peculiar how personally familiar the picture seems. The girl in the gown resembles me, only more beautiful, and younger than I ever remember being at 17.

It's surreal to think that it's been almost 17 years since she was toddling around, her bottle hanging from her mouth as she crept along the furniture, looking for new things to explore in our small living room.

Yesterday, she loaded an overnight bag, her brother, and some friends into her Toyota Camry and drove some 150 miles to go see her dad.

I'm sad at how empty the nest feels, and so thrilled and proud that she's learning to fly.

Only Shadow Knows...

2009-04-09T10:30:00.000-07:00

Or, Last Friday’s Pizza Incident.

It was a warm and sunny, spring-like evening when the three teens at my house convinced me that ordering pizza would be a good idea. I conceded, only because I had coupons.

So, I ordered two pizzas—a veggie with sausage, and an olive and bell pepper—while Katie, Jesse, and Leathon went back to their adolescent endeavors in The Man Cave.

When the pizza guy pulled up, I was stricken by the sheer size of the vehicle. It was a jacked up Chevy Suburban. The kids, all recognizing the pizza guy as Shadow, a former school mate, came to the door and chatted with Shadow while I transacted cash and coupons for savory pizza pies.

They learned that he was now attending continuation school. And that the behemoth vehicle he was driving actually belonged to his dad. Something was amiss with his usual ride.

Somehow, in the course of the transaction, we wound up with the wrong pizzas. As soon as one of the boys opened the box, I was on the phone with the pizza company, asking them to phone Shadow and send him back to swap us for the correct pizzas.

The kids began cracking ‘stay in school’ jokes, noting that apparently continuation school does not give one “mad” pizza delivery skills.

Shadow showed back up some minutes later, and exchanged pizzas. The new ones were much closer to what we actually ordered, minus the sausage on the veggie, but at that point, I wasn’t going to complain. Especially when Jesse told me, “Mom, I took a bite out of one of those other pizzas.”

Yikes. I’m now wondering if the people who originally ordered the multi-meat marvels noticed. Or if we’ve been crossed off the good customer list at the pizza company.

Hmmmm… Probably only Shadow knows…

Butt Dialing is Not for the Weak

2009-03-26T18:50:00.000-07:00

So, we've all seen the T-Mobile commercial where the guy sitting on the couch moves his hind end just so, and the buttons on the phone in his pocket dial his girlfriend's phone.

Funny stuff. Funnier still when the call comes in to my desk, and its from a back pocket or a backpack or something at my daughter's school. I listened to five minutes of high school life between passing bells today.

I learned that **** and ***** are going out this weekend, and that ***** is mad because she never meant for the two of them to hook up in the first place when she introduced them.

I learned that no fewer than four people failed to do their homework for the class that was about to start, and that one female actually did her homework, but, "Ohmigawd it was SOOOO hard and it was almost impossible to get it done and still have time to finish uploading all the new iTunes before the prices go up," and then ***** called her and she so f***ing couldn't believe it because she's been wanting him to call for f***ing EV-ERRRRRRR.

And I learned that my daughter cracks good jokes.

All this was very intriguing, but sort of a strange way to peer into another's life as well.

The Texters' Dilemma

2009-03-15T20:23:00.000-07:00

I know that we live in a more tribal culture these days—sharing small, day-to-day details about our lives, via FaceBook, MySpace, Tweeter, texts, blogs, and so on. On some levels, I think it brings about a sense of connectedness that we wouldn’t otherwise have.

And there’s convenience. I thoroughly appreciate that I have the ability to text family members with quick messages. I don’t really need a whole phone conversation to say, “Don’t forget to take out the trash.”

This being said, there are some things that shouldn’t be shared via text. Sometimes it’s a case of just too much information. Sometimes, it’s a case of technology’s inability to replace a warranted face-to-face conversation. Below are some real life examples culled from my own experiences, and those of friends.

Things That Should Not Be Texted:

“No baby yet… just got an epidural.”

“I’m in the airport bathroom taking a dump. Gonna go now, it stinks in here.”

“My pants are wet. You know, THAT kinda wet. Gotta go.”

“It’s not you… it’s me… this just isn’t working out.”

“Will you marry me?”

“I’m with XXX in his car. I’ll call you when I get my pants back on.”

Another Item to Talk About...

2009-01-25T13:41:00.001-08:00

Yes, yes, I'll get to catching everyone up on the DC trip, but first...

A student at Foothill High School took his own life last Thursday. A former co-worker mentioned it to me, but had few details. I have been unable to confirm a name, therefore won't print it.

I know that it's standard newspaper policy not to report on suicides. I get the notion that we don't want to collectively glamorize such tragedies. However, I think this is growing to be something of an antiquated notion. Twenty years ago and more, when the media outlets were largely the only way we received news, this made sense.

But now, people-- kids especially-- are texting, phoning, tweetering, MySpacing, Facebooking, blogging, and otherwise discussing these current events when they happen. We owe it to ourselves, and especially our youth, to be having open dialogue about these tragedies when they occur.

By remaining silent, we are communicating to our teens that suicide is an acceptable solution to life's pressures and challenges. By remaining silent, we are quietly communicating that the emotional wreckage that suicide leaves behind for grieving families is okay.

These things are NOT OKAY.

Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem or challenge.

I urge readers to keep an eye on kids, neighbors, loved ones. Be a friend to others. Take action if you see someone in your sphere of influence exhibiting signs of depression or warning indications of suicide.

If you know the family who lost this child, find some kind way to show them that they are on your mind. Help affirm for them their child's life.

The Inaugural Kick-Off

2009-01-19T05:51:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, the president-elect, his #2 guy, their families, and a whole host of enthusiastic artists welcomed legions of people to this week's inaugural events. Various outlets-- Salon.com, Washington Post, National Park Service-- put the number of people on the Washington Mall at between 400,000 and 800,000 souls. I tend to lean toward the higher number myself. To give yourself a mental picture, envision every person who lives in Sacramento squished into the 2 mile space between the Lincoln Memorial and the Capitol. This is a small snippet of what it looked like:

People began showing up at 8:00 a.m. for the 2:30 p.m. event. We got there around 11:00 or so. We had a lot of time to pass, so people took to their usual avocations in situations like this:

Katie just chillin'

Young people hacky sacking.

While we were waiting, we watched images from one of more than a dozen jumbo-tron screens, including video clips of Americans from everywhere talking about what America means to them, what change what means to them, and other vignettes of inspiration. The theme of the event was, "We Are One".

One of the things that struck me, was that there were several clips from Barack Obama, taped the day before from his whistle stop tour, where he was speaking directly to us at the Mall, encouraging us to be patient, that he would be there soon, and to stay warm. I was impressed by that.

I thought about what would have been on my mind that day if I were in his shoes—what I would be saying at the next stop, remembering that it was my wife’s birthday that day, checking after my two young children, getting briefings about events and issues, planning for Tuesday’s inaugural address, taking pains not to spill anything on myself, etc. And yet, he also remembered us, and that we would be waiting for him in the cold. He is about to be leader of the free world, and yet, we are on his mind. How refreshing!

As the Mall filled up, there were people crowded everywhere. If you look into the background of this picture, you will see people sitting on top of the porta-potties to get a direct view of the stage at the Lincoln Memorial. Not sure I would have made that trade-off. The jumbo-tron view-- without the porta-potty smell-- was fine by me!

The concert kicked off with Bruce Springsteen singing The Rising. Most everyone in the crowd was singing along.

The rest of the entertainment was woven together with other performers-- Stevie Wonder, Denzel Washington, Mary J. Blige, Steve Carrell, Jamie Foxx, Jon Bon Jovi, James Taylor, Jon Legend, John Mellencamp, Will.i.am, Sheryl Crow, Herbie Hancock, Garth Brooks, Tiger Woods, Shakira, Forest Whittaker, Tom Hanks, U2, Queen Latifah, and Pete Seeger.

I was impressed by how even the stars held fast to the common purpose Obama says binds us all. When some of the comedians came forward to address the crowd, many of us held our breaths, panicked that we might hear them cutting up during this auspicious event. And yet, Steve Carrell gave a rousing reading from the writings of Abraham Lincoln. For all that Steve Carrell might be, and for the narrow scope of ways in which we identify to him, he too, believes in the change that Obama is brining to our nation.

