Lessons, Episode #2:

Do not feel obligated to explain yourself to another person.  Ever.  If you have to explain yourself it's likely due to the fact that the other party is hell-bent on misunderstanding you anyway.  Stay silent and let the irrational exist with the irrational.

Which leads me to the second part.....

Don't misinterpret silence as guilt.  Or weakness.  Or ignorance.  Silence can also mean that a person has met their bullshit limit and has chosen to gracefully turn and walk away.  Self respect?  Maybe.  Self preservation?  Most definitely.

And then part three....

Do not let another person's emotional catastrophe make you feel responsible.  Read that again.  You are NOT responsible for anyone's mess.  Only your own.

Bad Music and Memories

I like music.  I can appreciate pretty much any kind.  My play lists are ever-changing and diverse.  There might be some 90's rap alongside John Denver and then Erasure.  I like to think my taste is rather eclectic.  More than once I've had someone remark on the variety of these play lists.

The other day I was listening to Seals and Croft.  Yeah, I know....  But  hearing Seals and Croft (or Peter, Paul, and Mary or Gordon Lightfoot or The Doobie Brothers) reminds me of my childhood.  You see, my folks were music people too.  My Dad, especially, had an appreciation for good music.  His record collection was epic and diverse and his stereo equipment was always state of the art.  At least for the era.  (Sometime ask me about why we had a Beta VCR instead of the usual VHS variety.)  I remember him laying on the floor of our family room, HUGE headphones on his head, eyes closed, listening to his records.  Looking back, he was probably trying to drown out the sounds of us kids!

So yesterday as I was standing at my kitchen sink washing the breakfast dishes and listening to Seals and Croft's Greatest Hits I was instantly transported back to the family room in my childhood home.  I could see the rough plank cedar walls, the Hot Diamond wood stove, the orange sofas.  I remember dancing, twirling, singing in this room to so much good music.  I was a kid.  I was safe.  Everyone in my family was somewhere in that house.  We were a family.  It was a rather idyllic childhood, I suppose.

Then I was struck with how unable I was to duplicate that type of life for my kids.

Damn.

When Bill was here we had impromptu concerts nearly every night while we cleaned up the kitchen after dinner.  I'm sure the kids will remember that.

But it's not the same anymore.  Which then starts me down that slippery path of self-doubt.  What else can't I give them now?  Just how messed up are they going to be because of my inability to be both Mom and Dad?  Will they feel that same safety and security that I did as a child?  When they look back on their childhood what will they feel?  Happy?  Or sad and abandoned?  And while we're on it, are they even eating enough vegetables?  Do they know the stuff that's important?  Gosh, do I even know what's important?!  Yeah, once the loop starts playing in my mind I have a hard time stopping it.

I actually have a record player.  Bill bought it for me as a present one Christmas.  I have lots of records too.  There's something comforting and nostalgic about hearing the scratchy sounds of the needle at the beginning of a record.  And I keep both a dime and a penny near the turntable because you never know when you'll find a skip and need to weigh the needle down a bit in order to listen without interruptions.  My kids know where my records are and they know how to use the record player.  Maybe that's one of the important things they need to know about?  Maybe they will look back and remember their Mom dancing wildly around the living room, singing Duran Duran songs slightly off key (I never said I was a good singer).  And maybe they will have that safe feeling too.

Lessons Episode #1

Never trust anyone who purchases a pot/container/basket of flowers and allows them to die from neglect.

Trust even less if person allows the dead pot/container/basket to be displayed for weeks and/or months after the flowers die.

Dylan McKay (and other related things)

I was talking with some friends the other day about what we had been watching on TV.  One friend (who's name rhymes with "Glayna" but I won't tell you her actual name because I want to protect her identity) said that she had been time traveling back to the 90's and visiting that favorite zip code, 90210.  Oh yes, you can now watch reruns of "Beverly Hills, 90210" on Amazon.

I am all over that.

Now a little known fact is that 90210 was Bill's favorite show.  At least at that time in his life .  Every Monday at 8:00 PM he could be found waiting breathlessly in front of the television, ready to join his dearest friends, Brandon, Brenda, Dylan, and all the rest of those spoiled, rich kids and all of their teen aged drama.  Except Aundrea, because she had to falsify her address in order to attend West Beverly High.  She was the token poor kid.  But I digress.  Bill especially liked Dylan.  He might have actually loved Dylan but I'm not totally sure.  It was a very sad day for Bill when Dylan's character left the show.  And don't even get me started on the highly anticipated return of Dylan at the end of the show's run.  Gosh.  The excitement.

