Category: Stories about my fam

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Stories about my fam

Young Marines and Police Academy

When Young Derek was 9, he saw some kid at school in a nice camouflage uniform. The kid was in the Young Marines, and my boy decided he too must be a young Marine. There were a couple of low key meetings with the former Marine group leaders. Dirty’s interest was held long enough that he decided to go to the week long “boot camp.” A buzz cut and some clothing purchase later, and he was ready to go.

We took him to the far off wilds of the Sacramento River Discovery Park at some ungodly hour. He’d been excited-nervous and had hardly slept a wink. It was still dark. My civic cruised through the sentinel teens standing at attention. As we rounded the corner, chaos erupted. Other uniformed youngsters jumped out of bushes and began to yell and bark at “recruits.” They aimed to unnerve and they nailed it. Kids scrambled and ran; to what, they did not know. The leader was decked out in his dress blues. He was a stark contrast to the bedlam as he calmly walked down the row of cars at drop off. “Don’t worry, your child is safe. Parent night is Wednesday” whilst behind him children run as though fleeing a burning building, wheeled suitcases being drug, items falling in disarray, terror on their faces.

I did worry. 9 is pretty young to be turned over to the para military experience. But it seemed to be what he wanted, so I left without him.

The young Marine program is for kids 8-18. There were a couple of little kids there, but most were middle and high school aged.

The program encompassed elements such as verbal/written tests, memorization of procedures/codes, drill skills, physical aptitude, and uniform presentation. And my baby boy had decided of his own free will that he wanted to excel at all these things. He learned to iron and understood the purpose of sizing spray. He bloused his pants out of his boot tops with precision. His cover (because young Marines are too cool to say “hat”) had to be in exactly the correct position. His push-ups had good depth. He continued to run after his little pasty face turned red. All with ZERO prompts from adults.

Wednesday took forEVER to come, but when it did I trucked myself out to see him at camp. His eyes were wet with tears threatening to fall as he said (and I quote), “This is the hardest thing I’ve done in my life.” 9.

While I was there, he told me that he’d hoped to win the PFC award. Private First Class would be given to the recruit who performed the best in the cohort. I thought that was a cute goal to have since he was a baby amongst nearly fully formed adults.

But wouldn’t you know it. When I saw him again on Saturday for graduation; that little dude had won that award. His little 4th grader chest looked about to burst with trying to keep in the pride he felt.

To this day, we don’t really know why he took the whole thing as seriously as he did. I guess some folks are just wired for things like structure, order, and service.

Skip forward to his bright ass being accepted into Cal Poly San Luis Obispo to study winemaking. A career destined for some pretty cool shit. However, young Dirty did not enjoy the dorm life experience in the slightest. He was more than a little grateful for a lockdown to send him home.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d find his way where he did.

Police academy lasted a little longer than Young Marine camp and they don’t have parent night. Also, no children were pepper sprayed at Young Marine camp (that I know of), nor were they issued guns. There are a lot of similarities between camp and academy though. Drills, Physical Training, uniform stuff, written tests, scenario tests, and the like. Once again; of his own accord, young Dirty wanted to do well. Once again, he did.

Dirty just wrapped up academy and is now able to move on to the next phase of being a tadpole cop; field training. There’s a lot to learn still, and entering a field training program does not guarantee becoming a fully fledged officer. It’s a strange mix of pride and horror from my social work parent self. I’m incredibly gratified that he’s chosen to serve in an honorable way as those who have before him. Nonetheless,  I’ll be still worried about all that law enforcement is. I’m sure I’ll spend time wishing he’d become a barista instead.  But I’m very excited for him that he’s passionate about what he’s trying to accomplish. And super hyped that he’s so focused at the tender age of 21 and small change. At his age, my goal was to bump up to better days on the schedule at the truck stop. Tips were best on Tuesdays. Everyone knows that.

I’m thankful he’s got strong positive examples and that it’s important for him to do things right. He and I probably have very different hopes for how boring the job should be; but much like when that 9 yr old learned to iron to impress Commander John, turns out this isn’t about me. (*eyeroll) Congrats Officer Adams! And PLEASE be safe!

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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!

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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!

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Growing up Stories about my fam

Things That Go Vroom

It’s Nor Cal spring. The season of sticky eyes and runny noses for which the perfect antidote is the smell of race gas and burnt rubber. This is the time for cars and other things that go vroom to come out and play. And the time for those in love with all the things that are the internal combustion engine to bask in the splendor of it.