Another thing that struck me, is that as the event unfolded, the cameras would cut to the Obamas, and they were doing the same thing as the rest of us! When Stevie Wonder was singing, everyone around me was dancing and moving to the music, and so were the Obamas. It was another confirmation that they are us, and we are them. We are One.

Obama gave an amazing speech at the end of the event, encouraging us to take responsibility for ourselves, and one another, and to remain in unity as we all strive to make America the place that we know it can me.

As we were leaving, I saw a small act of that very sentiment in action. Both Katie and Jesse were shocked, and revolted as we went to leave, and we saw all the trash being left behind. Jesse said, "Mom, this is our national monument!"

Katie picked up a cardboard box that had been intended to be a trash receptacle, and had instead been used as a ground cover for seating on the dry grass.

Without saying a word, the kids began picking up trash in our area and assembling trash receptacles to remedy the problem. We cleaned up a wide area around where we had been sitting, and then headed out with the rest of the huge crowd.

It occurred to me, that the kids had just done the very thing that Obama is calling us to:

Be responsible for yourselves. Be responsible for others. Pitch in. Get the job done.

It really is that simple.

Today has been proclaimed as a national day of service. I hope all of you will find a way to do just that. It doesn't have to be a big deal. Call a friend and make sure they are doing okay. Pick up litter in your neighborhood. Make America the place we want it to be.

I'll post more pics soon. For now, we're off to take in more of the nation's capital.

By Popular Demand...

2009-01-17T18:25:00.000-08:00

Because so many of you have asked, below are pictures of the infamous bucks' heads... and of the boy in his sister's sweats until his pants show up!

And I can't tell you enough how chilly it is here! Everyone's bundled up... including our darling Katy...

It's a Quiet Buzz...

2009-01-17T13:41:00.000-08:00

This is a picture of The Mall, facing the Washington Monument. There were just a few people out and about this afternoon, checking out the preparations for tomorrow's kick-off events. In asking locals, the consensus is that crowds are light today because of the near-record cold. Even the Smithsonians and other museums weren't carrying the usual traffic today. Tomorrow, and even more on Tuesday, the empty spaces below are expected to be filled with as many at 2 million people.

The picture below shows the US Capitol, where Obama's swearing in will occur. I heard today on the local news that those with tickets will be required to remain sitting in their seats. Those of us without tickets will be allowed to roam-- as much as a crowd of 2 million or more will allow-- and keep warm. Makes me glad that we didn't fully succeed in getting tickets!

I met a man from DC who is originally from Ethiopia. He cried as he told me how excited that Obama will be president next week. He explained how, even though he is not a US citizen, he knows that the US will be a place "that works for everyone who wants to work for it."

It's amazing, and humbling, to meet people who so revere the freedom most of us take for granted.

I am off for now to go eat the best seafood on the Altantic coast, maybe even the world.

More later!

The Grateful Pilgrimage

2009-01-16T19:30:00.000-08:00

So, it's 7:30 p.m. Pacific time... the time to which my body is still pretty much ticking. It's 10:30 in Washington, DC, where Jon, Jesse, Katie and I have arrived today.

It's been an interesting, breathtaking, hilarious, day. It started at 1:30 a.m. this morning when I awoke to start all the morning rituals so that we could make our 3:00 shuttle to the airport in Sacramento. All was going perfectly well, until 2:12 a.m., when my son, uttering an expletive, informed me that he didn't have any pants.

No pants?

He insisted on wearing his pajamas to Sacramento, and apparently, despite the 'dry run' packing that we did on Saturday, and the much advertised and celebrated 'family laundry night' we had last Tuesday, somehow-- somehow-- the pants did not make it into his suitcase.

So, tomorrow, I will post pictures of him, on the plane, in his pajamas. Headed for 18-degree temperatures in our nation's capital.

Sarah, Jesse's beloved girlfriend, may have fully demonstrated her devotion to my son today when she texted Jesse to let him know that she was Fed Exing his pants to him here in Washington, DC. Arranging overnight delivery of one's britches is one of the highest forms of affection in my book!

While flying today, my excitement for our adventure grew. And so did my gratitude.

I realized, that we would not be on this amazing journey, and we would not be witnessing next week's history in the making as Barack Obama is sworn in as our president, were it not for YOU. All of you. Had we not collectively turned out in record numbers to have our voices heard in the November election; and had we all not pulled together, united in our hope for a better nation, my family and I would not be here this week sharing in this historic moment.

The air in Washington is buzzing. The taste of hope is tangible. It can be seen in taller countenances, warmer smiles, eyes twinking with hope. We are on the verge of a new tomorrow. We are on the verge of greater success in meeting those challenges that face our nation. We are united, stitched together in our hope that the coming year will bring with it the tools we need to positively alter the course of our future.

Almost as if Mother Nature wanted to gift us with a physical manifestation, the temperatures here are so frigid, it almost hurts to breathe. It made me realize that I have collectively been holding my breath for most of 2008-- hoping for a better economy, with more job security; hoping for an end to two mismanaged wars; hoping for the election to result in the emergence of a leader who will encourage and inspire us all to rise to our collective best as a nation.

Today, it was as if for the first time in a long, long time I've breathed that hope, even tasting its goodness.

Tomorrow, we will be taking in the sights-- visiting some of the Smithsonian exhibits, mapping our our spectator strategies for the coming week's events, and just enjoying one another's company, and the company of thousands of new friends who are here sharing in the celebrations at hand.

Mounting Obama Madness

2009-01-08T20:05:00.000-08:00

So... in eleven days, we will have a new president. In six days, the Lewis/Baremore clan will begin its pilgrimage to the nation's capitol to witness the event. I am REALLY getting excited. In addition to the historic moment at hand, our niece, Jessica Lewis, will also be back there, as will some of Katie and Jesse's U-Prep classmates. And 2-5 MILLION potential new friends. Can't wait for the good times to start!

AND... we now have tickets to an Eddie from Ohio show out in Virginia somewhere on the 18th.

Sometimes, I am just overwhelmed at how great this life is.

What's in a Serving Size?

2009-01-07T06:52:00.000-08:00

Normally, I would just post this on my other blog site, but I have a few wisecracking things to say about this here, as well.

Yesterday, having achieved the feat of losing 25 pounds since the beginning of Thanksgiving, I was tempted by my son's package of Double Stuff Oreos sitting on the kitchen counter. While chatting with my son, I slid one out of the package, twisted it in half and ate the creamy middle, which is my favorite-- and even preferred-- part of the cookie. I handed Jesse the two chocolate ends, and reached for a second cookie. After eating the center, I decided a little chocolate couldn't hurt, so I stuffed one of the chocolate cookie ends into my mouth and began to chew.

While chewing down on the chocolatey crumbles in my mouth, I turned over the Oreo package to check out the nutritional information. My eyes went straight to the calories information, where I learned that a serving size of Oreos contains 160 calories. I was right in the middle of telling myself that I was surprised that Oreos were such a low-calorie snack when I noticed that a serving size of Oreos is TWO. Yep. TWO cookies. Who eats just TWO Oreos???

Well, for starters, that would now be ME. Yikes!

A Little Networking...

2009-01-06T07:02:00.000-08:00

... some folks I know are looking for work.

If you know any positions that might be available for individuals with the following types of skill sets, drop me an email at susanne.lewis@yahoo.com.

Thanks!

An individual with field project management experience in logging, road building, water truck driving, heavy equipment operations, welding, mechanics, etc. Has experience with the propane business. Sales experience and moderate computer skills. A conscientious and hard worker.

An individual with office management, accounting technician, or other office-type skills. Bachelors degree. Organized and detail-oriented, moderate to high computer skills. Bilingual-- fluent in Spanish.

Body... Will... How 'Bout We Find Some Middle Ground Here??

2009-01-03T17:38:00.000-08:00

I can remember the first time I fully realized that my body was not going to do what I wanted it to. It was February 1994. I was in Washington, DC, working for the week. The first two days were unremarkable. The usual 12-hour days were crammed with as many meetings as could be scheduled, the customary two-hour evening debriefing, and another two hours of laying out the following day's game plan.