Anyway.

So I started watching the series again.  From the beginning.  In order.

It's awesome.  The clothes are all coming back in style!  The hair!  There are fanny packs and scrunchies!  The spandex under the jean shorts!  The high-waisted jeans with crop tops!  Oh gosh.  Even the lipstick colors are popular again.  And I'm pretty sure that I heard Donna say, "Dope!" when referring to her first impression of Brandon Walsh.  I'm not lying.

As I was watching the pilot episode I kept thinking, "Man, I gotta call Bill and see if he remembers this part."  Or, "I have to remind Bill about Betty the Surfer Girl." and "Oh man, I wonder if he remembers Dylan's hotel suite scam and how Brandon was such a goody-goody dick about it."  Over and over I had these damn thoughts.

Hmmm.  That's not going to happen now.

I guess I'll just keep watching and remembering.  I'm sure there will be an episode that sparks a memory about what I was doing when it originally aired.  Like I was probably wearing my black lace bodysuit, tucked into my button fly Levis, with my black Dr. Martens (no socks), and watching with a bunch of baseball boys while sitting on sofas of questionable origins.  In a sketchy apartment, no doubt.  (On a side note:  those baseball boys did love them some 90210 and Melrose Place!)  I'll remember going to the bar afterward and drinking pitchers of PBR (using my tip money and thinking I was way cool) and playing pool.  Mostly I just watched the pool playing and ran the jukebox.  We always played the same songs.  Might've played a few rounds of VP (video poker to you novices) too.

I will remember it all.  But I'll be sad that those memories won't have anyone besides me to appreciate them.

And I will be thankful that I already know the outcome of the whole Dylan/Brenda saga.

To Write...or not

I think today is the first day of fall.  That means summer is now, mercifully, in the past.  I say good riddance to that shit show.   But I also don't want to think about the passing of another season and the ushering in of a new one either.  Someday maybe I'll write about why.  Not now though.

I haven't been writing lately.  I've been thinking about stuff to write about plenty.  That's never a problem for me.  Lately though I've been concerned, paranoid maybe, about letting other people glimpse into my mind through the words I put down on paper (or a screen).  Seems like it's not just my paranoia either.  Too many times in the recent months I have had someone ask me if I was writing about them.  Doesn't seem to matter what the topic is either.  Those unfounded assumptions can lead us to some uncomfortable and unnecessary places.

So I quit writing because I got tired of explaining.  I know that I don't even owe anyone an explanation but, my people-pleasing nature and all, makes me feel like I should at least try to assuage the paranoia.  Realistically my balls are big enough that I would have absolutely NO problem calling a person out if I really wanted to.  By name even, if I felt like it.  I just don't ever feel like it.  My writing is not meant to hurt anyone or manipulate or lean towards the malicious side.  Trust me when I say I could fill volumes with accounts of idiots and liars I have dealt with.

I tend to write in generalities not in specifics.  I write about the culmination of many experiences and how I process them not about an isolated incident.  Except donuts--I will for sure write about specific donuts and where to get them.  Good old Hemingway said it well when he stated, "There is nothing to writing.  You just sit down at a typewriter and bleed."  That's how I write.  Don't like it?  Don't read it then.  Makes you squirm and feel uneasy?  A tad bit guilty?  Not my problem either.

I've spent a lot of time this (past) summer reading or listening to books about "becoming your authentic and true self."  Or something arrogantly along those lines.  I've read about setting goals and discovering what truly inspires you.  I've learned about abandoning past mindsets that no longer serve you and establishing new priorities.  I've rethought my habits and rituals.  I've even read about changing my eating patterns and exercise habits.  And the commonality shared in all of these things?  Well besides the reading part?  It's writing.  Writing down the changes.  Writing the goals.  Writing the worries and fears.  Writing it all out.  Writing seems to diminish the enormous presence of the unfamiliar or the scary stuff.

So I will write again because I'm good at it and it is me.   And I will write about what is on my heart and in my mind.  I will run and exhaust my physical self so I can better hear my soul speaking and put those clear(ish) thoughts down on a page.  I will write to make sense of life.  If that's even possible.

