Author: bifocalsandbarbells

Somebody said I should blog. I'm easily influenced. Here's the proof!

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Blogolicious

Places

On the hallway wall of my parents house was a framed map of the world. I used to pull a number of chairs from the dining room and line them up in the hall pretending it was an airplane. I’d look at the map and let my imagination determine my destination. Heaven forbid if I had any cousins or friends over because they’d have to accompany me on whatever journey lie ahead. I’d be the fake pilot. Obviously. Maybe this is how you spent your 20’s too (see, it’s funny because it was really in the elementary school days; old enough read but still young enough to imagine. A truly magical time.)

As is the same today, I knew very little of the big wide world. To get the best fake trips, I’d have to fly my vinyl covered chair to places that I’d heard something about, or places that could be found in the first few letters of. The alphabet.

Also the same as today, I liked to flex my curiosity muscle. I’m not sure which came first, the curiosity or the encyclopedias, but since it was WAY pre-google, they were my source for imagination fascination fuel. The Funk and Wagnall encyclopedias came from Safeway, but they were a limited time deal. As a result, all my “travel” and school projects landed somewhere in the zone of A-D. It was plenty of material.

I thank my ‘rents for instilling a sense of adventure and excitement about seeing new places. I knew how to pretend plane because I’d been to Dad’s home state of Minnesota. I was also prepared to play “gallery visits” from all the art we’d seen, but oddly I didn’t play that. Did you guys know that there are art galleries in Disneyland?! If you’re wondering who would look at them, it’s artists, and their less enthused children.

Seeing new places changes perspectives. For me, it’s creates a greater sense of community and understanding of humanity. It also builds confidence. When you survive the night in the sketchy hotel, you can feel a sense of accomplishment. And just the wonder of seeing new things; different mountains, landscapes that looks like a looney tunes cartoon, 1,300 foot tall smoke stacks, so many things that you’d have never known about had you chosen to be still and not adventure. There’s a great big world out there. No need to just treasure the parts you see every day.

The fake flights in the Amen Lane house hallway no longer happen. Which is good enough since the in flight meal service really sucked. But I do still look at maps and think about places I want to see. Luckily there’s Daniel. Chasing him around the country gives me a chance to see stuff. It also makes me feel good that he’s comfortable checking out new places too.

Passion for new experiences is such a wonderful gift for a parent to give their children. You parents who sign up for the long drives, the million potty stops, the battery of questions; you are the true MVPs!

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious

Make Your Heart Race

The anticipation grew. I knew the Star Spangled Banner would be starting any second. In a cruel twist of fate, I was stuck in the bathroom. I started to feel a sense of panic. I’d seen the drivers head to the podium already, but being behind a broken door could quite likely prevent me from seeing the start up of the nitro cars at the NHRA drags.

Luckily, the soothing sounds of crickets brought me back to reality. Instead of being stuck in a restroom, my phone was alerting me that it was 4:20. Time to wake and get on the road.

Next weekend is the Sonoma drag races. I am sitting in the copilot’s seat of an aging Dodge pickup for 2200 miles over the next 3.5 days. So,….it’s not that I’m excited to go down and back to Sonoma next weekend; but thankfully I already know it will completely worth it.

To get this out of the way; yes, I have a celebrity crush on funny car driver Matt Hogan. But my obsession with this event started before he started driving. So,..(tongue sticking out).

Sometimes the drags would be on in the house when I was a kid. It didn’t lead to passion for the sport. And if you’ve seen it on TV, maybe you’ve felt the same. “Cool Crystal. The cars drive fast in a straight line for 1,300 feet. Big deal.”

Then Brian’s work soul mate Aaron invited him to go. I passively told my toddlers, “Look for daddy on TV.” I hoped they wouldn’t get too excited trying to find him; that Walmart TV stand was working hard to hold up the 100+ pound TV. They could’ve been crushed at any moment. They lived. They didn’t see Daddy. But when he got home, his excitement didn’t make sense.

The next year was a family trip. I advise any parent challenge themselves by parenting 3 and 5 year olds in that setting. Ear protection is needed so any verbal parenting is ineffective. The drive was long. The traffic was tough. The sunscreening alone was a lot of work. I wasn’t sure if it was all going to be worth it.

Then. Nitro.

There is no feeling like it. You just be still and bask in absolute power. Raw, unadulterated force. Ugh.

The experience is surreal. Hearing protection makes it seem other worldly. The decrease in hearing is waaaay more than made up for when you feel the rapid thumps on your chest from the best internal combustion engines have to offer. You’re surrounded by 15,000 of your closest friends, but there’s enough energy to more than go around.

After the first startup, I was a believer.

Aside from stupid Carr fire and stupid pandemic, I’ve been every year since.