At the end of the second night, I was really feeling awful. I had a fever. My chest hurt. My throat was sore, and my voice was gone. I muddled through two more days of such delirium. It wasn't until the end of the fourth day, when I passed up a trip to The Fish Market in Old Alexandria, that my colleagues began to realize that I really and truly wasn't feeling well. That was the only time I have ever passed up a chance to see that piano player and drink Fish Market Brew.

The next morning, at 4:00 a.m., as I stumbled into the bathroom, hacking, wheezing, and completely winded from the two-dozen steps from the other room, I realized that I may not make my appointed rounds the next day. I scrambled to put together the day's itinerary in something other than my own personal shorthand, and called my back-up to explain that I wasn't going to be leaving the hotel. When she came to my room after breakfast, her face was masked with a distinct cross between pity and horror, as if she had seen a dead person.

Every two hours or so that day, I attempted to crawl out of bed and meet up with my colleagues, thinking I could make at least some of the meetings and the press conference I had arranged for the late afternoon. Each time, I was met with the realization that the bathroom and the phone for room service was really the outer reaches of my kingdom for the time being.

Upon traveling home to northeastern California the next day, I stopped at a walk-in clinic in Reno, Nevada, to find out what the heck was wrong with me. Turns out I had bronchitis.

It's much the way I feel today. I have so much stuff to do-- stories to write, a trip to prepare for (12 days!!!!), and yet, all I can do is cough, choke, and blow my nose. I keep trying to bargain with my aching body, "I don't want to run a marathon here, but can't we at least be clear headed for a couple hours today??"

Apparently, the answer is a resounding NO.

My New Year Started Yesterday...

2009-01-01T15:56:00.000-08:00

Just like this, the dawning of my 40th birthday...

The sunrise, as taken at 50 mph on Buenaventura Boulevard, on my way to work, with my brand new hot pink Kodak SI xe 8.1 megapixel camera with the really cool carrying case. The camera, and a whole passel of tasty goodies were left on the seat of my car by my sweet husband, Jon.

My phone rang en route to work. I saw on the caller ID that it was my dad. I panicked. He never calls me before 8 a.m. Before I even answered the phone, I was already looking for a place to turn around, sure that I was going to be tending to some unexpected emergency. Turns out, he was just calling to wish me a happy birthday. I should probably just be a little more caffeinated before I start answering the phone.

I, and my co-worker Kevin, were surprised in the afternoon with cake, cards, and whatnot. Some of it was even Obama-related. And I helped Kevin determine definitively that 40 is, in fact, less than 52. We're all very clear on that now. :-)

In the afternoon, Jon, the kids, and I went to Casa Ramos for an early meal before we went to see Will Smith in Seven Pounds. Great movie!

Here's a little video clip from our dining adventure:

Yep, the camera also takes videos. The whole thing fits in the length of my small hand. Technology is amazing! Clearly, my skill at using it still needs some work.

After the movies, Katie-- er, I mean Katy, as she now prefers to be called-- gave me a soft, warm, lovely throw blanket that I may not remove myself from until springtime comes.

When I finally found my way home after dropping Katy off with her boyfriend, etc., I was seranaded by my son for my birthday, with a song he wrote just for his dear ol' mom:

I know the audio is bad, but the words go something like this:

Happy Birthday to you Mom

Happy Birthday Mom

Thanks for all that you've given me

like a roof overhead where the rent is free.

Thanks for loving me so unconditionally.

I cannot repay all that you've done for me.

Free admission is pretty hard to beat.

Yeah, you gave me life and food to eat,

and money to buy useless things.

So in return I wrote you this song,

just to let you know that you are the bomb.

Yes you are the bomb,

and I love you mom.

I don't think that life really gets any better than resting in the contentment that comes from being with loved ones.

Not Our Finest Moment

2008-12-30T21:02:00.000-08:00

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...

2008-12-22T14:44:00.000-08:00

… 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.

2008-12-17T10:37:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-11T20:18:00.000-08:00

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!

Breaking News...

2008-11-23T21:06:00.000-08:00

Some were wondering if it would ever happen...

Some of us knew it was inevitable...

JESSE HAS A GIRLFRIEND! Her name is Sarah. She goes to U-Prep. She's a junior. I won't tell you how her dad and I know each other. Let's just say there's a genuine connection. :-)

The Common Theme

2008-11-23T15:25:00.000-08:00

Overheard at my house recently:

ME: Katie, did you sleep in that (new birthday) dress?

KB: No Mom, it was the first thing I found on my floor.

* * * *

ME: Son, why are you scratching around behind the couch?

JB: It's the last place I saw my Need 2 Speed card!

Reddinge Woman Does NOT Blog: Lives to Tell Story

2008-11-23T11:22:00.000-08:00

Okay, okay... So, I've obviously been on hiatus from the blog, but not by design. I have appreciated the phone calls (Chellie, Aunt Mari, Steve) checking to ensure my health and well-being. And I have appreciated the emails (too many to mention by name) with tidbits and queries as to when I was going to post again.

More or less, I have just been so busy living and enjoying things, I haven't had time to write.

It started with the election. While some of the local, regional, and state skirmishes did not turn out as I had hoped, I was beyond elated to see Barack Obama win the election. At the risk of sounding like his wife Michelle, let me say: I am proud of my country. We have not only elected a great and visionary leader, whe have elected a man who is going to encourage, and even expect, us all to live up to our individual and collective responsibilities in this democracy.

I believe we are now on the verge of seeing our nation positively transformed. If you have not checked out the Obama transition website, be sure you do. I have been receiving emails with Obama's weekly 'radio' address. This is an amazing and unprecedented time to be a part of our democracy. I hope you all will find a way to be a part.

Yesterday, I spoke with our travel agent to make some minor changes to our trip to Washington for the inauguration. I am beyond words at the prospect of being in our nation's capitol on such an auspicious and historic day.

Post election, I have been busy with the kids-- Jesse, who turned 16 on November 11th, and Katie, who had her party last night in celebration of her 17th birthday on the 26th.

I can't believe I am the mother of children that old. As my kids would say, "WTF??"

A Beautiful Mess

2008-11-02T19:18:00.000-08:00

It's their song. It was the theme of their wedding.

Saturday night, my good friend Sharie married her high school sweetheart, Robert. It only took them a quarter century to finally meet back up and tie the knot. "Yep, I credit Google as our dating service," Sharie joked over supper at The Vintage in downtown Redding, saying that a couple years back, her curiosity got the better of her and she 'googled' Robert on the internet.

The rest is now history.

On Saturday, at a small, intimate affair inside the back room of The Vintage, Robert and Sharie pledged their love to one another, with Doug Patten, Assistant County Clerk presiding over the ceremony, and a few other friends attending: Chuck and Jennifer Layton, Mel Howard, Robin Whitted-Patten, and Jon and myself.

(for those of you mentioned above, know that I am completely sweating the order of the names listed. I blame Sharie for my paranoia!)

While rain fell outside, love reigned inside. It was delightful to be at one with the couple, the ceremony, and the celebration.

Props to Janice, of The Vintage, for making the event special, and memorable, with trademark Vintage entrees, and an amazing selection of wines.

The restaurant is definitely one of the few places in town that gets it right when it comes to creating a pleasing mix of food, fixtures, and ambiance.

Best wishes to the happy couple!

GOOOOOOOOOOBama!

2008-10-25T10:42:00.000-07:00

Sleigh Bells Ring... Are You Listenin'?

2008-10-22T20:37:00.000-07:00

I've heard the first whispers of the holiday season approaching-- small, discrete retail displays, or the odd reference to holiday plans around the water cooler. In my mind, I've been able to put off dealing with the looming logistics of Christmas, at least until today.

On my way home up I-5, I saw some town's Christmas tree trucking southbound. Today, I submitted a story for a local publication about Christmas activities in downtown Redding.

Kinda hard to remain in denial about the impending season when people are talking about tens of thousands of Christmas lights and the number of entries in the Christmas parade.

Today's Point of Light...

2008-10-15T19:58:00.000-07:00

It has been a wearying week.