Good Time Girl

Bill played 4 years of college baseball.  That's 4 years of wild debauchery.  Instead of sex, drugs, and rock and roll it was more like sex, beer, and baseball.  Not necessarily in that order either.  But one of the most foul (ha ha, pun!), yet provocative players during these years were what Bill referred to as "Good Time Girls."  These were any handful of girls who, like their name suggests, just wanted to have a good time.  Now let it be known that during this time I was a good, solid, responsible girl.  Sure I had my wild times but generally I was a Good Girl.  Definitely not a Good Time Girl.  Looking back I think I was a little envious of these girls' ability to throw out a mindset like my own and just concentrate on having a good ole time.  

Then I got married and had babies.  And then I had more babies.  And I stayed at home and was a really bad ass housewife and mom.  Bill worked hard, really hard, and this carefully constructed life worked for us for many years.  I felt loved and safe and respected.  I was still a good, responsible girl.  I took care of everyone and everything.  I did this for lots of years.

And then Bill died.  That changed everything of course.

A good friend and I were talking the other day about how our dreams and priorities have changed as we've gotten older.  Like what we did for fun as a 25 year old vs. what we do for fun now.  Or what we would look for in a husband at 25 vs. 35 vs. today.  We talked about how our taste in friends had even changed over the years.  Maybe how we'd outgrown some but found new, better fitted ones, for our current place. Everything changes and evolves.  Nothings stays the same.  If you actually take the time to think about this and ponder it you might be surprised at what you figure out.

It was a good talk anyway.  One that got me thinking.

How had my priorities changed?  What did I like now?  What did I like to spend my time doing?  Who did I want to spend my time with?  And the answer I came up with?  I want to be a Good Time Girl!  Well, not exactly like one of those girls from 20 years ago, but my updated version of one.  My liver can't take the constant abuse of all those parties and I need my precious hours of sleep.  I also am not a good whore, but that's a story for another day.

What I mean is I want to concentrate on having fun.  Fun is my priority.

OK, OK, settle down.  I never said that I was going to abandon my kids and run off or anything.  Everyone in my household will be properly cared for.  The responsibility thing runs deep in me.  Too deep maybe.  What I'm saying, though, is I don't think I need that safe and steady thing anymore, or at least not in the way that I needed it when I was younger.  When I was younger I wanted stability and consistency.  I didn't want Good Times--I wanted Safe Times.  Little personal risk.  Some other person to hold me up and maybe shoulder some of my responsibilities.  I wanted a responsibility sharer, if that's even a thing.  Someone who shared paying bills, raising kids, keeping a home running, standing by me while I grew up.  I think I'm explaining it mostly right.

But since Bill left, I have figured out that I am kind of a bad ass by myself.  A lot of the things I didn't think I could do were actually just things I didn't want to do.  Big difference.  And a lot of the things I thought I had to do I learned that I didn't actually have to do.  I'm finding that fluidity and flexibility and yielding to change are all necessary to my survival.  And my happiness.

So I'm going to embrace the idea, or at least my idea, of becoming a Good Time Girl.  I'm not quite sure what that means yet but I think it probably will include some late nights, lots of laughing until my stomach hurts and beer comes out my nose, excellent talks with fun people, and probably a few painful mistakes along the way.

Funny thing about pain......I don't know that I even feel it acutely anymore, it's become such a constant for me.  Not sure if that's good or bad.  But I do know that I'm going to try to suppress my Good Girl mindset for now and fully embrace the Good Time Girl methodology.  Whatever that may be.

Quotes

I love Pinterest.  I love searching for recipes and ideas for new hair styles.  I am inspired by garden pins and decorating ideas.  But most of all I love the quotes that show up in my feed.  I love quotes.  Actually, I love words in general so loving quotes is just another medium for my fondness of written expression.

I save any quote that speaks to me.  I've archived funny quotes and salty quotes.  Nasty quotes and dark ones, too.  There are inspiring quotes and brutally honest quotes that seem custom written for me.  I think that if a person were to look over my Pinterest quotes board they would be able to get an accurate feel for what kind of person I am and where I've been. They might also be a little scared, but hey, I'd rather be scary and real than fake and complacent.

Occasionally I will read through my quotes and see if any of them need to be deleted because they no longer serve their purpose in my life.  Usually though when I search through those words I am reminded of who I am.  I forget this important fact sometimes.   Life has a sneaky way of making me forget myself.

