Overflow

"They've had loss and been broken more than we will ever know, but it's the tenderhearted who let life overflow."   

-Sara Watkins


So I got lost driving home after meeting my husband for our early Monday night dinner date. I knew I was going in the right direction, but a turn here, a turn there. And then where are you? A dash of serendipity. Listening to the stories on NPR as I meandered. Let the good times roll.

And there he was. Tall and slender. Hunched over as if he were hiding in plain sight. A wool beanie pulled down past his eyebrows, sheltered there under the hood of his winter jacket. In the 108 degree of Las Vegas this balmy August day.

Something compelling in his gait as he pulled his overflowing shopping cart along the sidewalk of the expansive modern shopping center I had just accidentally encountered as I tried to sashay my way home. He wasn't asking for anything as he slowly ambled along. I wasn't sure if he could see where he was going, with his face cast so downward. Maybe he was watching his feet. Maybe he was in another world, not paying much attention to this one.

I drove past him and into the next parking lot entrance so I could have a minute to get out of the car and make it to the sidewalk in time to intercept him. After finding cash to pay for pizza a half hour prior, I was aware I had a roll of at least 10 ones in my purse that I figured might now serve a higher purpose. Perhaps I had been directed here? The Universe, God, Whoever you may think... is often curiously full of detours, surprises. There are times when I look to help a homeless person, I end up chasing one down instead of just reaching out to someone on the corner with a God Bless You sign. Not every time, but sometimes.

When I got to the spot where he could hear me, I chilled a little, hesitating. Help is not always welcome, and I remembered being attacked by a little old white haired lady wearing a babushka, pushing a shopping cart a couple years ago on one of my Out to Save the World Missions, so I hesitated. Daunted, I called out, "Sir, I hope you won't be offended, but I just found this and thought perhaps you could use this more than I could tonight." He turned and let me approach. I held out my paltry wad, which he accepted. I noticed he had one dollar in his other hand, a sweatshirt sandwiched between his coat and T-shirt. We began to talk. I wanted to unnotice how filthy his tan winter coat was, but I had to check it out repeatedly just to make sure it was as disgusting as I first thought. It was. I have an unnatural love affair with washing machines, holding them in almost sacred respect--- years ago having spent hours washing dirty cloth diapers in the bathtub with water heated on the kitchen stove. But no one and nothing is invincible, and I knew that no washing machine had the superpower required to deal with this coat. How to wash away the grime and muck of the world from someone's soul if you can't even do a decent job with fabric? I despaired.

What could I do? I asked if I could give him a hug, and we embraced. He told me of his hopes to get a home with other homeless wanderers, but that it was hard because so many were drugged out or otherwise "occupied" and yet he cheerfully shared that he always dwelt on the positive because that just might make something good come about eventually. I told him of states where there was progress to the point of having no more chronically homeless, and that it was not simply charitable, but economically sound. He couldn't believe that. I mentioned Utah pioneering that effort, and he thought Utah was an extremely cold climate, and was pretty incredulous when I told him that just a hundred miles away was St. George, with a climate comparable to that of Las Vegas.

So we talked of things for half an hour. Of this and that. Of Discovery Channel (he advised me to get TV), of his Grandma and what different interpretations age old adages might have. His name was Darius. He really was intelligent. He was gentle. His smile was sweet and his eyes were kind. But they had  familiar look to them that I recognized. I knew not why at the time.

24 hours later, it came to me. In my late teens I had worked those summers in between college in a State Hospital for the "insane." So many there were people I would never forget. Etched into memory was one young woman who was brought there in restraints, her wrists and ankles tied to the bed posts in the middle of the Ward. Of course, whatever remnants of her spirit remained, immediately held hostage to the ubiquitous drugs of such a place.

I was so taken with her irrepressibly cheerful demeanor, surreal and out of place as it was. She would burst into song when anyone approached, "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray...."  Her eyes were bright and clouded at the same time, exactly like those of the man I had just now encountered all these decades later. Her story shattered instantly my idyllic world bubble. She had finally broken after enduring a few years of her husband selling voyeuristic privileges to dudes who watched as he forced her and her baby daughters to perform sex acts with random strangers. So beyond my feeble imagination. My idea of Hell at the time was of burning fires to be delivered at a date yet to be announced. Never dreaming such a blazing scenario might actually be preferable to Hell-in-the-Raw-in-the-Here-and-Now.

And so I wondered what searing or smouldering Hell had led this mild man to fill a shopping cart with plastic bags and spend his days cloaked against the cold in the midst of the relentless heat. And my soul ached for his, for my songbird of long ago, and for all of us who are lost. So, so lost. But soon my tears too will be swallowed by the desert heat. And what will become of Darius?

                                                      * http://www.notesontheway.com/

Full Circle

I never met her. And yet here I was carrying a container with her ashes to their final resting place. So bittersweet. But go ahead and accentuate that sweet part... she was finally coming home with the love of her life to the place where they’d spent some of their happiest moments- Coney Island, where they courted in the 1940’s as high school sweethearts. Rae had died fourteen years previously, two months to the day after 9/11, long before we’d had a chance to meet. Her husband of almost 50 years, Ray, had wanted to bring her back to the beach they’d played on so long ago, but had worried that with the increased security measures in the wake of the September tragedy, his mission would be highly suspect, and could easily go awry. So her remains remained. In the living room of his small mobile home. And then sadly, 6 months before he would have turned ninety three, he too was translated to ash, and we began to make plans to fulfill his dream of returning them both to the place where their young love had kindled.