I've apparently produced much confirmation for certain teenagers, that I am in fact their village's idiot. It seems that in my effort to hold firm to my maternal ground, I have worn myself into a rut. Oy. Is it fair to abandon my secret count of days until the darlings are unleashed on the world, in all their complete wisdom and glory, in favor of counting the days until I get to completely spoil the dickens out of THEIR children???? At least pondering the idea helps me keep my sense of humor on that count.

It's also been a rocky week at work. See for yourselves here, where a city council member has 'suggested' that our city manager position be eliminated. Nevermind that the current city manager has taken this city from a near-deficit budget to one with a healthy reserve. Also keeping people scurrying has been the little "oops" over at the vineyards where a cart before the horse vision brought about houses before the water. This was all set into motion before I arrived at city hall, but it's sure got people hoppin' now.

My retirement fund is somewhere down here with me in this newfound rut. Guess the upside to that is that it's a good thing that I'm at least 20+ years from retiring. Yeah.

My brother was in and out of the hospital again yesterday. It is excruciating to watch him struggle with the severity of his injuries. He wants so badly to be well. So much so, that he tried eating on Saturday. Solid food. Like cheeseburger solid. He's back on liquids now.

I am haunted by the fact that there is someone on the loose who would do such harm to another human being, especially one I love so much. It makes me think about the many violent and grizzly things that have happened this year-- the beating and death of Travis Lee Smith, the suicide of Victoria Sherman-- Shasta County inmate, the several teenagers who have been severely beaten without provocation at Lake Redding/Caldwell park, the double-murder-suicide of Kenneth Allred, Patricia Haggard and Nancy Bosley, all to name a few.

These incidences are NOT OKAY. Not by a longshot. We need to change some things in our community, maybe even change things about ourselves.

The quiet, bright, beautiful thing I've seen occurring over the past two weeks is this small steady stream of people wandering into city hall inquiring about voter registration. People are excited about the opportunity before us this election season. Change is in the air, and people are ready to do something about it. We may not all be able to do big things to make this a better place, but few would argue that we can all do some small thing to bring on the light.

Monday, October 20th is the last day to register to vote in California's general election on November 4th. Voter registration cards can be found at most post offices, the DMV, and the County Clerk/Registrar of Voters, located in the south end of the Downtown Mall in Redding.

It's one small thing. And it's one big deal. It's your voice. It's your choice.

Ahoy Peggy!

2008-10-13T22:07:00.000-07:00

This weekend the husband and children traveled to Modesto to visit my mother-in-law, Peggy, and see her perform in a Sweet Adelines performance.

Jon, Katy and Jesse were treated to an evening of great entertainment, food, auction, and even dancing lessons.

Peggy is a role model for all of us. She is 86 years old. She's been retired from the world of work for some 25 years, but by no means has she slowed down. She sings with the Adelines, she works out at the YMCA 2-3 times a week, she attends classes at Modesto Institute for Continued Learning, she edits a newsletter, she is active in her church, and she can be seen donning the infamous red hat for outings with friends.

She writes. Tales of friends, family, personal insights, and some of the great many other things that 86 years of living confers.

She bakes. I'm less than half her age, and I can't remember the last time I pulled a baking sheet out of the cupboard. Almost every time I go to Modesto, Peggy's cookie jar is full of these really awesome oatmeal-rice crispie cookies. And there's always a few extra for the trip home.

She travels. She visits her sister in Pennsylvania, and her brother in Utah, her home state. She takes cruises, and vacations to other continents.

She still does the daily crossword. She took up the ukulele this year, more or less because it seemed like an interesting thing to do.

I am constantly inspired by the things she does for herself and others.

Reports are that she and the Adelines did a bang up job at their concert Saturday.

Brava, Peggy!

Where's My Doggone Mooseburger, Sarah?

2008-10-03T19:33:00.000-07:00

Governor Palin-- May I call you Sarah? You winked at me last night, and youbetcha, you looked at me like you want to be my best friend, so I assume we can be on a first name basis. Anyway, Sarah, I just want to give you your props for the debate last night.

Once again, you did a really great job speaking to the camera. You've definitely got that whole macking with the camera thing down.

You did a stellar job managing the massive amount of information you were shoveled from your handlers. You are a regurgitater extraordinaire. And how giddy you seem by the fact that 84% of those watching you thought you did better than expected. But since the bar was set so low for you, I hope you realize the embarrassment those numbers represent.

The degree of hopelessness in our nation is so prevalent, that we've left the bar on the floor. It's as if we cannot even dare to put forth a kernel of expectation that the woman who has been stationed as a prospective leader-in-waiting could actually generate hope for the future of our nation. We collectively left the bar on the floor for you, Sarah. All you had to do was step over it, and yet, it feels like you barely did that.

I was STILL holding out some little tiny inkling of a hope that you would say something that would show that you DO know how to handle yourself in the national arena. I'm going to stop holding my breath on that count.

I've begun to realize that the best way to view your attempts to win my affection is to do so as if you are Sarah Palin-doing-Tina-Fey-doing-Sarah-Palin. It's just less painful to think of you as the parody's parody. Otherwise, I am forced to believe that you really want to win me over using your mean-spirited, sarcastic, and condescending tactics. While I may not be this century's Einstein, neither am I the village idiot. You've now asked me twice to place my faith in the leadership of a McCain-Palin ticket, and yet, you have done absolutely nothing to prove yourself worthy of my vote.

You seem energized since the debate. A little more sure of your steps, and I wonder why. You did a great job of reciting the party line, no doubt. But you were debating someone who has also read the play book, and gosh darn it, has even been on the field, and plays as if he knows that the stakes are serious. Joe Biden was so extremely gracious to you, Sarah. And I don't even think you realize it. He could have cleaned his cleats with you, but he showed you grace and mercy instead.

The greatest thing you could do for your country right now Sarah, would be to admit to yourself and our nation that you're not ready for the race which has been set before you.

Be gracious to our nation, Sarah Palin.

Biden Time...

2008-09-29T23:21:00.000-07:00

Thursday night is the debate between Senator Biden and Governor Palin. We are opening up our home for fun, friends, information, and the chance to watch this historic (and perhaps comic) event.

Supporters of either candidate are welcome, as the differing perspectives will make for a fun night. Just be warned, this is very much an Obama-Rama zone!

The fun will start around 5:30 p.m. and last until the debate is over, and we're done chatting about what we saw. Feel free to come early or late...

Call 921-0379 for directions... or just show up if you already know where we live!

Cool Breeze

2008-09-28T20:02:00.000-07:00

We are now a scootering family. Jon and I bought a scooter a while back, and now, it is nearly ready to ride after some overhauling and adjustments. Jesse bought a scooter as well. Initially purchased as a means of beating the beating we've been taking at the pumps, I now wonder why I didn't get into this a whole lot sooner.

Motoring in the cool breeze is exhiliarating. Liberating.

One of the more interesting aspects of my new pursuit has been the smells. Last week, I was scootering over to the Enterprise area in the early evening after work, and I was overwhelmed by the potpourri of smells. The pungent odor of cabbage simmering in a Southeast Asian neighborhood, the smell of a slow cooking barbeque, the aroma of meat loaf and mashed potatoes, all had my mouth watering.

Even at 25 miles per hour, the sounds of the neighborhoods were enticing-- people gossiping on front porches, children hopscotching on the sidewalk, someone playing piano in a small duplex. It was a very different journey than the usual hermetically sealed experience I have as I motor to and from work in my car.

The feel of the wind as I speed along is so refreshing. One night last week, I rode with friends through the Churn Creek Bottom and down to Anderson River Park. The occasional pocket of cool air was as refreshing as jumping in a creek.

It's like mediation, but on two wheels, and with an amazing view!

Tasty Surprise at Taj Mahal

2008-09-27T08:30:00.000-07:00

All week, I had been curious about the fact that there was an opening act for Taj Mahal at the Cascade Theatre last night. I couldn't picture in my mind an act that could be an honest-to-goodness 'warm up' to the venerable master, Taj Mahal. What a treat to find Naomi and the Courteous Rude Boys providing a slice-of-funk-with-a-squirt-of-jazz-in-your-rhythm-and-blues. This Santa Cruz-based quintet was a refreshing appetizer before the consummate main course. Have a taste here.