The action is fast paced and built for someone with my attention span. The long races last about 12 seconds. In the fast races, pilots get their cars up to over 300 miles per hour in less than 4 seconds. If I had even the brain I’m most jealous of, I still couldn’t describe it with justice.

After each 4 second race, the teams have 75 minutes in which they completely rebuild the engines. While they do this, they also are very approachable and fan centric (hence the growing collage that it my Matt Hagan photos). I know nothing about engines and cars, but even I can be impressed with efficiency and exacting work. You get to be right in the middle of it. People flock to the pit of the car most likely to do it’s test start next, challenging themselves to get the closest or stay the longest as the air fills with nitro exhaust. With tearing eyes and wide smiles, they clap cheer and wander off to the next car.

I’ve been lucky in that some of my years were spent camping there, making a serious adventure out of it. Feeling like we owned the place after the cars stopped running and the kids would ride their bikes on the track or drive my poor little blue civic at it’s “top speed.” Once a year, turn 8 was home. They were truly incredible trips, but time moves on and it’s not a part of my story anymore.

But obsessing over the chance to get to feel that power still is. It hasn’t waned in it’s ability to impress me in even the slightest way. It’s like each time is the only time. The races are in Denver this weekend. The whole production will up and move over a couple days to our wine country to delight the fans and flex their capitalist muscle. I get giddy anytime I’ve been lucky enough to see one of the trucks. I don’t think I’ll see any on this drive, but I’m learning my geography sucks. I thought I’d go through Corning on the way to Wyoming. (Master’s degree)

But I’ll see them next weekend. If you ever get a chance, go. You won’t regret it. Just make sure you go to the bathroom well before the national anthem so you don’t risk getting stuck and missing the first start up. (Seriously….who dreams that?!)

Thanks for reading!

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Social Worky

Thanks for Staying Cake

Where is that emo Alanis Morrisette when you need her? Because I got some shit that’s pretty ironic she should sing about.

We do a silly thing at work called “Thanks for Staying” cake. Probably close to 7 years ago now, there was a bitch session with some of the folks at my work after we’d had cake to celebrate someone’s departure. “Hey! Why do we have cake when people leave? Shouldn’t we have cake when people stay?”

And thus a tradition was born.

It’s a silly gesture that in no way makes up for what folks at my job give up to be there. But it’s an effort on the part of the leadership team to show that people who stay on are appreciated “We can’t change your work, we can’t change your pay, but here’s some sugar that says you’re important.”

It’s mock worthy if someone’s so inclined, but it really comes from a pure place. The entire leadership team contributes and hopes everyone knows that they are valued. We seem to really key in to the need for this event in times like we’re in right now. Times when there’s been a mini exodus of workers and those left behind are feeling more and more pressure.

My cake ordering has been dialed in for a few years. It’s always been smooth. I followed my same protocol this time. My Alanis moment came when the store called me 2 days before cake to advise of the following: “We’re sorry. We’re not going to be able to fill your order. We are too short staffed to do custom cakes.”

My “thanks for staying cakes”?! A little too ironic, don’t you think?

Never fear, there’s a solution. Cake day will still happen, but it just sheds a little light on the big picture of employment right now.

I went to Oregon a couple of weeks ago. It was a lot of seat time. I was stunned about all the places that had giant signs up looking for workers. My ass is old enough that I’ve cruised through a couple recessions. Times when people were begging for work and it just wasn’t there. And now, Child Welfare, cake bakers, mechanics, and more just can’t fill spots. It’s wild.

I expect the world will get back to some version of normal. I’m not sure when or what the long term implications will be, but pendulum swings are inevitable.

In the meantime, it makes me even more appreciative of those at my work. Every single person that works there is capable of making money some easier way. They are all bright strong individuals.

That being said, it’s clearly not the money that makes them stay. There’s a lot of reasons people are drawn to the work that we do; personal experience, attempts at altruism, a need to be constantly challenged, to name a few.

The reasons they stay are just as varied; sense of family with coworkers, personal sense of responsibility, mortgages, whatever.

Sometimes whatever drew them to the work is no longer enough. And that’s okay too. Child welfare is not something that just anyone can do or sustain. There’s no shame in that.

But those of us who can’t imagine what it would be like to have a normal job stay on. And in times like these, it’s really easy to get toxic about the situation. Negativity takes less work. Remaining positive requires us to look at what we can control, maintain our physical health, set boundaries with those who just can’t seem to stop bitching. That’s a lot of work at a time when everyone already has a lot of work.

These times suck, but it will get better. It always does. One of the things about the machine that is child welfare is that it will go on regardless of barriers in it’s way. There’s no new crop of cyborg county workers headed our way, but pendulum swings are inevitable.