Making the arrangements to transport the containers from the mortuary was just one of those details, one of those red tape matters society increasingly imposes. Timing is everything and the regulations on our airline had just tightened that Fall, dovetailing with our reservations. But Paul crossed all the t’s and dotted all the i’s and we figured it was virtually handled. Still, the State had yet to return the final official forms to the mortuary the day before we were scheduled to leave. That night Paul was philosophical, “We’ll just have to get out to New York another time down the road.” How would we be able to afford that? I was crushed. I had such a romantic vision of this whole operation and strongly felt that the time was now, they’d waited long enough and were so ready for this final journey.

The next morning Paul called from his office with great news. Before he could share it, I had some preemptive news of my own... I had just discovered when I tried to check in online that actually our flight had already left at one minute before midnight the night before. Guess who got confused on the dates? Just like that, I'd punctured his balloon toute de suite. Dark clouds thundered deep inside me. It seemed ironic that he had just gone over and picked up the last minute paperwork from the mortuary so we could take our exceptional cargo on a plane that had already left! I was a basket case.

And in that condition I left to get to a Dr.’s appointment. I was so rattled I drove to a couple other Dr. offices in town first and was unforgivably late. It was a surprise to me that they still could fit me into their busy schedule. By the time I was in the examining room I warned the nurse that because of my situation my blood pressure would be off the charts, yet she was extremely reassuring and emphatically stressed that everything happens for a reason. I did calm down some. Some. The Dr. came in and gave me medical clearance for the surgical procedure I was scheduled to have in New York. Which was great, except how was I supposed to get to New York at this point? It would be prohibitively expensive to try and buy new tickets for the same day, and planes are usually full anyway, particularly this close to Christmas.  

NYU Langone Hospital had called the day before to switch the schedule from Saturday to Monday, so a couple days’ grace, but still. It was Thursday, and it would be a cross country 5 day drive, a bridge too far. When it rains…. Sometimes there are rainbows, in fact had we been on the right flight I would have been in NYC already and missed my Vegas Doc appointment that I needed to clear me for the surgery in New York. There just hadn't been an earlier appointment available when I made it, so I took it in the hopes of the Universe conspiring to be on the list in case of a fortuitous cancellation. But the Universe tends to get out of whack when conspiring, so no cancellation and instead this flair for the dramatic.

Things happen for a reason, I tried to repeat that silently as a mantra while I was dialing Jet Blue customer service. Let it go. Let the chips fall. I felt I had nothing more to lose, so I was calm as I explained a bit of the situation to the agent. She listened. She really listened. And she cared enough to work some magic with the help of her supervisor. I was on hold for several minutes while she was waving her sparkly wand around, and when she came back on the line, she told me that we were booked to leave that night at one minute before midnight... same exact flight, 24 hours later. And I was only charged the change fee! Bonus upgrade thrown in, how generous, Jet Blue! How were there even two seats together for us at the last minute? On a full flight? Do things really happen for a reason?

Well the plot thickened once again. Midnight came and went. 1 o'clock, 2 o'clock, 3 o'clock, all came and went. No explanation in the semi-deserted airport. Finally, as we were at long last able to board, we got an explanation. There'd been a brawl that broke out in the less than friendly skies that night among some good ole Irish hockey fans enroute to Vegas for a match. The plane was turned back around midair to JFK so the authorities could referee that situation in a more up close and personal manner. Meaning that we didn't leave the McCarran Airport till closer to 4 am, and our poor flight crew was even groggier than we were, having supersized their shift of duty. At long last though, we took off into the starry starry night. Or what little there remained of it. Isn't life pretty much an obstacle course?

So we got to New York. Eventually. And got on the Subway from Manhattan to Coney Island that Saturday. Soon we would realize our vision of returning Rae and Ray to the deserted desolate beach that had once been Coney Island, an attraction for throngs. Those were the days, long gone now, and with Hurricane Sandy slamming through here only a couple years ago, we envisioned not much left, not even debris. A place of raw, poetic solitude. It would be cold and forlorn and we would be figures enveloped in a mist of fog, fulfilling a sacred mission. I clutched Rae’s container close to me, haunted not by a ghost, but by the thought that with my track record, I conceivably could mess up something so eternally important by inadvertently leaving her on the subway. I held on tight the entire way. So tight.

Other unbidden ghosts flooded my reality then. I remembered how per my own mother’s dying request, I’d asked to scatter her ashes on my father’s grave rather than in her own plot, thinking it a simple matter. But it enraged the cemetery manager who made all sorts of threats, having cameras installed in the trees, etc. Seriously. I’d had to do so surreptitiously. So I had some baggage, a tad of apprehension, for who knew what was legal/illegal in such matters in another state? Better not to know at this point. After all. doesn’t that axiom about it being easier to beg forgiveness than to ask permission hold sway at certain pivotal times? It's possible a smattering of trepidation can be useful. What better basis for a little needed discretion?

And so an hour later we disembarked and started for the Boardwalk, or more likely, where the Boardwalk used to be. Soon we saw old shops on the main street, a couple of blocks from the beach. They were all closed for the season, and looked like they had materialized from an old Kodak photograph. And behind them, behind tall fences, the roller coasters and ferris wheels and tilt a whirls and rides from another era. Spectacular! What ambiance! Who would have expected such a bonanza? Wouldn’t our charges feel right at home now?   