Hope for the Masses

2008-09-16T10:40:00.000-07:00

Courtesy of my husband, here's a great piece at Salon.com by Anne Lamott to encourage and enspire us to reach the goal of change in the next seven weeks. Even if you can't focus long enough to read the whole encouraging article, at least click on the Sarah Palin Baby Name Generator.

Yours Truly,

Pie Gallon

Where is That Yellow Belly?

2008-09-12T23:27:00.000-07:00

Cowardice comes in a lot of forms. I think we all are guilty of taking the easy way out sometimes. Avoiding someone we know to be unpleasant in the market. Rolling over at the umpteenth teenaged request instead of putting down the proverbial foot.

And then, sometimes, there are the more grandiose versions, like the coward that beat my brother nearly to death two weeks ago. Wherever you are pal, there are some things I’d like you to know:

Kris is going to make it. We weren’t so sure there for a while.

Even after the truly life and death scares, our family is still left on a precipice of uncertainty. Like yesterday. I went to visit Kris, and he’d been moved to another room. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what I thought when I went to his old room only to find the bed made up for a new customer, and the room completely vacant of all vestiges of my brother. And then, how deprived of complete relief I was when I finally found his new room and was unable to embrace him like I wanted because he is in so much pain.

I’m sure you’d like to know that Kris only has a few tubes remaining. One of them is a feeding tube. You beat him so badly that he is still unable to keep solid food down. There is something inherently wrong with watching an innately thin, 130-pound man be fed a smelly, ecru-stained fluid through a tube that goes straight into his small intestine. There is an uncharitable part of me that would like to see you hooked up like that, unable to shovel food automatonically into your pie hole.

I’m sure you’d like to know that it takes a nurse, family member, or physical therapist to help Kris into the bathroom. How old are you? Do you know what it’s like to watch my 32 year-old brother struggle as much with his dignity as he does with his body to go take care of those basic needs?

Because you have yet to show your face, there is a part of me that is so repulsed by your cowardice. I have racked and racked my brains to think of some just way to gain closure from what you did to Kris. Unfortunately, the only thing that comes to mind is dealing you the same blows. Part of me feels a sense of justice at the thought of you convulsing in a bloody heap on a sidewalk, virtually unresponsive, writhing in pain, mistaken for drunk for twelve hours while you bleed internally, losing consciousness, ounce by ounce, feeling your life literally drain from your veins.

Let me tell you what keeps me from shouting at the steps of town hall until that justice—or something like it—is exacted.

My step-mother. She can barely look at Kris without breaking down in sobs. She has been in a fog since this happened. She is so grateful he is still alive, and so pained to see him so physically wrecked by your wicked hand. I’m sure you have or had a mother. I would not like to see another mother endure what mine has in this situation.

My sister. She can’t even bring herself to go see Kris. She just cries when we try to tell her that he’s going to be okay. Maybe you have a sibling, too.

My brother. He is stunned by what has happened to him. He only wonders what he could have possibly done to provoke this behavior. He has no memory of the beating, or the several hours leading up to it.

You have shown your machismo. We all get it. You are a big strong bully who can hurt people.

I’m just curious: can you be man enough to stand up and take responsibility for what you’ve done?

Proof

2008-09-07T15:23:00.000-07:00

That sometimes great things come into our lives... whether we deserve them or not...Here are rough cuts of senior portraits of my eldest fruit.

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And a picture of my nutty nut...

Ponder this...

2008-09-05T12:28:00.000-07:00

Courtesy of family friend, former R-S reporter, and former State Assembly candidate Rob Haswell:

Jesus was an organizer. Pontius Pilate was a governor.

I'm a Cart Watcher

2008-09-05T09:49:00.000-07:00

So, while waiting to get out of the Super Center in Anderson, I took up residence in what I mistook for the speedy express. Mindful that I was wearing a shirt with my workplace logo, I did my best to not seem completely impatient. I glanced at the magazines. I computed calories for decadent snacks. I calculated how many days until Obama is President of the United States of America (138).

That being done, I began observing other people’s carts. The gentleman in front of me was wearing a fluorescent yellow road worker-type shirt, well-worn Levi’s, and work boots. He looked about 60, but I suspect he was more like a rode-hard-put-away-wet 50. In his cart: a bouquet of flowers, a jar candle, a case of Busch beer, four sticks of hot beef jerky, a jar of nacho cheese, nose hair clippers, and cheap cologne.

Points for the flowers. It’s a toss up as to whether he’ll score.

Share a Mooseburger with Me, Sarah Palin...

2008-09-04T10:31:00.000-07:00

… because I’d like to sit down and have a chat with you.

I listened to your speech last night. I was impressed by your speaking skills. Your tone and delivery were what every SPEECH 60 teacher would want from a student-- clearly enunciated words, appropriate pauses, eye contact with multiple facets of the audience. Bravo!

I waited intently to hear something from you that would confirm you as a politically savvy and eloquent speaker who would share ideas and engender hope; something that would, for once in this generation, provide for the people of the United States a choice between the greater of two exceptional candidates, instead of the lesser of two evils. I am still waiting.

As much as I fully support Barack Obama, there was a part of me, Sarah, who wanted to hear you say something-- anything, really-- that would move both sides of this campaign to a place of great ideas and hope for the future. Even though I have every expectation that my candidate will be the next leader of the free world, I expect that it’s going to be a close race. I had hoped that you, as a clearly articulate and intelligent woman, would help raise the bar of expectation for our nation. I had hoped to hear from you the kind of speech that would promote unity for a severely divided nation, regardless of the outcome of this election. What I heard instead was a lot of grade school name calling and sarcasm.

I thought your comment about how a “small-town mayor is sort of like a ‘community organizer,’ except that you have actual responsibilities,” was thoughtless and petty. I just bet that the people in Chicago’s south side who benefitted from Barack Obama’s ability and experience as a community organizer will tell you that he had a great number of responsibilities, and as we well know, his ability to manage those responsibilities led to vast improvement in that community.

Your community organizer comment also smacks of an elitism that is counter productive to what this nation needs in a time of war, a failing economy, and social denigration. One does not need to be in an elected office to assume the responsibilities of effecting change in our communities, and for our nation. We need a team of people in those two highest offices who are ready and willing to inspire and encourage the kind of individual and mutual responsibility that will make leaders out of all of us; whether it’s in elected office, in our homes, or as an agent for change in our communities.

While both deserve honor and respect, let’s try to keep in mind that enduring torture as a prisoner of war, and wearing the cap of a small town mayor are not the only activities that hone leadership abilities in an individual, and are not the sole justifications for high office.

I hope that you might bear these things in mind over the next two months leading up to the election. Win, or lose, you have a lot to offer this campaign, and I’d sure like to see you rise to the occasion. I exhort you, Sarah, to be the woman, who on the day after the election, is ready to be gracious to this nation, whether you are moving to the nation’s capitol, or, most likely, returning home to Alaska. Let this brief time in which you are making history be an enduring legacy of which we all-- male, female, rural, urban, elected official, or community organizer-- can be proud.

What is Just?

2008-08-31T21:36:00.000-07:00

Today, I am reminded of this post from Kelly Brewer's blog. I wish I knew how to so craftily use profanity to convey what I'm thinking... http://pinkhollyhock.blogspot.com/search?q=peacenik

Similar to the encounter Kelly's son had, last Friday night, my little brother was beaten nearly to death by some unknown person or persons. Tonight, he is in the hospital, recovering from extensive surgery to stop internal bleeding and manage damage to his pancreas. Later this week, he will be having another round of surgery to put everything back in place.

This person is out there somewhere. Still walking upright, without a dozen tubes and wires sticking out of his body. Without a pain management pump.

I don't even know what I feel would be just in this situation. But watching my brother laboring to breathe, and shirking in pain at the slightest movement is not it.

I do not understand what could have possibly have necessitated beating an unarmed and decent fellow so horribly. Violence of this magnitude is NOT OKAY.

It is NOT OKAY.

From the Alaskan Wilderness...