I spent the weekend, quietly, and alone.  Well, I'm never really by myself, but I was alone for the night so that counts--at least in my book.  I cleaned the house, painted a table, went on a long run, and started editing my Pinterest boards.  Honestly, I was looking for a little inspiration in my world and it seemed like Pinterest was as good a place as any to start.  I edited mercilessly.  Threw out the overly-churchy quotes.  Tossed the passive aggressive quotes and figured that being honest and candid was a more pragmatic approach to dealing with idiots.  I deleted many, many inspirational quotes about being positive and being kind.  Frankly, I'm kinda tired of being kind to people who don't deserve my kindness.  How's that for candid?!

What did I keep?  Which words did I allow to remain as representatives of me, my thoughts, my intentions?  Oh, I kept plenty.  There seems to be a common theme with whisky quotes and statements about how to deal with assholes.  There are snippets about setting boundaries (which everyone knows I'm unable to do) and not worrying about other people.  I kept lots of lines of poetry, Atticus and Alfa leading the way. (Haven't heard of them?  Look them up.)  Oh, and lots of Hemingway. (Bill would be so happy, though not as happy as if it were Melville.)  Hemingway, despite his tragic demise, was a bad ass, with all the drinking and adventuring and fishing he wrote about.  Girl can dream......

But the concept I found to be most relevant and pertinent to me right now today was patience. Patience and I are not well acquainted.  Maybe it's from losing Bill--I understand, all too well, how short life can be and how quickly everything can change.  I operate on a different time frame now.  I understand how this tendency can read as impulsive, but I assure you it is not.  Spend a few hours in my head and you'll see just how much thought I put into every decision.  And I do mean Every.  Freaking.  One.   Having recognized this tendency now,  both subconsciously and at the surface level, I have withdrawn, figuratively,  from the world for a while.  I just want to sit patiently (yay, patience!) and see what unfolds.  No chasing or manipulating or forcing anything.  Just waiting.  And watching.  And learning.

Like I said before, patience and I are not good friends.  But we're quietly learning to respect each other.

One Hot Mess

I cried in the middle of Dick's Sporting Goods the other day.  I've actually done this before so I guess it's no surprise that I would do it again.

Yes indeed, I was a hot mess.  Kinda think it's my MO these days.

Expanding on that image......

I sat down with Jon tonight and asked him to explain football to me.  Now I understand the basic concepts and strategies about football--I'm not totally ignorant to the sport.  God knows I've watched enough of it that I'd be a damn fool not to have picked up at least a little something.  But I was more interested in having Jon explain it to me in order to see if he actually understood what he was supposed to be doing.  Isn't there a saying about not fully understanding something until you've taught it to another person?  That's what I was trying to do, I guess.

The kid knows his stuff.  Like drew me pictures and stuff and explained each position in great detail  to me.  He showed me how and why certain plays were better than others.  He even explained the secret codes (my words) of the plays.  Yeah, he knows what he's talking about and I was impressed.

And then I was sad and had to go into the field and cry with the cows for a while.  See, I shouldn't have to be the person raising these kids by myself.  I shouldn't have to do things like buy girdles (with the knee pads because that's super important apparently!) and decide which cleats (high top or low) were appropriate for a receiver (Low ones, I know.).  I'm so tired of being the person who tells these kids about stuff I really don't know about.  Ever watch a YouTube video to learn how to throw a curve ball or how to correct a batting stance or move around a scope on a gun?  Well I have and I freaking hate every part of it.

I suppose all parents feel inept at some point in their parenting career.  But let me tell you that I have never felt more incapable of raising these kids than I have in the past year.  When I think ahead to all that I still have left to teach or impart to these kids (driving lessons?  dating?  making bad decisions?) I am nearly paralyzed by fear and the feeling of insurmountable responsibility.

I've got no co-parent.  I've got no one but me.  And I'm a hot mess.

Running

I had a nightmare the other night.  Hadn't had one in many, many years.  I actually woke up, completely disoriented and covered in sweat, and could not go back to sleep.  I was afraid.  Like heart pounding, irrationally afraid of the dark.

I can't remember exactly what the dream was about.  Something was trying to get me and I was trying to kill it but I didn't know if I could actually kill it or if I should try to reason with it.  Yeah, I'm sure there's some deep-seated meaning to the imagery of this dream.  I honestly don't want to know what the hell it means.