 

Then soon enough there we were, on the Boardwalk. It was still there! Incongruously, so were the people! OK, some people, maybe not the exact same ones of yesteryear, perhaps their kids or grandkids even. Great grandkids? It wasn't wall to wall humans like in the old postcards. Still, there were hundreds milling around in the aberrational December warmth. We weren't expecting extras in this personal documentary/drama. So guess they didn't get the memo, and our vision of the lonely poignant send off was obviously going to have some major revisions. We needed some time to edit that script, and so Paul, The Director, ever hungry, was more than happy when he noticed that the little diner on the corner was open. Turns out that Tom's Coney Island first opened circa 1934, making it the quintessential hangout for that era's teenagers. Maybe we were even sitting in the same booth Rae and Ray once had! Anything seemed possible. And overshadowed with meaning. Or were we just more open to it?

What needed to open up next though was a new vision... where and how exactly to inconspicuously, yet with suitable dignity, return them here, what with all the activity around. I found a bench to warm with Rae & Ray while Paul went to scout for the perfect spot. He came back feeling inclined to head down the beach toward the pier. As our feet first met the sand, there was rhythmic drumming coming from the pier, which seemed strange. Then as we turned to the ocean, ready to scatter the ashes, Paul remarked, “You know, neither of them were very good swimmers at all.” What? So how would that be in their comfort zone?  

“So let's bury them in the sand then, “ I volunteered. “How?” he queried. And right that second he saw a small crater in the sand ahead, much closer to the Boardwalk than the water. Obviously someone had conveniently hollowed out this little pit for this very purpose. We went and sat down. t wasn’t very deep, maybe 8 inches deep and a couple feet wide, but it was a start. I improvised and took Rae’s ashes from the container, which were secure in a heavy plastic bag, and I used the empty container to dig deeper and deeper. The cool, damp sand was cathartic; it helped me ignore all the passersby who were hopefully ignoring us, and the cadenced drumming in the distance seemed ceremonial, appropriate. We were being clandestine in intent, but paradoxically more hidden in plain sight.

It was soothing to just keep digging and digging. But the sky was darkening, and Paul thought it was more than deep enough, and so even though it wasn’t even a full two feet deep and maybe two feet long, there was ample room for them both. So the time had come. Still, it seemed like a certain je ne sais quoi would be in order as we placed the ashes into the sand. They weren’t religious at all, so I couldn’t very well offer a prayer. I don't do short prayers anyway, and Paul is a man of few words. I couldn’t sing, and he wouldn’t, so I was stymied. I was grasping for something. Ceremony? Ritual? In a flash it came to me. “Time out!  You’re Dad was a veteran, Paul, a Purple Heart Veteran, for heaven’s sake! Do you realize we can have your Dad along with your Mom interred for free in a beautiful Military Cemetery, with a 21 gun salute and all? It’s a tremendous honor, so moving. You even get to keep the flag they use as a permanent memorial." I felt like I was pleading. "We’ve not even considered this, and maybe we should. Are you sure you want to trade all that for this casual-in-the-extreme, less solemn rite? Is this maybe a huge mistake?"

Just then we saw the seagull walking deliberately towards us across the sand. No mistake. We locked eyes with him and he trumpeted a few notes. “Ray,” I said, “ you’re here.” There was no more room for doubt. I was overwhelmed, and Paul choked up. We gently started scattering the ashes into the trench. Peripheral vision revealed another seagull approaching; she hung back just a little and didn’t come as close as Ray, but her eyes were on us the whole time, and well we knew who she was. They stayed until we finished replenishing the piles of sand back on top, and then took off. It was all so very, very good. A phenomenal and very personal experience.

RIP @ Coney Island, Ray & Rae. May beachcombers and young lovers, moonlight and stars, sunsets and storms keep you company at times, and bring you full circle.

Cucumbers

After my Dad had a heart attack and the subsequent bypass surgery left him totally incapacitated from a stroke suffered during that procedure, a black cloud descended on my Mother. It was more than apparent that she could not cope with the possibility of taking care of someone on the level he might need. It was a palpable darkness, you could see it on her face, feel it in the air around her. I knew I would have to, need to, want to move back home to take care of this man I so dearly loved. I told my husband, not sure at all what he would say, how he would feel about the prospect of leaving it all behind to go far away and willingly sacrifice his wife to serve her parents. Was it too much to ask?

He never hesitated for a moment. "Of course," he replied, "when do you want to leave?" He knew full well that would mean leaving all his business contacts and trading in an office for an apron. This from a man who fed the kids cucumbers, and only cucumbers, for dinner when I was in the hospital with the latest newborn. Who evidently didn't know how to load the dishwasher, at least had never before tried. Who that same day threw the dirty cloth diapers in the washer without first rinsing them and had to buy a new washer immediately. And furthermore spread bug spray sufficiently around that night, so that the next morning the kids were violently ill when they came to the hospital to pick us up. Before we even could take the new baby home, we had to make a pit stop at the Doc's office. Not a great track record. His Mr. Mom skills might need a little polishing. But he didn't balk.

I was so happy, and grateful. We would be able to make a difference in the life of the man I had so loved and admired all my life. I was not unaware that this circumstance would change the lives of my children. That it would be hurtful and life changing for them, some more than others. Leaving friends, changing schools and more. We had been around the block with this before. And it was obvious our economic well being might become even more precarious. Sacrifice does entail real costs. But paramount in my mind and heart and soul was the quality of life of my Dad; it overrode all other considerations. Decision made.

And yet, it never happened. Dad never left the hospital and died there three months later. Sadly, we never got to the point of planning his home care and rehabilitation. A few trips... for a weekend or couple weeks... holding his hand at the hospital during that time was it. (Leaving Mr. Mom in charge back at the ranch, expecting they all could survive. Possibly.) Still stings.