2008-08-31T21:08:00.000-07:00

Just a few interesting thoughts about McCain's pick for VEEP.

http://www.politico.com/news/stories/0808/12997.html

I was able to catch Obama's speech at the Evergreen Lodge, along with about 50 other Obamacans, and one very drunken dissenter. I have been more encouraged about the possibilities for a better America than I have been-- maybe ever. His speech was inspiring, and full of particulars. He has nuts and bolts, folks! Check them out here.... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kv8eiDvrHJ4

They're Not There for Just a Paycheck

2008-08-31T14:56:00.000-07:00

I grimmaced this morning when I read the annual "Labor Day" stories about how much local government employees earn. Particularly offensive is the way those quoted in the stories are labeled by their name and salary, such as, "...Shasta County Support Services Director Michelle Schafer, paid $102,970 a year."

It seems to me that such labels are the antithesis of what brings someone to public service. Attorneys, doctors, and administrators can all make more money outside of government agencies.

It occurs to me that for most County employees, the monetary value placed on their jobs is the least of their achievements. Why is it that Michele Schafer was not quoted in the paper as, "Michele Schafer, Support Services Director who manages over two dozen employees, provides recruitment and hiring services for a workforce of 2,000; manages the interface between hiring and payroll services; provides oversight of compensation and classification activities; manages risk management activities through self-administered, self-insured risk management programs; provides oversight for County purchasing activities; manages a fleet program of several hundred vehicles; manages labor activities with nine separate bargaining units; and a host of other activities for which she will never seek or receive credit." Why is that?

Local government employees are by and large professionals who are dedicated to public service. The fact that they are willing to take on large responsibilities for understaffed, underfunded programs and still manage to provide services to the community is laudable, and deserves more than just an article in the local paper sniping about salaries.

I'm Just a Strawberry Girl

2008-08-27T08:43:00.000-07:00

At least this week, I am. Once I finish tying up all the loose ends at the office, I will race back to Redding, load up the car, pick up the boys, and we will be on the road, headed to five days of bluegrass and roots bliss in the Yosemite mountains. Camping under a pine canopy, listening to great music, and seeing friends will all be on the agenda. Answering my cell phone, text messages, email, etc., will not.

My only exception to this technology ban will be to sneak over to Evergreen Lodge on Thursday to go listen to Barack Obama's acceptance speech. Don't forget to tune in yourselves. It's history in the making. Thursday is yet another standing stone in the journey toward positive and profound change in our democracy. Really. I know it sounds hyperbolic, but Barack Obama is a leader like none other this country has known.

My OBAMA shirt arrived on Monday. I may wear it all weekend, just because I will be in a place where that kind of moderate behavior is acceptable.

I'll have pictures when I return. Hope you all have a happy and safe weekend!

2008-08-24T18:09:00.000-07:00

Last Monday was the last first day of school in the K-12 realm for Katie Girl. At the risk of sounding mushy and sappy, it really and truly does not seem like twelve years have passed since my first-born went trotting off to kindergarten. I remember the day so vividly. She was wearing a denim jumper, and I can remember the way her little bobbed hair-do shone in the early morning sun. I didn’t let her take the bus. I drove her all the way to school.

Katie has always been an independent sort. I knew it even back then. It didn’t surprise me at all when she quickly trotted off to her class without even looking back.

A lot has changed in the past twelve years. My Katie now spells her name Katy. Just because she likes it that way. She’s been to Disneyland, Washington, DC, France and Italy, all without me. She has a job, a career plan and goals. She has a nice boyfriend, and her very own laptop computer that she bought with only money she earned this summer. She is almost 17 and she is almost driving.

And today, I drove her all the way to school. She was wearing denim jeans, a black hooded top, earrings and make-up. It didn’t surprise me when she waved good-bye and then quickly trotted off to class without even looking back.

Apparently, looking back is the Mom’s job.

It's more than just a stop light...

2008-08-14T15:31:00.000-07:00

Today is the big unveiling at Buenaventura Boulevard and Canyon Road. The road signs have been up for days, alerting drivers of the coming attraction. I have known for months that this was coming, and mostly, I’ve been filled with chagrin and regret. Is it too much to ask for one stretch of road in town without a stoplight?

I’m a country girl, going way back. Not the Stetson hat and boots kind, but the rural, not many people, not much traffic, lots of good neighbors and great nature kind. I learned to drive on a wide dirt road when I was ten years old. At fourteen, my parents let me drive the back roads all over the place. Everyone’s parents did.

When I finally hit the road as a licensed driver, I could drive almost 40 miles without hitting so much as a stop sign. Traffic “problems” usually involved wildlife, snow, the occasional lost tourist, or the town fire truck that was so old its top emergency speed was about 45 miles per hour.

So, when I heard that the two or so miles on Buenaventura between Placer Road and Railroad Avenue were going to be fettered by yet another traffic light, I cringed. The older I get, the more I think I’m really done with town life.

My girlfriend Kris, ever the optimist, pointed out that one more stoplight was just one more opportunity to multi-task in a distracted driver kind of way. “You can put on another coat of eyeliner on before you hit the highway!”

As if I would ever do something like that.

And then, I read Kelly Brewer’s blog a while back about how excited she is to see the lights go up. One woman’s speedway is another woman’s frogger experience, I suppose. I rarely traverse Canyon Road, so her daily endeavor to deftly defy collision or injury at Canyon and Buenaventura was off my beaten path, as it were.

It occurred to me that it's this kind of broadening of perspective that makes blogs and blogging so appealing to me. It’s an opportunity to learn things I may not have known, or to smell a different scent in the same old grind.

So, be on the lookout for the new stoplight if you’re at Canyon Buenaventura. If you’re lucky, you might even get to see me waiting *patiently* for the light to change, or Kelly smiling as she makes a safe turn onto the boulevard.

It's more than a new day... It's a whole new era.

2008-08-12T13:43:00.000-07:00

I was just checking news off my Yahoo home page. As I was reading through a story about the line up of speakers for the Democratic National Convention in Denver week after next, it occurred to me that I haven’t really heard much about the Republican convention, scheduled for the following week.

To see what I could find, I searched the term “Republican National Convention”. Ironically, the results were by and large all articles about the Democratic National Convention with minor quotes as to what some minor Republican or another thought of the DNC activities.

Thinking that perhaps there was some left-leaning bias on the part of the Yahoo search engine, I switched engines. Twice. I tried Mozilla/Firefox, and all I got was quick little news blurbs about the official IT provider for the Republican National Convention, the withdrawal of Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae as sponsors of the Republican event. On Google, the most “newsworthy” article on the topic was a blurb declaring that Vice President Dick Cheney will be speaking one night at the Republican convention.

Regardless of where one’s politics lie, it’s hard not to admit that the Democrats are demonstrating a level of leadership that this country hasn’t seen in recent history. I agree with very little of what House Speaker Nancy Pelosi has to say in the way of politics and social policy, but I am very impressed by the level of leadership she has exhibited in uniting her party in Congress. Speaker Pelosi is speaking on the first night of the Convention, along with Michelle Obama.

Since I can’t find any information online about the RNC line-up, I’ve been racking my brain to think of who the Republicans have in their arsenal who is going to be able to inspire and energize their choir, let alone a politically disenfranchised nation, the way Barack Obama and his supporters are inevitably going to. I can’t think of much of anyone, really.

Help Kids Carry the Load...

2008-08-12T10:54:00.000-07:00

Below is a message I received from Maegan Lotkeff at Shasta Women’s Refuge…

Hi Everyone! Sorry to bother all of you but we are in desperate need of new or verygently used kids backpacks! For the first time since I have been with the Women's Refuge we have completely depleted our store
of backpacks. Backpacksare a huge thing for the kids coming into our emergency shelter. Often backpacks are left behind when a family leaves a dangerous place or a childnever had one to begin with. They provide each child something that is completely their own and helps them keep together their personal belongings and school supplies during this tough time of transition. In addition, we also give
out backpacks with blankets, toys and snacks to children who are being forced to travel out of the area for their families safety. If you can help us out it would be great! Just deliver backpacks to our main office between 8:30 and 4:30 Monday - Friday or call us and we will come pick themup. (530) 244-0117.
Additionally, I am taking Katie and Jesse school shopping on Friday, and plan to pick up extra backpacks and school supplies to drop off at Women’s Refuge. If you are interested in helping with this little project, let me know. I would be happy to buy extra supplies and backpacks if you’re interested in pitching in. Feel free to call me at 921-0379.