So in the meantime, buckle up, check on your friends, eat your cake and know none of it can stop you from choosing every day to do great things.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Social Worky

Child Welfare Needs Joe Rogan

Child welfare needs Joe Rogan’s help. Yes, that Joe Rogan. The same one who was the funny guy in the tv show. The witty comedian who helped us all watch people do gross or scary things while he openly mocked them or leered at them.

Not to stereotype child welfare social workers, but I would guess that most haven’t paid attention to  Joe Rogan in a while. The social work type are probably busy watching other kinder, gentler things. But while they weren’t watching, Joe Rogan has become an icon of our time.

He’s insightful, knowledgeable, balanced, incredibly connected, and outspoken. He’s also a fan of the ganja and still hilarious.

And that’s where we need him. (Or someone like him)

If I had to make a blanket statement about the use of marijuana, I would say that I’m not opposed to it. It’s not a thing for me, but that doesn’t mean that it can’t be a thing for you. But can it be harmful? Absolutely.

With it’s legalization, we’ve kind of strayed from remembering that. I’ve only been a child welfare social worker for 17 ish years. But that’s enough time to be able to see trends and changes. On the upside, we’ve seen weed go from being a completely illicit substance that would generate big reactions from CPS to the thing that people were willing to say they were disabled to be able to use it, to straight up legalization. In those changing environments, it can be easy to lose sight of the bigger picture.

Just because something is legal doesn’t mean it won’t be abused. If you’ve any doubt, I encourage you to look at our old buddy alcohol. You’ve been able to buy it next to the milk at your local store for every. It’s been legal for most of it’s time in existence, still fucks up relationships and families with extreme efficiency.  

But also looking at ye olde alcohol, we know that there are tons of people who can use in moderation or use in such a way that the safety of their children is not impacted. In my non weed user opinion, I believe the same can be true for marijuana.

But here’s the problem.

If child welfare is looking at a situation in which marijuana use could be a contributing factor to a child being in danger, it’s likely that we are going to drug test the person. The challenge with weed is; if you test positive for me today, I don’t know if that means that you used a little today, or a lot at some point in the last few weeks. That information could make or break a situation when social services is at your door. Maybe the pot I’m reading on your test was from last weekend when nothing bad happened. But if I can’t tell, I also have to wonder if you used pot the morning your baby got out in the street. It’s a serious complication.

I imagine it’s a problem for other places too. Such as industrial jobs where reflexes and acuity are important. If there’s an accident, it would be nice to be able to show that the thc the worker tested positive for was from his weekend time and not from the day of the thing.

I don’t think Joe Rogan can fix this on his own, but I think he can help. Dude’s had Jordan Peterson, Elon Musk, Lex Fridman, and Neil deGrasse Tyson on his show. Brilliant minds, every one. None have a noted specialty in restructuring marijuana drug testing, but I bet they know a guy.

I don’t know Joe Rogan or anyone who does. I mean, my brother did shoot pool with him one time, but I don’t think that’ll get me what I’m after. So, if you do know Joe Rogan, or some other person who can benefit humanity by improving drug testing; please ask them to do child welfare a solid and help us out.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Stories about my fam

Whatcha Dune?

“This is how I found them!” Gino gleefully yelled to Brian after he had come upon Sally and I trying to fix the quandry we’d gotten ourselves into on our quads deep in the expansive sand dunes of the Oregon coast.

He’d crested a dune and happened upon us not knowing what the hell we needed to do to get back on the road. We were eager to be strong independent women able to manage any adversity. We openly mocked the dune princesses who were content to let others solve their problems for them. But here we were, stuck with the a proverbial pickle jar that we could not open.

Gino and Brian thought it was hilarious. Sally and I not so much. But it didn’t stop us.

My family got into quad riding because my father in law. The boys were little, 4 ish and 6 ish, when the riding started. To this day, they will still call him 4 wheeler grandpa.

Sally, Gino, and their boys were also in to this hobby, and that made for the perfect recipe for some truly incredible trips. The first trips, I would watch and maybe take a solo turn on some hunting 4 wheeler that had been brought along. But then this one time, I took a ride in to Eureka from Somoa with my parents with the intent of buying a sweatshirt.

But there she was, a shiny new Suzuki Z 400. “It can’t hurt to take it for a test drive,” I lied to myself.

In the gravel of the alley behind the dealership, I saddled up. I killed the machine initially. Then, me and unexpected pep made a mess of the pebble. I grinned manically as I lost, then regained control of the bike, fishtailing down that alley. I was hooked. We bought it. And all the gear. ALL! Obviously, the Paolis gave me much deserved shit when we got back to camp. “Buying a sweatshirt, huh?”