What I do know is that I was all alone that night and maybe that's why I was so scared.  There was no one to laugh at me or tell me that I'd be alright.  There was no one to get me a cookie or hold my hand until my heart quit pounding.  There was no one to play with my hair until I fell back to sleep either.  Instead, I just got out of my bed, burned a little sage, lit a candle, and read for a while.  Eventually I fell back asleep.

So I think this is why I need to run.

I've always been a runner--not a fast runner or a long distance runner.  I like to keep it to 3-4 miles 3-4 days a week.  Until a few years ago at least.  And then I found myself tying my shoes and heading out the door every single day for about an hour.  I suppose I was attempting to run from my sadness.  I was probably trying to use the running as a way to process what was happening in my life.  I'd suggest that I was even trying to run myself figuratively into nothingness but I like to eat too much to actually let that happen.  I think it's just my coping method of choice.  I like how it represents running away without actually, well, running away.  I dated a guy for a while and spent all my free time running--should've been a sign that maybe I should've literally run away that time.

With all that running I did I actually hurt myself and ended up with a string of injuries that prevented my daily running therapy/ritual.  It scared me not to be able to use my representative escape.  I even convinced myself that, like a smoker, it was probably good to see if I could exist without my vice (running and smoking are very different vices--yeah, I know) for a while.  You see, I am quite good at convincing myself of just about anything.  Just about anything.  Remember that.   I healed and started running again but not as much as I had in the previous year.   I didn't need to.  My world was full of kids and work and friends and introspection as I maneuvered through my new life.  I didn't think I needed to figuratively or literally run away anymore.

But then I had that bad dream.

When you use a muscle repeatedly you build and maintain that muscle.  When you stop using the muscle it will atrophy.  Simple physiology.  And then it made sense to me what had happened.  When I stopped running I also stopped being alone.  At least temporarily.  But see, I am alone, so trying to pretend otherwise allowed that reality to atrophy and I lost the strength to be alone.  I need that muscle or whatever the hell it is to get strong again so I don't ever have to feel the way I felt at 2AM.

Self preservation and running are solitary pursuits, best left to the broken hearted.  Or so I'm finding. I have a new pair of shoes,  a new running bra (having boobs that don't enjoy the bouncing), and a mind and heart that don't agree on much but can be easily convinced to run.  

Dinner

I had a friend one time who told me that he knew a woman was upset when she ate ice cream for dinner.  Directly out of the carton.  I believe he was on to something here.

But what does it mean when you eat ice cream for dinner and drink whisky for dessert?  Also directly out of the container?

There is a kind of tired that goes beyond the physical feeling of exhaustion.  There is a tired that renders a person numb and unfeeling.  That kind of tired goes all the way to the depths of your soul.  Void.  Emotionless.  Hopeless.  Alone.

I think that’s the kind of tired that makes a person eat ice cream for dinner and drink whisky out of the bottle.

I’m wondering if there’s a cure for that feeling?  No amount of sleep offers relief.  No activity can spark a reaction.  No recklessness or pursuit of adventure can create any lasting shred of excitement.  

Nothing but monotony and beige and silence.  

That’s not entirely true, I suppose.  I guess that patience will eventually offer up some sort of new proposition.  But do we take a wild leap and accept that offer?  Or are we so frozen and stuck that we don’t even recognize it?  Or maybe even disregard it completely for reasons we don’t even understand?

I like to be tired.  I like the feeling of sore, fatigued muscles.  I run. I lift weights.  I do yoga.  I do farm chores and garden and cut wood.  I know tired.  Tired quiets the words and ideas that flow in the mind.  Tired makes your bed feel that much softer.  I know tired.

But when I go to bed tonight there won’t be dishes or cups left in my kitchen sink.  There will only be one spoon.

I knew this lady......

I met this lady a few years ago.  I believe the first words we said to each other were spoken over the quartered carcass of an elk in the back of a pickup.  But the words she spoke to me were words that instantly drew me to her.  I don't recall the exact exchange but it was something similar to, "You've got some good boys right here!  I can see what kind of kids they are."  Nothing overly gushy or fawning, just honest and simple words.

And that's how that lady was.

I admit that I know not much about this lady's early years.  She didn't spend much time talking about herself.  But when I would ask her a question she would certainly give me an answer that was complete and usually peppered with humor.  I like to get an idea of how people grew up and how they choose to live and make decisions in order to best understand the person they are now.  I've been told I ask too many questions but my intent is only to discern an individual to help relate with them at a deeper level.  In my mind that always seems like a good idea.  I think maybe part of the reason she didn't divulge much without being prodded was because she was more interested in other people's stories.  I think that she, too, wanted to quietly understand the depth of those around her.