Looking back all these years later, I am comforted by the realization that we truly wanted to be there for him, and would have made it happen. And I know that's the genuine article. Love. Wanting to help someone. And following through if you're granted the privilege. If only. Would it have been easy? Or a good experience for everyone involved? Obviously not. And talk is cheap, maybe the overwhelm would have had us rue the day. I have no doubt we would have stumbled. A lot. Maybe I would have made a mistake that would catapult Dad's health downwards, making things worse, not better. Torturous thought. My Mom could have ended up resenting us, I usually tried her patience. Our kids could have run with the opportunities and challenges, or run for cover. We'll never know. But I do know the depth of love I felt for my Dad in his hour of need, and I do know the depth of gratitude I have for my kids' Dad in supporting me supporting him. That covers a multitude of cucumbers.  

Requiem (Updated)

The year is winding down. And I've noticed that '11 turned out to be a time to reflect on the past a bit for random reasons, time to think back to what it was like to be part of a family in the last century. Feeling a little antique here, but it's been good to remember.

Remembering those people. Kind of fun, kind of tender. One memory leading to another. One person to the next. One photo offering up a disappeared world of smiles that no longer light up this one. Those priceless long ago faces. Faces that didn't linger around nearly long enough. And wouldn't you know they belonged to some of the best people! Isn't that the way it goes?

As a young girl, I remember my Mom wistfully mention her cousin Dale, recalling how he was the absolutely nicest guy in the world. Too nice, apparently, for his own Father's world at that time. So he got professional help for Dale in order to adjust some, I guess, toughen up. Man up, Dale. Who knows what pressures a gentle soul could face, especially back when? In his early 20's Dale had a little accident while cleaning a gun, they said. My Mom's eyes got faraway and her voice soft the few times she ever mentioned his premature death.

But I was young and so were MY cousins. We had never known him, so what did that have to do with us?  Not much. Too busy playing, too busy living. We didn't grow up spending lots of time together, but we'd horse around a few times a year... at Grandma Lukey's for Christmas, for instance, at Grandma Lucy's for Thanksgiving. I had a handful of cousins on both my Mom's side and my Dad's side. Just enough to keep it from ever getting dull at the get togethers. Maybe not a Norman Rockwell painting, but then again, that's exactly what it all seemed to be to me. 

Then blink. We grew up and most of us lost touch. But life went on, until it didn't.

Vicki, Peggy, Cliff and Greg Lund

Peggy (Lund) was a year or two younger than me, and she was always "on" at Grandma Lukey's... witty, vibrant, all grins. She and her older sister, Vicky, set the pace. And it was fun! But those days are long gone. Life happens, things change. Some hard times. Some intense depression. It became complicated, difficult. Until the smiles had nowhere to go anymore, and on New Year's Eve, a month before she would turn 40, the wit and vibrancy, the resiliency she had summoned for untold years... fled. And she left this world behind.

My cousin Jimmy (VanVleet), however, made it into his 50s. Jimmy was on my Dad's side of the family. Such a bright kid... top of his graduating class, good solid career as an Engineer. Grandma Lucy was so proud of him. You could have bet a lot of money on him having a successful life. Good odds. Even had a family, 3 kids. Seemed to have it all. For awhile. Then. Over time. Divorce, Diabetes, Depression. Damn.

Jimmy & Gordy Van Vleet, Steve Mills, Jan & Melinda Sholes

Larry (Mills), what happened there? He lasted 58 years. Another exceptionally bright student, an Attorney, a successful Prosecutor for a long time. Found dead in a hotel room the morning of July 5th, 2013. Could it be foul play? Accidental? Non accidental? Just his time?

Diana (Lund) had a rough beginning, and not an easy life. She tried so hard, Until she couldn't anymore.  https://www.tributebook.com/domains/ec092348-052b-433a-a858-d64cbcf7e023/obituaries/27494457/book#

Greg (Lund) is now gone too? 

Vicky (Lund) was lost to cancer a few years ago, not sure what happened to Cathy (Mills) and Steve (Mills), but maybe medical issues? Like I said, blink. 

I look at these old photos. Happy innocent faces. Who knew? I miss them.

I miss them.*

*Missing photos of Larry & Cathy Mills, John Van Vleet, Ken Lund

When I Grow Up

JOYCE SHOLES

Sophisticated.
Intelligent.
Classy.
And so much more.
My Aunt Joyce.

She'd put on make up every day and tailored knit suits and heels and catch the bus to downtown where she'd manage an insurance office. She was the essence of glam, in my book, the soul of independence. And I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. Once I figured out on paper how I could do exactly that... I'd just have to make $50/week to fill those shoes! Dream on!

Despite being a single career woman, or maybe because of that, she had time for us kids, her 10 nieces and nephews.  Some of that would be just letting us listen to records up in her room or hide and play in the back of her mystery of a closet in the old house she shared her whole life with my Grandparents. Maybe work a little in the yard with her. But once in awhile she'd take one of us into Chicago to see a real live play ("Oklahoma" for me), or on a trip (the shores of Lake Michigan for a few days once, another time my first trip out West-to the Rockies!)

Besides introducing us to the magic of popular music, she loved to read and shared that as well. Somehow when she would read "The Adventures of Winnie the Pooh" to me, I remember I would get wildly  hysterical every single time about the Heffalump, and it was then and there that I fell forever in love with Eeyore.

Joyce didn't seem to have a sentimental bone in her body, at least not overtly. I can't ever imagine her talking baby talk to a baby, but she WAS genuinely interested in us goofy kids and patient with our silly ways. Never felt judged by her. While she unconditionally accepted us, she still had high expectations of our minds... talking to us about ideas, books, life. She just treated us with respect, like miniature adults.