This season can make me legitimately useless. Countless times at my desk yesterday I had to blurt out across the hall, “Do you guys hear the motorcycles?” They did, but somehow they didn’t feel a need to yell about it. Weird.

Hearing the low throaty sound of fuel, compression, and spark and the lope of an engine stirs something in my chest. There’s a beautiful duality that exists when you can pair a soothing engine rhythm with the knowledge that with a little flex of an ankle, raw power is unleashed. It’s downright intoxicating.

The first vehicle I remember loving was my Dad’s 1976 Chevy Cheyenne 4X4 pickup. It had those white steel wheels outlined with a single thin red pinstripe and a twinning blue stripe. The metal flakes in her medium gold poly coat glimmered and sucked me in. It went fast and made noise,  and I was hooked. I remember being in it on some adventure. Dad goosed it. In my head we may as well have been in extreme peril on something like the Rubicon trail. But I was wee thing, so for all I know we may have actually been in a parking lot. Mom squealed. I squealed. And in that moment, any hope for me not loving loud and fast things in my life was gone.

Some of the other early car loves I had included my Grammy’s 1965 fast back Mustang. She didn’t drive, but she had that muscled beauty. I remember exactly what it looked like out the louvered window of that back seat. No need for driving-less Grammy to stop there though. One morning, my family was chilling in the Amen Lane house. A house with a big dining room window overlooking my dad’s beloved and manicured lawn. Out of nowhere, a 1979 Camaro drove up right on that lawn. This could have been a crime punishable by death, but a pardon was issued (at least out loud) for the infraction. It was my grandparents in their rootbeer brown Z28 fire-breather. In all her glory. She had stickers in all the right places to show off her lines. Hood scoop, seats that you more wore than sat in, all the things. My young brain knew she was  close enough to the Firebird of Smokey and the Bandit that she was perfect. They had driven all night to bring her from Norwalk to Cottonwood to show her off. As they should. Eventually Grammy got her license, and once accidentally drove that car as far as Anderson, much to her fear.

Patina describes something that’s grown beautiful with age. It’s a fancy way to say that something’s lived an interesting life and is better off for it. New cars are cool, make no mistake. But those chariots of yore that have stories to tell are where it’s at. So many adventures happen in our cars. We live in a disposable world, so to see an old car that’s able to be flaunted means that car has been loved over and over again. People have taken steps to make sure her story continues. They’ve bridged the gaps so that the beauty that once paraded the chain-smoking beehive-wearing happy woman of the 60’s, can now become the majestic livingroom on wheels tourer of 2021. Each of these cars has so many stories to tell, and I wish I could know them all.

My poor car is broken. I’m dealing with that as best I can. And by “dealing” I mean I’m a seething cauldron of rage about it. But that’s okay. She’ll get back on track someday. In the meantime, I’ll continue to genuinely appreciate the work and care that others have put in to keeping their cars around to gather more tales.

Thank you car people for keeping histories alive and letting us  appreciate your work. I’ll try not to drool on what I see, but I certainly will be still quietly coming to conclusions that y’all are rock stars for what you’ve done!

Thanks for reading!

(“Editor’s” note: I called my mom to confirm the year of the vehicles. She said that my Grammy didn’t have a Mustang. My dad got her corrected. It’s okay. She’s my mom. I love her and forgive her for not being a car nerd. Sheesh. 😊)

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Stories about my fam

Catholic-Ish

“I was raised Catholic.” It’s a common expression with a variety of meanings. For some they were full tilt wearing uniforms to school. For others, it meant church every Sunday and hitting the developmental milestones of holy communion and such. For me, it meant Catholic values were paramount. Jesus is watching, make good choices for more than just yourself (but God forgives), there are forces controlling the universe that are bigger than humans, and of course the patented Catholic guilt. The primary church experiences I had a as kid were when we would visit my Grammie and go see some dude speaking Latin, or when I’d be swept up in some vacation bible school by a neighbor.

Even though I wasn’t a church goer, I knew the practices and prayers and such. And it really did have an impact. It was like a touchstone responsible for a moral compass. A fucked up moral compass, but one nonetheless. It didn’t mean I didn’t do wrong things, it means I know they’re wrong. I make bad informed decisions. Catholocism also provided me with senses of security and safety. I metaphorically clung to my rosary beads like they provided me invincibility. They were a tangible connection to a spiritual existence.   