This lady took on a relationship with my little family with absolutely no judgment or expectations.  She included us, stinky-sock boys and all, in her life.  She offered words of support and love to me when needed.  She surprised me with little gifts on occasion.  Never a loud or flashy presence.  Just a quiet entrance into the room, with a smile on her face and a gentle hug, and a genuine interest for what was happening in my life.  At a time in my life when there was more turmoil and heartache than I was prepared for this lady took on the role of supporter, encourager, pseudo-grandmother, and dear friend.

This lady exhibited a soft fierceness of dedication to her family.  I do believe her greatest joy was watching her kids and her grand kids living their lives.  Her pride in them all was obvious by the smile on her face when she would talk about them.  No matter what, this lady was going to be on their side!  Never did I hear a negative word about anyone.  I suppose she just concentrated on the good stuff and chose to ignore the other.

So I think the lessons I will take away from this lady are pretty simple.  Be present.  Be kind.  Be thoughtful.  Don't be flamboyant or arrogant.  Be accepting and don't judge.  Love your family and friends tirelessly.  Live quietly and work hard.

Yeah, I knew this lady.  And she was great.  And I'm going to miss her.

Public Service Announcement

So I feel like I need to make a public announcement regarding myself.  It has been brought to my attention (over and over ad nauseam) that there has been speculation about 1) my sanity,  2) my lifestyle,  3) what/who I'm talking about,  4) who I'm spending time with,  5) my devious plans to reek havoc amongst the living.

Now excuse me whilst I fall over, clutching my stomach and laughing hysterically.

I will not offer explanations (or excuses, so I'm told) about anything.  I don't have to and here's why:

My world is small.  I basically just get up, go to work, take care of my family, occasionally spend some time with a few (very few) well-chosen and well-trusted friends, and generally keep to myself.  I prioritize my children above all else and that easy choice leaves precious little time for anything more.  Certainly not ample enough time to plot and deceive or live in debauchery.

I'll say it again:  my world is small.

I don't trust very many people these days.   I divulge very little to anyone because I don't have much confidence in any one's ability to hold my information without speculating and using their own perceptions to make unjust conclusions.  Best to keep quiet and smile I'm finding.  Hell, it seems that I can't even go to the grocery store anymore without some sort of unwanted fallout.  Ridiculousness.

Rest assured, dear reader, that any words that come out of my mouth are probably something similar to, "Did you put away your laundry yet?" or "Would you please quit making slime."  It is highly doubtful that I am speaking with malicious intentions about anyone or anything else.  Except my car--I  freaking hate my car and will talk smack about that POS any chance I get.  The older I get the more I surmise that you should only believe half of what you see and nothing of what you hear.

My inappreciable free time is not spent with corrupt, depraved people or wicked pastimes.  High school sporting events can be sketchy places, as can 4-H meetings.  I know.  But we try to keep the immorality to a minimum at these places.  Kids being present and all.  *insert eye roll here *  I do imbibe regularly and there are, gasp, beer bottles or cans and a few bottles of whisky in my home but the last time I looked at my driver's license I was well over the age of 21 so I think this is not a problem.  And the unscrupulous act of knitting, well, I just will have to accept that it will never be a decent activity for some people.  And don't even get me started on my dubious yard work habits or my contentious running practice.

My sanity is the same as it always has been.  Moderately questionable but definitely intact.  What I want to know is how come people say you're crazy simply because you do something differently than them?  Or you make a choice that is not the same as what they'd make?  I just call that different not crazy. I mean if you don't like donuts (you're stupid) and I love them does that make you insane?  If you think football is torturous to watch but I spend my Sundays in front of the TV binging on the grid iron should one of us be considered deranged?   You say tomatoe, I say tomato.

Yeah, so that's my announcement.  If you are not a part of my world that's OK.  I still hope for peace and happiness for you.  All I ask is that I am allowed to be left alone by those who choose not to be a part of my sphere.  Please let me have some quiet and stillness.

hurt

cause mental pain or distress to (a person or their feelings).

"she didn't want to hurt his feelings"

synonyms:

distress, pain, wound, sting, upset, sadden, devastate, grieve, mortify; cut to the quick "his words hurt her"

Today

I miss you.

Every day.