For the next several years, we spent any chance we could getting the family to the dunes to ride. Sally and I would capitalize on the C minus (Coors Light) effect to insure that the men would sleep in later than us. We would get up before light and sneak out of camp leaving them in charge of the brood of boys. The feeling of riding pristine dunes is indescribable (at least by me). The machines have the go so that it feels like all it takes is to point your goggled and helmeted face in a direction and suddenly you’re there. Exhilarating!

I mostly chased Sally with her pony tail whipping behind her in the breeze she created. Maybe not surprisingly, I also ran into Sally when I wasn’t paying attention. Ironically, this crash resulted in breaking the part of my quad that was the home for the “Girls Kick Ass” sticker. I wish I was lying.

After the mom role would kick in, we would toddle around with the boys while the men did men things like racing random strangers after not a word of conversation but with just a look and a nod. Or seeing how far they could jump. Or maybe seeing what they could break.

Thankfully the injuries incurred were all recoverable; but we learned a lot about Grandma’s level of sympathy for 4 Wheeler Grandpa’s shenanigans. He rolled slowly up to the camp following my dad holding his arm in the universal position of “I just broke my collar bone.” She didn’t hesitate, she didn’t ask him anything. She immediately turned to Brian and said “I’m not driving the truck home.” Off to the Eureka hospital they went, where it was learned the collar bone was indeed broken.

I too had my share of wipeouts, but since I’m such a chicken they were mostly low speed. I learned that if you’re thinking it’s a good idea to put the bike in neutral so you can push it UP the dune out of it’s mess; you’d be wrong like I was. That was the first time I was run over stem to stern. The next time was when I landed poorly on a jump, endo’d, got sucked right under my quad. I’ve also rolled my quad down a dune. Thankfully (*eyeroll) there was a big crowd present so I was able to hear a collective gasp. Also thankfully, this was pre-smart phones. Thank God for well engineered safety equipment.

We stayed with it a while, upgrading the boy’s ride and such, but things in life got busy. The dunes aren’t close and getting there took a lot. Eventually we got rid of my bike and Brian’s go-fast bike. Then the kids’ machines got the axe. But no one can take the memories. Rides, food, stories, and watching the boys grow. Now the next generation has got back in the game. Daniel bought a beautiful quad and even though he’s been the worldy man of education, he’s still managed to get that bike to many places. He also knows how to pay a speeding ticket in Nevada now, but that’s another story.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Growing up Stories about my fam

Hit the Road Jack

Holiday ro-oh-oh-oh…d! Tis the season of road trips. I was lucky to have one per summer growing up. My mom is from LA; specifically Norwalk but as you know for us Far Nor Cal residents, anything south of SF is LA.

My parents moved to Cottonwood from LA when I was 5. Since my grandparents were still in Norwalk that meant that until Grandpa retired from Bender Machine Shop, my mom would load Josh and I in the family truckster each summer to see them.

My mom is a strong independent human so it was nothing for her to load up 2 kids by herself and head south for 12 hours. Remember this was not long after women were granted the privilege to vote so a solo trip, this was a big deal. Okay, it was a few decades after suffrage, but still impressive. There were no cell phones or GPS, vulernability was real. But nothing would stop her from getting down to see her folks.

It’s weird that when I think back to those trips, I don’t remember hours and hours of driving. Maybe she implemented something like I landed on when taking my boys on a very long trip; give them a mountain dew and a video game the night before. When they’d stay up till o’dark thirty, they’d sleep quite a ways on whatever adventure they were being taken on. Maybe we were “teething” and had “medicine” (kidding…I think).

But I do remember parts of the trips though. There was music. Specifically Reader’s digest compilations. The first trips I remember, the Reader’s Digest 8 tracks played in the caprice classic brown station wagon with the vinyl “wood paneling” on the sides. I’ve spent time as a grown up trying to find lists of those songs so I could make my own playlist of the gold that would entertain as we got closer to grandparents. The songs evoke warm fuzzy feeling because they meant we were nearing adventures at Disneyland or whatever other place we were scheduled to be still spoiled.

Songs I can remember for sure include “Big Bad John,” “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” and “Hit the Road Jack.” Every so often I’ll hear a song that was on those 8 tracks and be instantly transported back in time. I can almost smell the churros and dole whip.

While most of the trip was a blur, I distinctly remember mom eagerly trying to find Buttonwillow to get her Orange Julius fix. I don’t know how many of the attempts to hit Buttonwillow actually resulted in landing in that exact right town, but I do remember those Juliuses(?) Juli(?). There was nothing like them any where near home. It was like I’d moved to a whole other country. A fancy country that smelled like oranges (and perhaps cattle if we missed Buttonwillow by a lot).