The word Catholic means universal. It’s a pretty cool religion in that there are prescribed practices that are consistent whether you’re attending mass in Anderson, California or Cartagena, Columbia. You know what to expect, and there is comfort in consistency.

As an adult, I wanted to get more connected. I did however many months of classes to unlock the levels of confirmation and first holy communion. I got to have my first confession. I was pleased to see that I hadn’t caused Father to have a heart attack as I dumped over 20 years of chaos on his ears. It really was a great experience, aside from the time that one dude’s truck got stolen outside Sacred Heart while we were all inside learning about Jesus.

I got married at Sacred Heart. It’s the church where my Grammie’s funeral mass had been and where my in-laws had been married 25 years before. And then for a period of time I (please be seated for this) was part of the team teaching Children’s Liturgy of the Word. That’s right, this bitch was teaching Sunday school. I was not struck by lightning, and I trust that’s all the evidence you need that forgiveness is thing.

Over time and added involvements in other things, church stopped being as big a part of my life. I gave it a run again when the kids were little. It was a challenge for just the three of us when ever one of my babies started to get squirrely. However, when those moments happened right before collection was coming and I “had” to leave; I was okay with that.

Despite my bailouts from organized religion, I’d hoped to raise my kids with some of the values passed on to me. But one day as the three of us tried to sit quietly, my preschooler Daniel instantly proved that I was missing the mark.

In the Catholic church you will find a life sized statue of Jesus on the crucifix near the alter. It’s that center piece reminder of suffering for the benefit of others. It’s a tragically beautiful piece of art. The man in just his Galilean underwear, looking towards heaven with pain, compassion, and understanding prominent on his face. My Danny looked at that and blurted, “Who’s the naked guy?”

Though I have capitalized on Rona times to watch some mass from home, I’ve not been in years. Back in the classes, we’d heard the expression CEO “Christmas and Easter Only.” I haven’t even hit those. Since then it’s been more like “Hey boys, before you search for your baskets…you remember this day is about Jesus dying and coming back, right?” They nod in affirmation and know they’ll be subjected to the same question next year.

I don’t know what God and spirituality is to them. But I do know that when Dirty recently had thing that could’ve turned out badly but didn’t; I wanted to pray out loud. Dirty was on board, AND he knew to say “amen” at the end. And I guess I’ll call that a win.

Happy Easter, and thank you for reading!

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Stories about my fam

Dan the Pioneer Man

“I just put it in the golf bag.” Obviously. I mean, where else would the amazing Daniel Adams put a tattoo gun on a flight for a weekend trip to California? Duh.

That’s Daniel. Layers of interesting. I don’t know how many aspiring tattooists also golf, but my kid does.

I know it’s normal for us parents to each think our offspring is pretty darn cool. But Daniel’s a guy I would think is cool even if he wasn’t mine.

He’s been living in Kansas again. He’s at Pitt State working on his Bachelor’s in some advanced tractoring. I couldn’t tell you what the degree is actually called. He may not even know. He’s in it because he’s pretty sure it’s the right thing for him, and all evidence suggests he’s absolutely right; once again.

He recently interviewed for an internship with a fortune 500 construction company. When offered a position, he was asked about if he had a place in mind, “Somewhere in the West Coast region, preferably.” That’s all the weigh-in Dan needs to give.

He’ll find out next month where he’s headed, and the following month he’ll be wherever “there” is. I’d need to plan out for a decade how to pull that off, but Danny will just roll with it.

I don’t know how he does it. There’s a lot to be said for the whole nature versus nurture argument when discussing the level of absolute chill that kid brings. I mean, I can have times of doing well under pressure. However sometimes I also feel straight resentful when I’m the first person at a stop light. I don’t want the pressure of having to pay attention to know when it’s time to go.

His brother is another amazing human, but he’ll likely stress about Dan’s upcoming endeavors more than Dan will. Daniel was thinking about how tough it must have been for Dirty to decide what truck to buy. “I’ve seen him spin out buying lunch, ‘Should I go with the $3.99 wrap, or the sandwich that’s $4.15?’” remarked a very knowing older brother.

Maybe he got it from his dad, or maybe he was just born with it; but whatever the reason, Daniel is completely unflappable.