No really, thank YOU, Kenny...

2008-08-09T13:16:00.000-07:00

So, now the cute little diddy I wrote about Kenny Loggins' show has managed to find itself on the Kenny Loggins site... check it out. http://www.kennyloggins.com/

Monikers, Monikers

2008-08-08T00:29:00.000-07:00

Goofball
Smartypants
LoverMother
Scmexy
Mistress of the Frigo

Sometimes name calling is fun, and even flattering.

For those of you responsible for the above labels today... Just know that you made my day!

Only in Never, Never Land

2008-08-07T18:42:00.000-07:00

So, there’s this woman—let’s call her “Wendy”—who works for a local public agency. Her days are filled with the usual public servant kind of activities—finding the delicate balance between meeting public needs and objectively managing limited government resources.

Her days are also filled with the goings on of co-workers around her. One cohort in particular comes to work every day dressed in an amazing array of office inappropriate attire—clunking eight-inch heels, backless halter tops, excessive sparkling make up, juvenile hairstyles which are entirely incongruous to her nearly five-decade tenure on planet earth.

Despite the multiple ‘discussions’ management has had with this employee, still she comes to the office as if she were readying herself for a Broadway debut. Many have even taken to referring to her as Tinkerbell. Today, a gentleman came to the office to conduct business with the agency, and he politely asked the woman, “What are you dressed up for?”

The answer, “Ohhhh… nothing much.”

Once, Wendy even had the misfortune of seeing the woman’s bare breast, so revealing was her attire. And we’re not talking just a little too much cleavage. We’re talking the whole enchilada… When poor Wendy reported the incident to a superior, Wendy wound up getting lectured for the incident. Her rebuttal, “I am unclear on why I’m being admonished for reporting what is clearly uncomfortable to male and female office workers alike,” was met with consternation.

It makes one wonder….

I don't know how this happened...

2008-08-07T15:07:00.000-07:00

But I couldn’t be more pleased that it did. It honestly doesn’t seem that long ago that a doctor at Mercy Hospital cut me open and introduced me to my son Jesse, slightly less than eight pounds of screaming, wriggling flesh. I’ve fed him, bathed him, changed him, played with him, and done everything else a mother must do to raise a young boy.

Now, Jesse is 15 years old, rambunctious, always hungry, and always looking for something to do to entertain himself. This past weekend, he and I traveled with a mother/daughter duo of friends to Monterey for a music festival at Laguna Seca raceway.

It was the first time in a good long while that Jesse and I have found ourselves outside of the constant grind of things to do, behaviors to change, places to be, and distractions to be endured, which constitute our lovely, chaotic life. Against the backdrop of the Monterey Peninsula, the boy and I had time to really connect; unfettered and footloose.

At one point, both of us, burned out by too much sun, too much grit, too much screeching guitar, and too much proselytizing, snuck off to the beach. While combing the streets of Carmel for a parking space, my son opened himself up, like this wonderful, beautiful, unexpected gift.

I learned some interesting things about his views on theology. I experienced his truly deep humor. The kid is funny. I mean really, really funny.

At the beach, I watched with longing as he trounced out into the ocean waves. I longed to be with him, but I was held back by my job as sentry over the family jewels-- camera, money, car keys, etc. I watched in awe as I realized that he has become an impressive swimmer, far from the little boy once frightened by even the sea foam that languishes on the beach.

I took a picture of him when he first got into the water. He is no longer the little Campbell’s Soup baby I once held in my arms, his cherubic cheek next to mine. At almost six feet tall, everything about him has grown outside of my already high expectations of him. His attire, the crocheted cap the colors of the Jamaican flag, the orange aviator glasses, and the “Pornography is for Posers” T-Shirt, all speak to someone who is determined to find their own road, and enjoy it every step of the way.

Later in the evening, we had this strange role reversal. After fifteen years of always being the beacon, the protector, the planner, and the leader, Jesse instead led me through the tangled mass of 5,000 bodies jumping and moshing to the sounds of The News Boys. We danced and screamed until the end of the show. It was more fun than I can remember having in a very long time.

I watched curiously as he patiently and succinctly explained to people what his Pornography is for Posers T-shirt means. I watched as he chatted with strangers about insignificant things. He used to be so shy. Now, there is not one shy bone in his body.

It is truly awesome to find such an amazing creature in my midst.

My Amazing Dad...

2008-08-04T19:27:00.000-07:00

... is going back to school. At 59 years old. And legally blind. I am so proud of him.

Encouraged by my nephew's pre-school class, my dad has found his true calling-- pre-school teacher's aide.

Had anyone told me 15 years ago that my dad would be "Papa Allen" to 20 three to five year-olds, I would have looked at them like they were straight up nuts. But the most incredible thing has happened in the past 15 years.

My dad and I were never too close when I was growing up. Honestly, things were downright frigid between us at times. When he married my mom, my dad also inherited a very smart-alecky six year-old. I was stubborn and wary. He was sort of overwhelmed and unsure how to fix the situation.

When my daughter was born, my dad was transformed. Once a stern disciplinarian, my dad absolutely melted when he first held the tiny creature he christened his "Little Katy Doodle." A year later, when my son was born, it seemed that not a hard spot to his countenance remained. He couldn't get enough of his grandbabies. He and I also realized that we couldn't afford to remain at arm's length from one another.

Five-and-a-half years ago, when my nephew Elijah was born, my dad's evolution was complete. He was fully and officially "Papa Pushover." While my sister worked, Elijah and Papa spent most all their days together. I used to get a chuckle when I would try to make plans with my dad, only to be told something like, "I can't have you come over and visit at 2:00 on Saturday. Elijah will be napping."

When I suggested that we could be quiet enough that we wouldn't wake the baby, my dad said, "Well, the problem is that the baby naps on my chest..."

Last year, when Elijah started pre-school, my dad's job was to get Elijah to school. Because my dad is both color blind and legally blind due to macular degeneration, he no longer drives. The only option was to walk Elijah the half-mile or so to his pre-school class.

Soon enough, the teacher was asking my dad if he would be interested in just staying for the three-hour class once in a while. The occasional visit turned into multiple times a week. The children grew to love him. The class made him Christmas gifts, and presented Papa Allen with a trophy at the pre-school graduation this past June.

My dad has had a life that's been pretty tough at times-- some of it by circumstance, some of it by choice. Because of financial and other family issues, he never finished high school. He was well into his thirties before he got his GED and a degree in the construction trades. His diminishing eye sight soon made plying that trade difficult, and even dangerous.

Outside of football and 70's rock and roll, I've never seen my dad passionate about much. That is, until I called him today to ask him if he would be coming with us to a music festival over the Labor Day weekend.

He asked me to remind him when the dates were, and when I did, he said, "Oh, I can't do that. I'll miss school."

"School?"

"Yeah, school. I am going to school to work on some early childhood classes so that I can be a teacher's aide."

I am so excited for him. I have been living in a season for the past two years where I keep watching with great enthusiasm, and some envy, as people I know are resurrecting themselves, or jumping off corporate carousels, or otherwise finding ways to find vibrance in their lives.

Watching my dad pursue with earnest something he's so passionate about makes me want to take the same kind of flying leap. If he can do it in the September of his life, and nearly blind, it seems that I should be able to do it too...

Flip Over Here and Check This Out...

2008-08-04T15:18:00.001-07:00

My over-personalized review of last night's Kenny Loggins concert at ttp://www.donigreenberg.com/. Be sure to stay a while and peruse the many wonderful things on the site. It's local, it's thoughtful, it's provocative, and it's filled with great writers of heroic proportions.

Aaahhhhh... Love

2008-07-27T08:43:00.000-07:00

So, last night I was at the wedding of Brandy George and Andy Isola. It was a large, lovely affair. The bride was beautiful. The groom, handsome by any standard. Love was definitely in the air...