Nothing of the past three years should be part of my story.

You should be here with us.  You would make it all go away.

Jack

I'm listening to the wind howl around the house today and I'm thinking about the morning you were born.  It wasn't windy then.  In fact it was bitterly cold.  Cold and clear and still.  Kind of the opposite of today's weather.

Kind of the opposite.  My life's story......

You were not an easy baby.  I mean, you weren't colicky or anything like that, but after how easy of a baby your sister was, well, you seemed kind of hard to us.  You didn't like to sleep until you were ready and you were stubborn about nearly everything.  You were happiest with your hammer and a length of rope or chain.  You could watch John Deere tractor videos for hours and you loved going to work with your Dad.  I'm sure I read the book "100 Trucks" to you at least 10 times every day.    That's how I know the difference between a backhoe and a front end loader to this day.  You spent hours outside, no matter the weather, playing with your trucks in the sandbox and creating high-lead logging sites with the clothesline, the swing set, or the maple tree.  I think we went through 3 or 4 toy power saws during this time too.  And then you figured out how to use Dad's hand saws and all of the trees (and patio supports and arborvitaes) ended up girdled with saw marks.  You would only wear a few well-chosen outfits but suspenders were always the accessory of choice.  That and your hard hat.  Fast forward a few years and I can picture you, same clothing choice, with your saw, hand cutting firewood to sell in Virginia.  By the time we moved away our woods were definitely thinner.  During this time you learned to appreciate history and watched all those history movies with your Dad--especially the Civil War ones.  Baseball became your sport of choice and your Pop taught you how to fix, maintain, and build saws.  It was then that you started to amaze us with your analytical ability as a mechanic.  While other kids were playing video games you were fixing motors.  You spent your hard earned money on saw parts and axes.  Once we moved back to Oregon you moved on to Big Red and any other motor you could get your hands on.  Your stubbornness became apparent again as no one, and I mean no one, could persuade you to do something that you didn't want to do. Ahem.

You've had a pretty eventful 18th year.  You finished your schooling (can I get a "thank God"?).  You had a stellar year in baseball and earned all-league accolades.  And you started working full time as a timber faller.  Yep, you were lucky enough to have the opportunity to do exactly what you've always wanted to do.  Not a lot of people can do that.  But I figured you would find a way to make it happen so I'm not surprised really.

I'm pretty sure your Pop would be proud of the man you're becoming.  He would tell you how proud he was of your hard work.  He might critique you're falling, but that wasn't exactly his way either, so maybe he wouldn't.  I know he would be envious of your mechanic ability--he hated working on stuff.   I know that he would love your pickup.  He was always a Ford guy.  He would have loved to have you as a hunting partner.  And he would have loved to spend a weekend at Marion Lake with you too.  Probably eating those nasty toasted tuna sandwiches that he loved to cook over a fire.

Sometimes I worry that you've had to take on a role that you aren't ready for.  Losing your Dad and being the oldest son is a heavy burden to carry and you haven't had a lot of guidance and support these last few years.  I'm thankful for the lessons and habits that your Dad was able to instill in you but I still worry that I've failed you.  A Mom can't take the place of a Dad.  There's just too much that I don't get about boys and men.  I try but I know I fall short and that makes me sad.  I've had to stand back and watch some cruel, heartless things happen to you and I haven't been able to make any of it better.  I hate that.

I hope your 19th year is a good year.  One filled with new experiences, good people, and nice timber.  Keep working hard and forget about shitty people and the shitty things they do (or say).  Be honest and kind to everyone, whether they deserve it or not.  Brush your teeth and wear your retainer.  Keep your sock drawer filled with good socks and change them often.  Pay for a girl's dinner but don't get fooled by a gold digger.  Treat all girls respectfully and remember that often times girls are lacking self esteem so give them a sincere compliment.  Be the kind of guy who makes people feel good when they think of you.  Wear your tin hat and chaps when you're working.  Always.  Empty the sawdust out of your pockets before you wash your work clothes--your washing machine will thank you.  Never buy cheap laundry detergent or cheap toilet paper.  Trust me on this.  Always take the time to ask people how they're doing and never miss an opportunity to hold a baby.  Put the bathmat up after you take a shower so it will dry and not get mildewy.

No matter what, I'm always going to be your Mom.  I can't promise that I'll support you in every choice you make but I will always be honest with you and try to help you.

I love you, J.  Happy birthday.