He’s the guy who can take a weekend and turn it into an adventure. His Kansas roommate has now been on his first flight and seen his first ocean (“I just can’t believe that it’s water as far as you can see!”). He  watched Dan give his first tattoo, they golfed in Daniel’s junior college town, Stockton; and they met up with other buddies Daniel picked up in his last college program. They can cram so much into so little because he’s just impossible to rattle. Even though I very much want to accomplish all that he does, I couldn’t take on 1/3 of it.

As I stood there with Dan, the girls, and 2 of Dan’s college buddies he’s picked up from far off places, I was struck with awe about all he’s able to do. The youngn’s he brought are really good people too. And I’m not just saying that because the girls laughed at my jokes. They’re solid, hard working, young people who ooze ethics and integrity. I am proud of all that he’s accomplished and am pleased that he’s stacked cool experiences on other adventures to build his portfolio of living.

It’s been great to see him and to vicariously experience his latest endeavors. He’ll be off again soon. Back to his Kansas life where he’s crowd pleased his way into more great circumstances. Him, his degree, his progress towards his other degree, his tattoo gun, his banjo, and his fishing poles, his mechanical genius, and most of all his chill; living his life to it’s fullest.

I’m not sure when he’ll be back, but I know it won’t be soon enough for me. I’m also not sure what things he’ll add to his experiential passport. Maybe next time there’ll be a tattoo gun in the golf clubs, maybe the clubs will be in a hand-tooled leather bag he’s made. With his skills and varied interests, nothing would surprise me.

#LuckiestMom

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Blogolicious Stories about my fam Things I Think are Funny

Absorbent Heirloom

The year is 2061. A handsome, yet humble, young man sits at a table across from the show star. A well-heeled gentleman, sporting round tortoise shell glasses and a bow tie. He’s hoping to look “different” (just like everybody else). He carefully adds pristine white gloves to complete his quirky outfit. He takes out his official “Antiques Road Show” pointer and leans in to my great grandson as he grandly gestures to the item carefully hung above the table, “Let’s talk about your great grandma’s robe.”

Roughly a million years ago, my robe and I became entwined. It’s been so long that I don’t even recall how the robe came in to my possession. I may have bought it myself. It may have been the classic husband Christmas gift. I could’ve stolen it from my neighbor’s clothes line for all I know. Carbon dating would likely be required to determine it’s actual age, but I know that I can remember exactly how it fit during my pregnancies; the long broad belt barely connected in front of my distended belly. As a reminder, my BABY is 19. That means that every day I don a garment that is at least old enough buy alcohol.

It should probably be replaced, but we’ve been through so much together, it’s hard to consider letting go. It’s the robe I’ve worn to the Christmas morning “Santa came!” chaos. The robe I threw on when someone threw up. “Mommy, my stomach h….” you know the rest.

It’s been a part of my morning routine every single work day. Jobs changed, robe didn’t. It weighs roughly 15 pounds making it feel like the special apron the dentist makes you wear to get your teeth x-rayed. Is it way heavier than I need on hot Nor-Cal mornings. But I don’t care. I wear it and just accept the fact that my nose will sweat as I’m getting ready.

It hardly makes me a terry cloth temptress, but I’ll be still trying to justify my ownership of it.

“You can see this is by the maker ‘Delicates’ out of China,” the appraiser continues. “The tag is frayed, but you can still make out ‘mediano.’”

“GGMA was svelte but mighty” answers the boy (it’s my fake story. I’ll tell it how I want…Bwah!)

“It’s minty color maintains a lot of lot original luster. When she procured it, mint was a popular color. And then for a couple decades it wasn’t. And then it was again. She must have been very willful to hang on to it through all those significant robe fashion changes.”

Appraiser man furrows his brow, “However, we do have some condition issues. Here you can see that some of the terry cloth loops seem to have been ripped out.”

Handsome boy interjects, “I’ve been told that my great grandma spilled hot eyebrow wax on it.”

“Ah, that makes sense. Some of the people of those days were indeed too cheap and lazy to get their eyebrows done professionally.”

“Also, did she use to put out a fire? It’s difficult to determine the cause of these marks.”

“She didn’t know. She doesn’t even know how she got the robe.”

The two nod at each other with reverence thinking about the olden days when things came from places they’ve heard of but never seen such as JC Penney.

The appraiser goes on discuss how rare “a piece” it is. He speculates at what it would bring at auction in today’s market.  Great grandson graciously thanks him for the information, but tells him he thinks they will just keep in in the family. Perhaps one day it can used to soak up an oil spill or as housing insulation.