The next consistently memorable marker of these adventures was The Grapevine. There would be praying out loud to whichever saint was pressed in plastic and affixed to the dash. My mom would pat above the radio and encourage the car to behave well, “C’mon Betsy. You can do it. No breakdowns.” (If the car’s name wasn’t Betsy, it should have been). While it may sound like we were traveling in a jalopy, we weren’t. My mom’s always had cars you can count on. But that didn’t take away the fear. I guess as a kid, she saw pretty decent wipeouts there. I remember that I would panic too and offer the car version of clapping when a plane lands when we got to the other side. “Gawd! It’s so good to still be alive!”

We’d then run in to traffic. I’d peer in all the other cars expecting to see a movie star. I never did. But that didn’t stop me from looking next summer. You never know; maybe Harrison Ford would just be out on The 5 in a nice maroon CVCC or a Monte Carlo.

Our stays in Norwalk were always filled with love. Grammy would excitedly show us the new cacti she’d added googly eyes to. Grandpa would capitalize on our visit by making Grammy get ice cream and cookies that he liked more than us. I would get to see this crazy thing called MTV on something wild called “cable tv.” Just good times all around.

I would come back to Cottonwood after a week as though I’d just returned from a semester studied abroad in Paris. I’d regale with tales of places like In-N-Out burger or Medieval Times.

It’s a lot of work to take kids on a big trip. I’m very thankful that my family made it look easy. For me, it built memories that I can still enjoy today and made me unafraid to take adventures with my boys. If you’re making the road trip, enjoy the planning, enjoy the drive, and know that they won’t remember stopping every 25 minutes to pee, they’ll remember the music and that you made it happen.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
I Work Out Personal Growth (or not)

They Call Me Johnny Utah

“Did you have a spiritual awakening?”
“I didn’t want to, but there were muthafuck’n dolphins”

My expectations around the plan of trying to learn to surf hovered in more shallow conditions that the first few feet of ocean we walked out in to; maybe some cool stories, maybe some cool pictures, most importantly though a test of if I can. I very much enough being tested. So on those shallow premises; I booked a surf lesson to commemorate turning 50.

I’m not what you’d call a “water person.” I do love to be on my paddleboard, but I’m also quite certain I’ll drown if I swim more than 5 feet from the boat in the middle of the lake.

I know those people who are absolutely recharged by the very nearness of an ocean. I admire that, but for me that body of water is intimidating.

That coupled with the fact that I swim like a rock made it so there were a number of ways I thought the experience could suck out-loud.

The ethically motivated surf school guy called the day before the lesson, “We’re going to have to cancel tomorrow. The waves are expected to be pretty big, and there’s a dead whale on the beach.” Poor guy, he was genuinely trying to be helpful and all I could do was giggle. Of course there’s a dead whale blocking the adventure. We made plans for a different day. I thanked him, and wondered if maybe this adventure wasn’t meant to be.

As it turned out, there were no swarms of locusts or freak forest fires on the beach to get in the way when the day came.

The water was 61 degrees. Outside temperature was nearly the same. Being the bonafide lizard that I am, I was more than a little worried about if I’d be too cranky being cold to have fun.

We waited near the shipping container on the beach emblazoned with the name of the surf school. Corky Carroll. Anyone who knows anything about surfing knows the name Corky Carroll. So obviously, I knew absolutely nothing about him or his schools. Uncle Joe had recommended them, and since they’d already taken steps to try to improve our experience, I was a fan.

Two of the surfer-est looking young men I’d ever seen sauntered up to the container. They were the most chill. They had wild sun-bleached hair and smiles wider than the beach we stood near. Fine examples of young men. One of the fit handsome boys said his name was Logan. Before I though better of it I blurted “Of course it is.” I’m guessing his parents thought Thor or some other worthy name could have been a bit much. Maybe my weird comment is what got me paired up with not Logan, but Blair. A walking advertisement for sunscreen with his freckles and red hair as a legitimate surfer.

I was handed a wetsuit, and promptly felt already way out of my league. I’ve never put on a wetsuit. It felt a little bit like putting on those jeans that you know you should probably get rid of, but you hang on to the hope that someday you can wear them AND breathe.

There was lots of bustle in the container “bruh” “dude” “chill” “dope” etc.

Very few moments later we yarded our boards to the beach. Roughly 3 minutes of instruction later, it was time to go.

My heart was pounding out my neoprene covered chest.

Blair, in his voice that makes Bodhi from Point Break sound high strung, casually says, “You’ll want to step like this so you don’t get stung by the stingrays.”

“I’m sorry,…what the fuck did you say?!”

Yah. Stingrays. Spoiler alert, he was right. There were no sting ray attacks.

I very much appreciate the young men for just pushing the activity along. It made it so I had zero time to contemplate various outcomes of doom before we were paddling out.