And then there was our table. I had trouble determining if we had all been seated at the same table-- at the rear of the room-- because we all knew one another, or because the bride and groom were seeking containment. Hmmm... After all the lovely banter and antics, I lean toward the latter.

It was funny the way half the table was trying to take personal credit for the love match between the bride and groom. The priest said, "[my former boss] is the one who told Brandy to go to Carnegie's that night!"

I countered, "I was THERE at Carnegie's and when I left early, before Andy's arrival, I had already been thinking I should arrange for the two of them to meet."

My husband offered up, "Well, I was the one who ACTUALLY introduced them!"

Then there was the tapping of the glasses. Apparently it's some custom for the bride and groom to kiss whenever someone taps a glass with silverware. What made this funny to us-- and most assuredly annoying to the bride-- is that she's a shy, reserved woman. I would sincerely doubt that Brandy and Andy have shown as much PDA in the entire rest of their relationship as they did last night.

At the point where I advised my table mates that maybe we should let them off the hook, a friend of mine, who has been married more than 20 years, said, "Oh, we're not really being assholes, we're just teaching the bride and groom how to be flexible in marriage!"

Hmmm... interesting take.

Some of You Knew This Was Coming...

2008-07-22T08:52:00.000-07:00

It was inevitable. If I’m going to have a blog, certainly I would use it to promote him, right? Yep. So, let’s just get this out in the open-- I support Barack Obama for president. I think he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread. Maybe even since the invention of democracy.

Okay, so that’s a bit hyperbolic, but seriously, this guy is going to be great for the nation.

What brings me to make such pronouncements, you ask? Well, let’s start with a little about my history, politically speaking.

The first “real” campaign I ever worked on was back in 1986. Steve Swendiman ran against Wally Herger for the local congressional seat. I got involved in Swendiman’s campaign because his wife was my high school counselor. I found politics fascinating. After the first day of door knocking, I was hooked. I realized that encouraging others to vote, and inspiring others to find their voice was what democracy was all about.

In the early 1990’s, I began working as a community advocate and organizer, fueled by the environmental issues which were closing down mills all over northern California. It was timber country. I found myself evolving into a Good Young Republican. I was a dragon slayer of various sorts-- wacko environmentalists, inept land management agencies, public apathy. It wasn’t that I really enjoyed working in divided communities, it’s just that there was really no other choice at the time.

That was until I became a part of a community collaborative in Quincy, California, that later became a model for consensus building and community-based solutions. What I learned then was a painful lesson. As I went to all my entrenched Republican friends and proclaimed the power and goodness of working with the “enemy”, I was ridiculed. Thus, I became a Disenfranchised Republican. That was fine by me, though, because what I had learned while working across socio/political/economic boundaries was that the best solutions are those that are crafted by those who will be impacted by the outcomes. It gives a sense of ownership, and a stake in the process.

These are the things that I see in Obama. He’s worked at the community level. He knows what’s at stake. He knows how to achieve the outcomes in a way that gives the broadest possible ownership in the solution and its outcome.

I hear some say that Obama is inexperienced. I argue that the very constitution of his campaign says otherwise. He has the broadest support of “every man” that any presidential contender has ever held. He is going to change the landscape. He doesn’t need “public financing” of his campaign as defined by the federal government. He already owns it as the product of 1.8 million supporters who believe in what he is doing.

I am excited at the prospect of his leadership. What he knows better than any leader in recent time is that America is a great place, and that its potential is only hindered by our ability to believe in ourselves and act upon those beliefs for the common good.

I’ll be writing more about Barack Obama as time goes on. Jon, the kids and I are making preparations to see Obama inaugurated. We will be spending about a week in Washington, DC, taking in the sights and witnessing history first-hand at the swearing in of the greatest leader of my generation.

Gratitude...

2008-07-19T16:50:00.000-07:00

As I was driving back from dropping off Jesse and his friend, Hannah, at Brandy Creek for a Planned Parenthood outing, I was struck by all of the handmade signs along the roadway thanking the firefighters for their efforts. It was encouraging to see the gratitude for the wieldy, enormous task that is wildland fire management.

For the past few weeks, I have driven to work down Highway 273, passing fire trucks and crews switching shifts at the command center set up at the fairgrounds. I have met fire fighters from all over the western US-- Idaho, Montana, Oregon and elsewhere. I have thanked them all, and shared my awe of the sacrifices they make to help an entire region of strangers. They sleep on the ground, away from their families, their homes, the things that make them comfortable in their everyday life. They get dirty, sweaty, burned, and otherwise injured.

They do their jobs like lives depend upon it.

Then I wondered to myself: why it is that we only see this kind of outpouring of compassion and gratitude after the fire bells ring? What if we were this considerate of one another even after the dangerous flames were extinguished? What if, every day, more people made an effort to extend kindness to others, as if their lives depended upon it? Because, maybe it does.

I am the first to admit that I’m not always as courteous or kind as I should be. Heel that I am, I often forget to remind my family how much I appreciate it when they do something right, or kind, or extraordinary. I wonder if life would be better if I hung out a huge banner in the driveway that said, “Katie, good job getting home on time!” or, “Jesse, thanks for doing the dishes without being asked!” or, “Honey, thanks for ditching golf last night!” ?

Curly

2008-07-19T15:41:00.000-07:00

On this particular day, it was his obvious impatience with the pace of the line was what first drew my attention to the old man in front of me at Wal-Mart. His leathered and wrinkled skin put him at about 80 years old, by my humble estimation. I began to smile as I watched him bob and weave back and forth around the small soda case between checkout stands, trying to decide if it was worth the effort to take up residence in the neighboring line. It was amusing to watch him act out the very conversation I was having with myself: the line I was in was four deep, with each would-be consumer carrying at least 20 items in their cart, the other line only had two customers. What kept me planted firmly in place was the fact that the cashier in our line was much faster than the one in the shorter line. It seemed that the old man thought so too.

As he settled in to wait out the customers in front of him, he turned slightly to size me up. His eyes were a blue-tinted gray, like the shallow still water of an ebb in a mountain creek. I smiled at his smartly checkered shirt and wrangler jeans. His pants hung on him. I imagined that he likely had been a size or two larger some twenty years ago, but something told me that he was never going to stop buying his jeans in that too-large size, no matter how slender he was now. So engrained was his attire that I couldn’t even picture him without the well-worn boots on his feet, and the Stetson on his head.

I smiled at him, and he turned away, startled that I’d noticed him looking me over. I had a hard time suppressing a giggle as I looked down at his handcrafted belt, the name “Curly” tooled into its hide. I tried to recall the old joke about cowboys and their names on their belts, but I couldn’t remember the punch line. As my eyes wandered back up to the old man’s head, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. His coarse gray hair was stock straight, nary a curl in sight.

The curiosity and the questions began to mount as I spied the few items in Curly’s cart. A jar of strawberry jam, toothpaste, a room deodorizer, fruit rolls, a block of gouda cheese, crackers, and three vanilla candles in glass jars lay neatly along the bottom of the cart. Curly wore no wedding ring, and had the picture of a six year-old princess in pink taffeta prominently gracing the front of his wallet.

Why is your name Curly?

I thought of speaking the words, but was stopped short by his hard jawline, and the fact that before I could utter them, Curly was swaggering out of the store with his odd assortment of items.

As I finally gathered my purchases and headed out the door, I was twice startled; first to realize that I had exited the store from the door opposite to where I had parked, and second, to see Curly pushing his shopping cart down an aisle of the parking lot, searching ardently over the top of the row of cars, presumably for his own ride.

I strode over to Curly, who looked at me and said nothing as he switched off a ringing cell phone in his pocket. I quipped, “Maybe Wal-Mart should offer GPS in the parking lot.”

A thin smile drew across Curly’s face as he said, “Back in my day, I could just call my ride, and he’d a-come a-trottin’.”

I smiled back at him as I wondered whether he had been roping with Jesus or Moses in his day.

Two rows later, we finally found his 90’s model Ford F-250. “Thank you for your assistance, young lady.”

I smiled as I assured him it was my pleasure, and laughed to myself as it occurred to me how relative age is. Many days I feel old. But heck, up against an 80 year-old, I guess I am still just wet behind the ears.