My mom calls me a minimalist. That’s not as accurate as I’d like it to be, but I do try to limit the things I hang on to, making sure that those things that stick continue to add genuine value to my life. I do have a few clothing items that fall in this category; this robe definitely is one.

Thank you robe for your diligent service. You’ve brought me great happiness, be it on your best day or on the “whatever, I tried” days. My future generations and I are sincerely grateful.

Thanks for reading!

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Stories about my fam

Grieve How You Want

I’m sure there’s lots of cool families out there, but I’m pretty partial to mine. They are compassionate, practical, smart, hard working, and so funny. And there’s nothing like a challenging circumstance to see them shine.

My grandpa died on Christmas day. He was 94 and had an excellent life, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t sad. There’s no right or wrong way to grieve. As long as you aren’t fucking with the vibes of others dealing with their own grief. Humor may not be a part of every family’s grief process, but it’s such a part of our family’s every day…it’s bound to show up.

This was the first close loss for my boys. I think they got a great example of how to manage it. The Father did a great job of reminding us all of the afterlife and comforting us in prayer. Grammie stood next and started her speech thanking him. She then said that that my Grandpa thought he deserved a Catholic funeral because he’d gone to church so much with my grammie when she’d been alive. My mom said that when she’d told Grandpa she wasn’t sure if that could happen he responded with “God Dammit, Sandi!”

That’s right. In a chapel following a priest’s sermon, my mom used her best grandpa imitation to curse like that. Maybe surprising to some, but it was exactly what should have happened. She went on to talk about how thankful she was to have gotten to really know her dad so much more over the last 4 years. Any remaining dry eyes succumbed to her eloquence.

The next speeches also had their own perfect balance of humor and reverence. Uncle George started with a mock protest saying that his sister stole all the words he was going say.

Humor is a baseline coping mechanism for my extended family. And even though there was great homage and honor for the exceptional man lost; humor peppered the day in many speeches and events.

After the ceremony at the graveside, Uncle George asked us to shush because he said he thought he heard knocking from the casket. Family members who’ve wondered how deep graves are peered over the edge. Other family members taunted them that they may fall in. A spontaneous thought that there should be carvings on the super cool barnwood casket resulted in the instantaneous presentation of numerous pocket knives and etchings.

The funeral director advised that now was the time to leave if you didn’t want to see the casket lowered. Most stayed. Much to the chagrin (or delight) of the cemetery chief, Arnie.

“Arnie! Don’t drop him.”

Arnie dropped his shoulders and slowly shook his head saying, “I wish you hadn’t said that” as though he worried we just willed it in to being.

Arnie got a little more heckling. Josh pointed out that the poor guy has probably had to hear the same #dadjokes or #funeraljokes over and over and had to pretend they’re funny and creative every time. Grammie talked to Arnie about her plot. “I took my picture lying on it.” Arnie replied, “I know. I remember.” I’m going to guess there’s not a lot of folks who’ve taken their picture lying on their future cemetery plot so it must have been easy for him to remember. Family members continued to throw zingers. As each wicked sharp quip was delivered, I thought about how Grandpa wouldn’t want it any other way.

Thankfully the body that no longer encased the soul of my Grandpa made it through the lowering process without incident. And the entire day was a great tribute to a really cool dude who will be missed greatly.

I’m sure there are folks who have no humor while burying a loved one. That’s okay. But for me and mine, that day and that place will be still filled with happy memories of a life well lived.  

Categories
Growing up Stories about my fam

“What Does Adopted Mean?”

“What does ‘adopted’ mean?” Daniel’s little voice queried from his booster seat. My heart quickened. I’d already thought about how to address this. There’s a lot for little brains to process, and I’d wanted to be ready to tell the boys what they needed to know in the best way I could.

I’m sure there’s more than one right way to handle things such as this, but I’m also sure that my  parents straight nailed it with their approach.

Before I understood what adoption was, I knew I was adopted. My parents were very open with me with all that they knew. They had some great explanatory children’s book. My mom talked me up as “special.” Clearly, I’ve run with that messaging.

What my adoption means to me has changed over time. Early on, the only differing factor was that I cooked in someone else’s belly. Teen years cause all shorts of shenanigans. Thinking more about identity is certainly one of them. So there was some more contemplation then. There was an arc of curiosity that I’m thankful my parents supported. They were curious too. But that’s about it.