Me. Paddling the fuck out. In the Ocean. On a surfboard! “Whoa.” (said in the key of Keanu Reeves)

Blair’s zen voice told me “paddle paddle paddle” as the first wave he’d selected for me to try came. I tried to stand. I failed. It happened so fast, I forgot to panic. The wave reminded me who was boss. I tossed around under it’s power, then popped up with a whole new attitude. Surf guy was looking for my response. I gave a big “wooooo!” He smiled and nodded his approval and I paddled back.

I failed on the second attempt too. But then I made the third one mine. The timing was right. I stood up in the proper spot on board, then mother nature gave me a ride. I definitely had a “holy shit,…I DID it” moment. I could see Uncle Joe watching from the beach. I could Brian and his extreme jealousy that I’d made it up before him (Okay, that may be an embellishment, but it’s my story. I’ll tell it how I like)

I wiped the enormous amount of snot from my smiling face and paddled back. “Man. I hope Uncle Joe got video of that.”

“Dude. You’re here for the experience, not the video” said my half-my-age zen master. I had another “whoa” moment.

He’s absolutely right. In just a couple words. Ginger Surf reminded me that that my purpose was to be still and enjoy what was happening. Maybe it’s because I’m 50 now, maybe it’s the Chris Rea I’m listening to, but just thinking of that moment I can be overcome with just great vibes.

Brian was eventually able to get up too. Our surf spirit guides worked even harder than us to make sure that we could get the best from our experience. At least once I was singlehandedly responsible for taking out all four of us. I nearly ran over several people. I rode a wave to the beach once. That’s frowned upon, but I didn’t know how to end it.

As we peacefully bobbed waiting to the wave for us, Logan called our attention behind us. A small pod of dolphins literally fucking frolicked in the waves. Blair said that he texted them and asked them to show. “Are you like that guy from The Boys?” I asked him. “The Deep? Tot…al…ly dude.” He grinned. Having seen the same Amazon show is maybe the only thing I had in common with surf guru. That and that he was about the age of my boys. But bless his little young heart, that didn’t stop him from killing it as my surf guy. He offered nothing but support, encouragement, and enough vibes for both of us.

The two hours were really more than incredible. There was such pure duality in the experience, working hard to sit back and let nature work you. Chaotic power and serenity meeting in the middle give such a feeling of peace and accomplishment.

I am already scheming about how to get back and go again.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Social Worky

Unexpected Hero

I swim like a rock. It’s a thing I’m really REALLY bad at. I’m not sure why, but it’s always been the case. For the most part, it’s not a barrier. In general, I stick to land based activities to compensate for my deficiency.  

When I worked in the group home though, my work was far from based on what was in my comfort zone. There was an outing to Whiskeytown’s Brandy Creek. The other staff that went on the outing were bona fide swimmers. So when the kids wanted to swim across to the other bank, obviously we were all going to swim across. Fun fact: the kids had to wear life jackets. Staff was expected to trust their own judgement, you know, since we were adults and whatnot.

Once again, my Pride told my Common Sense, “Shut the fuck up. I got this one.”

And not surprisingly, once again Pride was wrong.

I made it across okay. We did all the obligatory lake things “I saw a fish” “Something just touched my leg” “I think that boy is looking at me” ect.

As many activities with this crowd did, it wasn’t long before it fun comments evolved to “Luna is looking at me! Tell her to stop looking at me or I’m going to bash her motherfuckin’ face in.”

Luna (or whatever her real name is) was the fringe kid. That’s a hard role to have in a group home. As the kid with the lowest level of ability to manage her impulses, she was also the one most often to be in some kind of trouble. Often grounded for property destruction, fighting,  or instigating others. While I respect her dignity and worth as a person, she really was difficult to be around.

Since Luna had turned on her lightening rod of negativity, we began our swim back across to the main beach.

The real swimmers pulled out ahead. Then there was Luna and my weak ass.

I know I am dramatic, but real panic doesn’t hit me too often. Luna and her life vest were breaking free from me. I was trying tricks to try to be calm. “Maybe I’ll float on my back a while” which resulted in me slipping under a lot. The “I can’t touch the bottom” fear combined with the reality that each time I tried to float I sunk further down resulted in a little mini terror.

I surfaced. Luna was my only hope. Would she help? I’ve personally restrained her and grounded her countless times. Plus, she doesn’t often demonstrate a willingness to help others.

Pride did that thing of “Ooops. My bad. So,….uhhhh, go on ahead  Common Sense. I’ll tap out now.”

I called out to her. Lumbering with the grace of the most awkward of mammals, she turned and swam back for me. I grabbed a hold of her life jacket, and splashed along.

In general, Luna did nothing unless it instantly benefitted her and her alone. But in this moment, she was my rescue hero.