On that trip to the Rockies, I went with her and her friend to Colorado and then on to Yellowstone as a 13 year old wannabe world traveler. One lesson she taught me was at the Bali Hai Motel in Denver. I had taken a stroll around the grounds that evening and came back distraught because I had heard a group of people loudly laughing at me. Of all the nerve! She looked me in the eye and calmly said, "They're not laughing at you. You're not that important." Like that, the Universe shifted. I stopped being the center of it. The woman had power, I tell you.

A few days later we were in the Tetons at the base of a mountain where climbers were rappelling up. I had been in love with the idea of mountains ever since the first book I read about the West had claimed my soul, and I was thrilled just to be there. Then suddenly it wasn't enough. I just HAD to climb! I don't think I even had to say a word, Joyce just nodded to me and I scrambled up like a billy goat. No, like a mountain goat! Racing the real mountain climbers with all their gear.  She understood somehow, and didn't hold me back. Who else would have done that? Pretty sure I couldn't have done that any other way, at least not in such an exhilarating one. I felt capable, grown up. Like that, the Universe shifted. I became part of it.  

She taught me life lessons like that and gave me those kind of gifts that last a lifetime. I am so much the richer for having had such a woman in my life. So unbelievably grateful.

When I grow up, I'd still like to be like her.

P.S. My middle name is Joette, an amalgamation of the names of my Aunt Joyce and Great Aunt Esther, both who never married and had kids of their own. I like that my parents did that in tribute to some really stellar women.

Interludes

Last spring I was sharing with an old college roommate how delighted I was for another of our mutual roomies who had just hit the jackpot! Her son, whom she had worried over for years, had miraculously done a 180 and just married a beautiful girl in the Dallas temple... or somewhere like that. Other ships, aka kids, long out to sea, had come in as well, and all made for a perfect day. O happy endings! All her ducks seemed to be in order (something I have never experienced though I have my fair share of ducks, and truth be told, am no stranger to quacking) and it did seem a fairy tale come true. Is that even possible? 

Then Phyllis brought me back to earth, "There are no happy endings, Muff, just happy interludes." Ahhh, I semi-recognize truth and wisdom when it hits me over the head like that, though we have been estranged for practically the duration. And it reminded me of what my Aunt Joyce told me years ago, "People are generally unhappy, they only experience moments of happiness from time to time." Wonder now if that must be on a sliding scale... or is it the fees that are?

Happy endings have seemed beyond the pale for me since I can remember. Decades anyway. How I would love for all my beloveds to be happy simultaneously. Hey, and why not the whole world while we're at it? All the time. 

Yep, I'm that foolish. I know it would only make for some pretty self centered little creatures devoid of much empathy, and yet it's hard to promote/tolerate suffering as a worthy process except in the abstract. In some novel perhaps. Not in the life story of those you live for. I hesitate to mention this out loud, but maybe it's good I'm not the one who gets to decide what others go through, what choices others should make. Should I stop campaigning for that position now? Could I?

But I have mulled the interlude idea over for months now, and even though I think I have an overabundance of close encounters of the dark kind, I like having an awareness of brief but shining interludes with clouds and trees, music and mountains, laughter and smiles. Peace and joy amid the muck.

I have long been falling apart, but this year seems to be more at the keeling over point. My world has been so upside down and inside out for such a long time, that the even though the happy endings escape me, I am grateful for the fleeting moments, the happy interludes that interrupt and punctuate the everyday story I'm spinning in. Even that delirious interlude last spring of just being excited for the happy interlude of someone else felt pretty spectacular....

So thank you, sweet interludes, bidden or unbidden, for the unmitigated grace you have shown me.  I do indeed owe you.

Umm, and thanks Phyllis, for the timely reminder.

Flavor #31... "Love Potion #31"

Jordan. 31 years done, over. Check. On to the 32nd. And so on and so on. Like all the rest, it will be the proverbial mixed bag.  Hopefully with more ups than downs, but who knows? Guess it's how you handle whatever comes as much as it's whatever comes.

So maybe it would work to just celebrate the good moments. Remember the birthday whipped cream fights of yesteryear? I'd run out and buy a dozen large cans of Redi Whip at Costco and then you kids were allowed to tear through the house in mad pursuit of the "honored" one and each other. What a mess!  Whose idea was that anyhow? Shoulda, woulda, coulda had an outdoors only rule on that tradition, huh? A ton of clean up.  Oh well, no harm done.

What great sports (aka reckless idiots)!

I'm not suggesting that now. Just that you find little ways (empahsis: no harm done) to enjoy the moments you have coming. Just as there are way more flavors than 31 on the Baskin Robbins website... and yes, these that I've listed the whole last month are all officially their flavors, there are so many ways and things to enjoy and celebrate every day, not just once a year, if we just take a moment to look for them and realize.

That's what I wish for you this year. The sweet flavor of awareness and appreciation. Take a bite.  Delicious!

I love you! love you! love you!

And one day I Will get even!

---MOM

Flavor #30 "Chunk A Cherry Burning Love"

So what defines 3 decades of Jordan? The neon shorts in elementary school? Those skateboarding adrenaline rushes of the teen years? The myriad jobs in 3 different states? Family intrigue? Brushes with the law?

Maybe a little this, a little that. Too much of the stuff you didn't need. Scant traces of the hopes and dreams you once had for yourself. And so it is with most of us.