Even though I wasn’t born in 1950, I still encountered some stunted thinking from others about adoption. I didn’t see that coming. Things said that weren’t ill intended but still felt yucky.  “I just don’t think I could love someone as much as if they were mine” and of course the classic “you’re weird” and the less frequent but still applicable “stop acting like you’re special.” (See, it’s funny because my mom TOLD me I’m SPECIAL!)

Because of the great messaging from my parents, I’d never thought that there was anything unusual about being adopted. When I became a parent, I wanted my adoption to be a non-issue for my kids too. Like my parents, the language was around before they understood it. And on that fateful day, young Daniel asked me what it meant.

I did my best to let Daniel (and my less interested blonde passenger) know my story just as my parents had done for me. I replaced “special” with “they really wanted a kid.” But I kept in how lucky it was for everyone involved. In my mind, it was going really well. But, since I was piloting my pick-up at the time, I was unable to track Daniel’s every response to my words. At the end of my narrative I checked if he understood then said, “why do you ask?”

“Because this says ‘adopted of Coca Cola.’”

Young Daniel was new to reading and was eagerly reading the back of a Dasani water bottle. I looked at what he’d seen. It read “a PRODUCT of Coca Cola.” Poor guy got a lot more than he bargained for when he tried to read, but it was worth it to be able to keep them involved in what I think is a pretty cool story.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Stories about my fam

Oh Brother

Do you think Norman Rockwell could’ve captured my family quality time last night? It was Dirty, Gus and I hovered around the couch Facetiming with Danny. If you don’t know, Dan is very independent. He doesn’t need a thing from his mommy. Which is okay, that’s what the whole goal is, right? So it’s not uncommon for mommy to be the one who generates the numerous unanswered facetimes. Which is also okay.

These two great humans I bore don’t exist to meet my needs. They are much more than that. And further, I am responsible for my needs. Not them. But I really do like both those boys. If they weren’t mine, they would absolutely be people I would choose to have in my life. They’re quick witted, hard workers, goal focused, introspective, fucking hilarious, and basically perfect.

Last night, the stars were aligned, (or perhaps a new video game update was loading) and Daniel ANSWERED my facetime. I tried to play it cool. I know I failed. But you could tell it was a big deal for all of us. Dirty even paused the movie he was watching. It was an exciting time.

Daniel has been in Kansas since mid August, and he is doing great. Heading into this adventure, he was worried about upper division courses in things such as marketing and whatnot. That worry seemed to be unfounded. “My lowest grade right now it 85.6%.” Then from half a continent away, Dan started to roast his brother, “I don’t know why you dropped out. This is easy.”

“I would’ve stayed too if I had my own bathroom. Do you know what it’s like to have 5 of 6 toilets covered in puke, shit, fecal matter, and whatever else? The jail is less disgusting than that place” (Side note: I should probably check in about his understanding of fecal matter. Sounds like there may be some confusion)  

Dan talked about his pastimes. He said that recently he and his buddy were headed to a fishing hole and saw a bunch of Cat equipment; scrapers and the like. He said that his buddy asked him if that’s what he worked on in his former life. Daniel said that as he started talk to the buddy about the equipment he had a moment of clarity. “I was like ‘Shit! I sound exactly like Brian and Gino.’” Dirty responded with “Dude. I rode with them to MacArthur. That’s all they did was talk about tractors.”

The four of us also had a deep chat about Dirty’s new endeavor. And by “deep” I mean we watched the video of Dirty being tased and had questions such as “You have a belt, and stuff?”

We learned that Danny’s buddy had never had mac and cheese with butter before. I asked, “What did he have in it?” “Butter now.” As though whatever Talon’s previous mac and cheese life experience was had just been cancelled out with the fell swoop of butter.

We checked in about what had been Dirty’s favorite meal on our trip there. Daniel said, “I don’t eat sushi made in a grocery store in the middle of the country.” Fair enough.  

There were numerous quips and burns back and forth. Deals brokered. “Tell Tanner to ship me those wheels. I have a real job now and can afford the tires.” “Maybe. You got to fix the coolant leak in my 6 liter first.”

It was a great chat and sweet reminder about sibling connections. Brothers don’t need close proximity or frequent contact to hop right back in to brother mode. Norman Rockwell can put that in his pipe and smoke it.

Thanks for reading!