Luna didn’t exactly see things the way most others did, so I wanted to make sure I honored her for helping me, but I wasn’t sure how to best do that. If I gave her a well written thank you card, she may have eaten it or placed it in some unsafe orifice. She destroyed nearly everything she ever possessed, so a nice teddy bear or framed art also wouldn’t get it. The solution I landed on was to get her Lifesavers. And she was beyond delighted.

I probably would have lived if she hadn’t come back for me. Again, I’m dramatic. But also, she didn’t have to come back. Sometimes when it’s least expected, people are still want to do the right thing. I don’t know what became of Luna, but I am thankful for her instinct to do great things that day.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Growing up

Yo Mamma

There’s more than one way to become a mom, and though I’ve told this story many times; I think it’s cool enough I’m going to tell it again.

The year was nineteen hundred and seventy-one. There was a woman who had lots of love to give who was married to man who wanted her to have what she wanted. She wanted a baby. But it seemed not to be.

Meanwhile, there was another woman whose circumstance was different. She was got pregnant, but single in 1970, was not in a spot to parent. And that’s okay.

As fate would have it, both of these women saw the same doctor. He was aware of each of their plights, and did whatever magical things have to happen to arrange for both of their needs to be met.

My mom tells the story about my birth much better than I could. The name “Crystal” allegedly came to her in a dream. She anticipated a dainty delicate being to nurture. She says that when they got to the hospital to see me, I was different than that. I was covered in poo and had a nice look of male pattern baldness going on similar to a Friar Tuck look.

Undeterred, my parents loved me unconditionally. As they have all of us.

I was spoiled rotten (as I may be still am), and was brought up to believe that I’m special. If you’ve had to deal with my sense of entitlement, there you go. Now you know from which it stems.

My parents were clear with me from before I understood the concept that I was adopted. We cruised through our pre-social media lives with very little to go on about my lineage. But even though this predates Facebook stalking, there was still curiosity. Mom was very supportive of this curiosity. She was curious too. All we had was a name, and some vague details that turned out to be completely inaccurate.

In nineteen hundred and ninety, I was at Shasta College chilling in the library. There was a giant stack of LA County phone books. Shit you not, the first one I grabbed had the name of my bio mom in it. It seemed waaaaaay too easy to be true. I scribbled it down and headed home to plot course.

Of course we planned to call her. But we used someone other than us to be the first point of contact. That way he could get cussed out, or whatnot, instead of us. Don’t judge, we had no idea what bio mom’s reaction would be. And we didn’t want to come on too strong.

He dialed, and she answered. Just. Like. That. 19 years of curiosity so seamlessly mitigated. Our collective hearts pounded with anticipation.

“You don’t know me, but I’m wondering if you had a baby girl given up for adoption in 1971.”

After a pause, she said she had.

My mom and I got on different extensions in the house. The importance of the moment was obvious. More pause, a couple “wow”s and then Grammie broke the ice as is her strength.

My mom said to my bio mom, “Dr. Gibson says you look just like me. You must be gorgeous!”

She moved quickly into expressing her gratitude for me. And fact checking some of the things we’d been told.

My mom was far more gregarious than my bio mom was in this conversation, but that’s to be expected. My mom is far more gregarious than anyone I know. But the quiet woman on the other end of the line did have some things to say. She wasn’t expecting to be pregnant. She was the oldest of 6 children, and her siblings didn’t know she’d had a baby. She never married or had other children. She told some other details about her life.

But the most poignant memory I have of what she’d said was that she knew at some point she’d be called about this.

“I knew that any daughter of mine would come looking for me.”

There’s a lot arguments to be made for the whole nature versus nurture debate. Are we who we are because how we are raised? Or are there traits that we carry regardless of who raises us?

I think the answer is both. My mom encouraged me to be curious about my situation, but clearly my bio-mom felt she passed down a spirit of inquiry.

The conversation went well. A few years later bio mom and I had emailed once. When she passed too young at 66 in 2015, her siblings found a print copy of that email when settling her affairs.

One of the siblings was aware of my existence. Another in the line of strong mothers in my background wanted to make sure the family history didn’t get lost. So in the midst of her coping with onset of Alzheimer’s, she made sure to let her other daughter know and asked that my bio mom’s desire to keep the secret last as long as she did.

When my bio mom passed, that aunt called my mom and they shared some pretty beautiful and deeply human moments. My bio mom had wanted to know I’d turned out okay, but beyond that, my role is her story was best served not intruding. She was nothing but polite, but a relationship was not what she was seeking. This was not so much the case with her siblings. Two uncles have been to visit, cousins have made phone calls. I’ve stayed with one uncle. They’ve all been incredibly warm and welcoming.

The story has continued, and I’m not sure how it all will end. But I do know that my amazing mom will be there for every step of the way.

