Category: Growing up

I have no idea how the conversation started, but Sally was asking if I was familiar with Ide Adobe. Heck yes, I am.

(Hang with me here) In high school, I was voted runner-up to “Least likely to be in class.” Hopefully people who know now me think that’s funny. With any luck, I’ve shown myself to be “cured” of such work shirking. But in high school my world revolved around boys and interesting hair choices. School was the last place I wanted to be.

It was in that vein that I signed up for the Ide Adobe program. William B. Ide was a pillar of pioneer Tehama County. He was powerful enough that when efforts were in play to have the north state secede, he was the pick for governor. He had some land on the river in Red Bluff and he build a mud house. This mud house went on to be a historical site where many a 4^th grader would come to learn about California history. Someone had to entertain those 4^th graders so the high school had a program to help. I thought this program would be a chance to ditch class weekly. I was wrong.

The docent program was intended to be historically accurate. We were to be convincing that it was 1850. We had to wear pioneer dresses and bonnets and shit. Musty community pioneer dresses in the nor cal spring. Let that smell conjur up for you. We were not allowed to acknowledge modern technologies and were to redirect kids away from such topics with the catch phrase “That’s a strange use of the language.”

Fun thing about 9 year olds; testing limits such as this is one of their favorite pastimes.

They’d point and call out things such as “It’s not 1850! There’s an airplane!”

Billy didn’t know that every other Billy already tried to wow his friends with the same sort of valiant display. Whichever disengaged teen was the target of the attempted breach of character would flatly tell Billy, “that’s a strange use of the language” and try to move on.

Typically Billy didn’t give up so quickly and sometimes the tone of the catch phrase would end up sounding more like “shut the fuck up, Billy.”

Many a time we wanted to be like “Yah Billy. I know you have a TV in your house and you’re going to get on a bus to leave here, and it’s really NOT 1850, but that dude over there is giving me my grade. I never attend class, and I kinda just need to you stop, before I lose my shit and get failed.” The history teacher was beyond passionate about the seriousness of the roles.

We would work with the kids to make things that probably wouldn’t fly today. Maybe programs still make candles and foods like “peach slump”. They may even still make some rope. But I doubt it was far past 1988 when they stopped letting teens use lye with 4^th graders to make soap or to allow children to make lead rifle balls to take home as souvenirs.

There were some jobs that were more fun than others. Beating the dust out of rugs was obviously lame. We knew it, the kids knew it, but it was a part of the gig. Everybody liked making rifle balls. The docent hierarchy meant it was mostly the popular high schoolers that got that job. I, on the other hand, made a lot of peach slump. Boo.

We had one day when we were short-handed because “Rob” wasn’t at school. This was great for the echelon order. Rob was popular, his absence meant someone else got to be the rifle ball king. We stood there in the sun in bonnets and amish looking hats baking. Someone called out, “It’s Rob!” There on an innertube floating slowly by in the cold water of the Sacramento was Rob. He, his friends, their mullets and mostly likely beer just floated on by.

I feel bad for him. He looked like he was living his best life, but really he was missing an opportunity to thwart Billy’s efforts.

I hadn’t volunteered to be a docent for pure reasons. I was trying to get out of class. But I’m glad I had the experience. I wish I was more like people who would be still volunteering to try to make the world a better place. They honor us with their action and I am grateful.

I hope to spend more time as a volunteer. Keep me in mind if you need someone to pour molten lead into a mold. Just remember that if you tell me that it’s a “safety hazard,” I may press on and dismiss the concern with “that’s a strange use of the language.”

Thanks for reading!

It’s blankie season. I’m not saying I do have a blankie, but I am saying that sometimes I have trouble letting go of things; like my Doc Martens, or my favorite hoodie, or my children. So yah, I guess I kind of do have a blankie.

My grandparents got it for me in Mexico. Carbon dating is required to determine it’s age accurately, but I know for sure that it was before they moved here from Norwalk making that blanket at LEAST 35 years old. If my blanket was a pro sports star, announcers would regale how amazing it is that he/she could still function at the ancient age of 35.

It should be tattered or thread-bare to the point of near disintegration, but it’s not. It’s outlasted countless blankets, comforters, duvets, and the like. I don’t know who “hecho-ed” it in Mexico (you best read that Meh-hi-co). But whoever it was, they “hecho-ed” it real good.

It didn’t come with a fabric care tag, and as a result; I’m not entirely sure what it’s made of. It feels like wool, but it also feels like lead. You know that apron they put on you before taking your teeth x-ray? That’s the feeling of this blanket.

When Grammie and Grandpa got it for me, I wasn’t far out of my “everything-purple-and-unicorns” phase. That’s the phase right before goth for those tracking. I’m not sure if that’s why they chose the plaid purple pattern for me. Maybe someday I’ll cycle back to purple and unicorns, but for the last 3 decades, that blanket has matched nothing in my life. And I don’t care a bit. It’s such a woven miracle, my house should be designed around it.

It’s weird to have a blanket that was on your childhood bed show up in pictures a couple decades later on the shoulders of your own brood as we set off on some adventure. It’s the blanket that was taken to all events. It was counted on to make sure space was saved for my little posse to watch fireworks or to keep me from chattering teeth while sitting on metal bleachers watching football. It simply could not fail us.

The blanket did take a couple years off though. I couldn’t find it, and thought it was gone forever. Though I was bummed, I reminded myself that I own my things-they don’t own me. (This is the mantra I have to say any time I’m suppressing the urge to hoard something). It wasn’t until I reunited with the blanket that I realized how much I’d missed it. A fucking blanket. *eyeroll

I’ve made efforts to try to get the same weighty blanket goodness for the boys. Both in my own trips to Mexico, and in my parents’ annual Mexico medical trips. But those efforts haven’t produced any bedding of near the same caliber. Perhaps there was a wool embargo imposed after my blanket was made. Or perhaps they saw a problem in making blankets that will outlive their owners. It’s not the best business model.

I’m certain the plaid protector has plenty more adventures in it. Maybe it’ll shield my eyes later as I squirm at a violent Korean film. Or maybe it will just keep me warm as a design my new purple/unicorn decorating motif. Either way, I know it’s got my back (or my chilly legs).

Thanks for reading!

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!