Just before your 30th year, I wrote you the following letter. I have no idea if you ever read it. There have been some ups and downs since then. But it still holds true. Things will all work out sooner or later. Believe me. And then fall apart. Rinse and repeat.


Jordan,

So often I find myself thinking of you and wishing there was some way I could just take all the things I feel and think and learn moment by moment and transfer them into your mind and heart without words, so you could somehow see yourself the way I do. It feels like when I try to use words when they're most important, I fail....  But here goes.

There are unique things I treasure about you... your sense of humor; no one on this earth has made our family laugh as much and as hard as you have, your tender feelings about our family, your compassion for animals, or for someone down and out, your passion, even when you channeled it against President Bush! 

I value memories of you as an adorable 'chub' baby, as a blond preschooler other moms drooled over because you were so irresistible, as a school age boy who insisted we should only listen to Johnny Cash on Sundays, not hymns. (Definitely had an influence on the family dynamic there. Never thought I'd even tolerate, much less like Johnny Cash, but you made a convert out of me! I can even do Willie Nelson now!)

Remember when you would spend sometimes almost an hour trying to get little Wayne to laugh after he had been hurt? From the time he was just over a year, he would never let anyone see him cry, but would go shut himself off in his room. You were what, 7 or 8? He couldn't keep you out, and sometimes it would take you 45 minutes, even more, to deal with his trauma. But you never, ever gave up. You just had to lighten his load, and wouldn't quit till he was laughing and could come out and join the chaos again. I thought that was remarkable, no matter what your motivation, YOU SIMPLY WOULDN'T QUIT! No one else could do that. Or would have cared enough to try! And not being a quitter is being a winner.

I think people show who they really are by the "little" things they do, more so than in any other way. Some of my favorite memories include that time when you scared me to death by jumping out of the car and into oncoming traffic (yeah, well wouldn't that just thrill most Moms?) to rescue a cat that had been hit. You cradled it as we somehow were able to find a Vet that was open on Sunday, and it died in your arms as you went in for help. That's such a tender thing. (Still, for what it's worth, I'd like to encourage you to stay out of the way of moving traffic... once a Mom, always a Mom, I guess!) 

What brings tears to my eyes is plain and simple kindness. Some of your random acts in that vein that have made my cheeks wet were maybe unplanned things. Like when you made me stop three times one day in Vista to help people stranded on the side of the road with a flat tire or this or that. You were a "mere" teenager. But one with a mission that day. And many days since. You got me to go along with these inconvenient delays somehow. Watching you be the Good Samaritan is still one of life's true highlights.

I was never more proud of you than when finding out that at all those Church dances I'd take you and Collin to from Oceanside to Encinitas, you alone were asking the girls who never got asked to dance... to DANCE! The overweight girls, the awkward girls, the pariahs. I can't think of anything more heroic, personally. I so treasure that and it means more to me than you could ever imagine.

But the fun, and funny memories, are right up there as well. One of the all time favorite periods in my life was when you were working at the Holiday Inn in Solana Beach with the "Arabs". Dad and I would wait for you to come every day with your crazy stories that you would share in that "Arabic" accent (they were from INDIA, Jordan, but so much for details, huh?) I never thought anyone would be able to make people laugh more than Dad, but you far outdid him. He knew it. And he LOVED it! Your wit and insight were priceless, and your delivery flawless, day after day. Ahhh, those good old days.

And even in the midst of that nonsense, there were some very defining moments. Like the maturity and finesse you demonstrated in handling charged situations there, time after time. Remember the fight you broke up between the manager and the guest when they were ready to come to blows? You should have rightfully ended up the CEO of Holiday Inn, kiddo. What experiences! We were more than proud of you.

Then there were some special times we shared in Flagstaff when I was teaching you to drive, and you would reveal your fears and hopes. Bonding time. Hey, remember when you turned to me to gloat, "You have to admit I'm the best driver in the family now!" as you went through the stop sign at the intersection and crashed into the car of the ER Nurse! Priceless! 

Jordan, I know it's been a hard road, but I think it's helped you to feel and extend compassion. And a little humility, yes?? What greater treasures are there?

As time went on, I remember pains inflicted on you that were outrageous and unwarranted. (Some I probably even initiated myself when I home schooled you for awhile, but time to let me off the hook, isn't it? Oh, how precious that was for me to be with you one on one. While you squirmed!) Other despicable things I would have had you spared, had I the choice. That's life. Not things I would have chosen for you to experience and endure when you were out of my sight, but things that on your path have made you grow, nevertheless. And you have. And you will.

My respect for you knew no bounds the night before you were leaving to move to Utah. You had such great stress and anxiety that you told me you needed to just leave immediately because you were afraid you were going to knock down a wall or do something crazy. Then you took a phone call. And it ended up being a new guy from work... at the job you had just quit with so much... shall we say "history" and bad vibes? I listened in disbelief as you managed to coach him with patience and encouragement, when you were filled to overflowing with anger and fear, and were most down yourself. Seriously, I was incredulous. Who does that? Have you any idea at all what that says about you?

What about the amazing Uncle you have been? Beginning with Madison, you have always been the fun in the the world of the little ones. An amusement park ride, a thoughtful gift bearer, a caring, goofy entertainer. Where were you when I was little? Those kids have been so dang lucky to have your thereness and your theirness.