While I know that your mom isn’t quite as cool as Sandi, she made you. So roll into this mother’s day appreciating her. Buy her flowers or dragons, give her a giant hug, call her, or maybe doing something really big like CLEAN YOUR ROOM, or whatever.  

Happy Mother’s Day, and thanks for reading!

Categories
Growing up

Beer Pressure

It was nineteen hundred and ninety in Cottonwood, California. I was 19, decently on track, but with an “as of yet” undercooked brain, much like my cohort of other decently young people in my circle. So obviously, that fateful night meant there was a kegger at some random corrals in the middle of nowhere in an area we’ll call Smooker Smreek.

Saturday keggers were a thing that happened with enough regularity that something really remarkable had to occur to make one stand out more than 3 decades later.

This one was different. It was the usual crowd. Everyone in their social best. The boys with their brightly colored brush popper shirts, wranglers, King Rope hats, and those silly nylon belts that they let hang down their leg. There would be the occasional 501 wearer in attendance, but only of course after a thorough vetting process to make sure they weren’t too preppy. Young ladies would sport their jeans that were roughly as high as their underarms, and hair so big it needed a building permit.

The events followed the same trajectory. Someone some how procured a keg, socialize, dance, tell tall tales. Then spend the times in between the parties basking in the knowledge that you were included (I guess).

On this particular night, I had brought a guest. A more mature than me young lady who worked at the bank. She was way cooler than I would ever be. I was happy to have her along. She didn’t know the crowd, you know having gone to West Valley instead of Red Bluff. So she stayed pretty close to me. So close that when I had to make use of the facilities (a densely leaved manzanita bush), she accompanied me. There we were, peeing, chatting, when we heard the gunshot.

Nothing changes the course of events more quickly than a shot fired.

I’m not a mountain man. Nor a tactical SWAT warrior. But I have been around guns enough to know this; a shot sounds completely different when it hits flesh. That’s the sound I heard.

Chaos quickly ensued.

Back in the 90’s, it was very common for your local redneck kid to travel with a loaded rifle. You never know when you’re going to happen upon that rascally coyote who’s been feasting on old man Johnson’s baby calves. Or one of those treacherous road signs (seriously….WHY do people shoot them?!). It was one of these road rifles that had gone off.

The young man had his gun laying on the saddle-blanket covered seat of his Ford pickup. He and two other bros were getting in the truck to go somewhere. He got in the driver’s side, and as the other two got in on the passenger side, the gun was jostled and he was shot with his own .270.

The bullet went directly through both cheeks of his rump and half way through the Ford door.

I have zero idea what happened to my friend, but I was promptly part of the away team. I was in the bed of an old boyfriend’s 1971 GMC jimmy hunkered down by a yellow wheel well trying to remain calm for the young man losing blood. The open bed exposed to the summer night as we barreled down dirt roads to get to the hospital.  

The shot wound guy was face down in the bed of the rig. I felt he’d want to know how our progress toward our destination. I told him “we just hit the 2nd 15 mph turn on McCoy.” Facedown, pained, and bleeding out, he still had better grip on where we were directionally than I did. He corrected me about the number of turns remaining.

I don’t know what it feels like to be shot. I imagine it hurts very badly. He handled it incredibly well. Focused breathing. Continuing to chat with me. The driver was panicked, but still able to deftly and safely get us pulled straight up to the covered entrance at Saint Elizabeth’s hospital. As the driver opened the door, beer cans tumbled to the concrete and loudly announced we were a group making questionable decisions. We reinforced every stereotype when the shot youth was unloaded from the rig.

The guy had to have surgery. Though it was his ass that was shot, it really could have killed him. The whole “just a half inch off” and colon, and instant death conversation happened. He was incredibly lucky to be alive, and the rest of us where incredibly lucky to not be in jail.

Eventually, the rescue team returned to the beer site. Reminder, this was pre-cell phones. GSW victim’s little brother was standing there alone filling up a plastic cup. We told him his brother had been shot and was at the hospital. “I wondered why the keg was out here unattended. I thought maybe there’d been an alien abduction”

Time moved on, circles of people changed, and thankfully we grew up okay. I didn’t see that guy again for over 25 years. Then, we both attended the same birthday party last year.

After brief exchanges of, “how’ve you been?” he asked “Remember when I got shot?”

Yah. Yah I certainly DO remember when he got shot.

He told me that he’d been slated to join the Army within the next week after that incident. It re-routed his plans, and the military did not become a thing for him. He did, however, go on to be a wildly successful local businessman, pilot, and a really decent human.

The whole thing served as a good reminder how fast things can change, and that it really only does take a couple decision points to completely alter a life course. Our experiences, whether they are good or bad, build on themselves to give us a certain patina that makes us who we are. I’m thankful for each thing I’ve experienced even if it just served a role as a cautionary tale.

Thanks for reading!