Endless are the moments. But let me just tell you of one that forever stands out. When Dad was sick, there came that midnight hour, maybe a week or two before he died, that the morphine had run its course, and there was NOTHING that could assuage his pain. For the first time in that entire year, I felt out of control. And scared. Really scared. I was desperately trying to reach the pain Dr. and do something. Anything. You suddenly appeared in the bedroom at that point and in total calm and perfect patience worked with him, minute by minute, changing his position, answering his every whim in his absolute agony in the middle of that long tormented night, with perfect poise, endless grace, and total love. The hardest moment I have ever seen. I marveled at you as I stood back and drowned in my total helplessness for the first time, and I implicitly understood, beyond any and all human comprehension, that angels have no wings. Did I ever say "thank you"?  Perhaps words were beyond me then.

But you found the right words a short time later, Jordan. The day your Father died was profound on so many levels. That you were there in the morning when he left the first time, and you helped me call him back to us, changed us all. We wanted that time to be together, to feel together, to get ready for goodbye. We just weren't ready for him to leave, were we? I needed you there during that time. He needed you there during that time. It was sweet, wasn't it? What a gift to have him with us all those hours! No fears for him or us then...  just tender, light, and even funny at times. I realized after a couple of hours, that it was meant to be. Honestly, it was so beyond what I imagined was possible. I just didn't think it could get any better than that. 

Until it did. When your sisters got there from out of state that evening and found they were a few minutes too late, they fell apart on the stairs on the way up to our room. It was anything but peaceful or sweet for them. And then you went out there and saw them, and immediately reached for Chris' hand. After all those years of bitterness you had felt towards him, you grasped him and the words out of your mouth were, "By the way, did I ever congratulate you for marrying my sister and welcome you to the family?" So simple, so magnificent. In that breath, you set the course for our family and I knew all would be well. We all took that in, and went in the bedroom as a total, complete family. That had to be the one thing your Father secretly wanted, had been waiting for. Instinctively, you must have known that, and in doing so you accorded him the honor that counted most. What a gift! I will always hold that closest to my heart. Thank you.

Though you are handsome, intelligent, ridiculously funny, and sweet... the total package, you somehow have missed seeing yourself as beautiful as you are. Just a couple of weeks ago I was visiting with Shannon Hall, and she wouldn't stop talking about you, how her family just has always adored you. Favorite babysitter, funnest guy. Sean and Ryan used to ask specifically how long their parents were going out for, and if it wasn't an extended period, they would beg their parents to get another babysitter, because they wanted to save you for the longer hauls, so they could really get into trouble with you, and not risk having you get sick of them with briefer interludes. She simply wouldn't stop going on about you--- you!--- not your sisters that she worked with, loved, and admired all those years. You. In my book, there is no one in her class at all... she leads the pack of beautiful people, and she looks up to you! Seriously. How great to have her and Mark echo my opinion of you.     

You never seem to get that you don't have to be perfect or have pure reasons for everything you do. And of course the despair and suffering you keep going through because you have never grasped your beauty, your infinite worth... and the deep anguish that has caused you is overwhelming at times. But even these struggles and challenges, though I wouldn't wish on anyone, have been learning and growing experiences for all of us. The good, the bad, the ugly... all part of life. All remarkable, and things that I value. But these experiences... highlights and lowlights, while enriching, and while they make me respect and admire you, are not what make me love you. For you are in my heart, safe and secure, far beyond any circumstances.

I want you to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I love you. I love you as much as I can love anyone. There is NOTHING you can do about it. Not because you have earned it or deserved it, or have in any way been worthy or unworthy of it. I love you unconditionally because I am here learning about and becoming love, and you were sent to me to be mine and help me learn to love more. NO MATTER WHAT,  I will always love you!

Sometimes, even so, I think there is nothing more I can do to help you. But even if I am helpless to shoulder your load, and you have to walk a lonely path so that you find you can do it, my love is ever with you. Love is more about sacrifice and forgiving than anything else. And even though I have to set boundaries and standards because of values that are important to me, my sacrifices have ultimately been willing, and my forgiveness, infinite. And I am learning that sometimes love is more trusting you, letting you do it yourself, and just being there waiting for you.

I believe so much in the power of my love, and that it is just the merest fractional portion, the tiniest taste of the deeper, purer, more passionate love God has for us, His children. You would fear nothing, not even your disappointment in yourself, if you could but glimpse the overwhelming love He has for you. I'm not asking you to believe that. I just want you to believe that mine, such a dim shadow of that, is real and without end.  

Will I still run out of patience with you? Get upset? No doubt. I just have so much hope that you will understand your pricelessness (think I made that word up) and that you will see what great things you can do. Not that you have to do them, but you will find that doing them will bring you joy, and loving/forgiving yourself and others will bring you such peace. 

The things you are going through will give you experience, and hard and painful as they are, will work for your good ultimately. The more sorrow carves into your heart, the deeper your soul becomes, and the more joy it can eventually contain. (*Gibran) You can do hard things. You have done so many hard things. You are slowly getting stronger in ways you may not even see. And that will turn into light and inspiration for others as well.

Remember when you came home from the hospital and you were fully soaring because of how you had lost yourself in helping others there? How you had such capacity to care when no one else there did, and what a difference that had made? That's what you're here for, Jordan. That kind of transcendent purpose, that sheer joy. You are golden, hon. Ever have you been.

Over and over you have, however inadvertently, revealed the bright parts of your soul. When the light begins to shine, no matter how intensely, the darkness begins to recede. One day even the lingering shadows will leave.  

Maybe you can't see or feel hope at times, but just cause you can't see or feel the sun on a cloudy day doesn't mean it isn't there. Like I said, I know deep inside things will get better. And worse. And better. It's happening already. What a ride!

Here's to another 31 flavors, and then some!

More,
Mom

Flavor #29 "Cotton Candy"

"Uncle"  Not a word given much thought in California. Just another "dude", so to speak. But oh, that word meant the world to you once Madison was born! Maybe it was the helplessness, the tender vulnerability of anything so small and defenseless. Maybe it was that you became the defenseless one when she smiled. Or that you became the King of the World when you made her laugh or stop crying or drift off to sleep.

Something changed. And you liked it. Ever since, each new niece or nephew has stolen your attention and your heart. As they grew, you became their carnival. Throwing a toddler into the air and catching them, twirling one above your head or around a room.Their giggles and screams made you indefatigable. The circus come to town. 

 

You brought something new to the "Uncle" word, something new to that experience, something you had never had. Gave yourself. And you loved doing it. Maybe that's the whole secret....

Flavor #28 "Classic Banana Split"

FLAGSTAFF NATIVES

Life happened and it got more and more challenging. Because we hoped things might start to go better for you if we managed to provide you a fresh start, we split from San Diego County and moved to Flagstaff, Arizona when you were 16.

It didn't work out that way, although the  parents loved, loved, loved the area, the kids surely didn't, and for you, nothing got much better. I have no pix of that time period, though it was a mere year and a half. A lot of things can't be solved geographically, and so we split again and doubled back to Southern California after this little jog, this little out of the way interlude.

 SNOWBOWL

From The Grand Canyon to the San Francisco Peaks, from Sedona to the Indian Reservations, nothing had called your name. Ironically, you suddenly fell in love with snowboarding at Snowbowl a couple of months before we left and maybe would have settled in. Who knows? Timing is everything, right?

Flavor #27 "Wild & Reckless Sherbet"

FIRST MOHAWK!

Like I said, Middle School was interesting. A transition period for teenagers in general, for you specifically, it was new territory on many levels. Skateboarding became your passion and you were out at all hours. Ordeal became the flip side of adventure sometimes when you'd leave the house. 

You often were in cahoots with family and neighbors. Remember when you and Chris were making videos of cops and drug busts? The time you scared the living daylights out of a little girl down the street AND her mother? The hijinks started out small and built. You do have some stories to tell. Oh boy, do you! And a reputation to live down.... 

Flavor #26 "Oreo Cookies & Cream"

Well who could resist that face?  When we went to the Pound to find a friend for you, this is the mug that you fell for. He could get a from-the-heart smile from you. It just had to be the little Shih-Tzu that got rescued. And so it was.

HENRY THE CONQUEROR

"Henry" you named him. And we thought he was something. So cute. Things started out good. Taking Henry on walks, wrestling with him, cuddling him while watching TV. And then Henry got smarter than us. He no longer could be bothered to pee outside. Too much effort. And taking him on walks anymore? Out of the question. Henry figured out how to take us on walks. 

Put on his leash. Open the door. Go a few hundred feet down the block. Henry stops. Pull on his leash. Wait. Tug on his leash. Henry spreads all fours flat on the street, chin and tummy resting on the pavement. Won't budge. Total roadkill. People drive by with dirty looks for the nasty animal abusers. Lift Henry into your arms and continue to walk. He trained us good and became our owner.

FAVORITE ACTIVITY

Unfortunately our landlord lived next door, and the carpet became an issue. Tipping point. Henry won. Then lost us and inevitably had to go back to move on. Hopefully to better things.

Flavor #25 "Pink Bubblegum"

Middle school. Life was relatively normal till then, ups and downs. Good times, silly times, awful times.  Everyday kind of ordinary.

When we moved across town to the house on Bonnie Brae, things went upside down. A lot better neighborhood, but not much could compensate for Lincoln Middle School. It was a nightmare. Some of the teachers out of a Dicken's novel, some of the kids and gangs not yet in reform school. It was a special kind of hell. So took a semester to home school you, and maybe I was your worst nightmare. Think I got more out of it than you. But we both cried a lot.

Anyway, that was the end of the line for the great quasi American happy bubble. There were moments though that were good. Neighborhood hijinks with Lauren & Greg, wild videos with Chris. And more.  There were some fun highlights. So many lowlights. Would we ever see that amazing smile again?

Flavor #24 "Box of Chocolates"

Trips to Geneva, Idaho were the bomb! Shooting squirrels, fishing, snowmobiling, horseback riding, hiking up Pig Snoot, cutthroat card playing. Something for everybody, and new adventures every time. But the real thrill was that store. Grandpa Sleight's store. The front of the house was the country store for that little community. And it was the Post Office as well. Grandma Jennie was the Postmaster. So open the door, see all the people....  It was fully stocked with snacks, penny candy, warmed cashews, and a commercial freezer full of you-know-what. So every night after dinner... Woo hoo! All the ice cream you could eat.

Giddiup in Geneva

At least that was true on birthdays, all the treats you could eat. You went up there with Dad for your eighth birthday and you were given the key to all the sugary decadence you had ever dreamed of. Only caveat was you had to finish one treat before being able to choose the next. So there were some automatic tummy limitations. But it was a priceless tradition....

When they retired, Grandma & Grandpa turned the store into a family pool hall/card den and let the good times roll. Until they sold the place.

In later years there would be no Idaho getaways for us anymore, but instead trips to St. George, Utah where they had joined all the other retired snowbirders, eventually permanently. It couldn't hold a candle to Geneva!

The Greatest generations

But wherever Grandpa and Grandma went, there went the card games. So it worked out.

Heck, even when they weren't around, the legacy lived on!

"Hey, it's in our blood!"

And then there were those incidental travel compensations we could mention....  

Bonus, stopping in Vegas en route!

 

"Just think, some day we will all live here."