Categories
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
Growing up Personal Growth (or not)

Not Sure How I’ve Lived This Long

“She was just so full of life. No one expected something like this. The community was shaken up.” The classics of murder documentary catch phrases. It’s really a wonder I didn’t end up on one of those.

News Flash: Teens can make bad decisions. While I’m living proof that adults can also possess that skill, this is a story about some of my questionable decisions I made with my undercooked brain.

I was a shiny new adult waiting tables at my first real job at the truck stop. Full of hope, wonder, and the dangerous belief that nothing bad could happen to me.

Maybe it’s also no surprise, but I was a giant dork then too. “Quirky,” if you will. Certainly not the girl that would be showered with compliments or lavished with boy attention.

So,…naturally I blushed painfully when the handsome young man was in my section to wait on. Emphasis on “painfully.” Being the person I was, flirting was not my forte. I’m sure I resembled someone passing a kidney stone with everything he said to me. We’d chatted throughout his meal. He stayed long after. He left saying that he was headed back home to Nevada.

After a couple of hours, he returned. He gave one of those lines that would sink a person like me. Something akin to “I knew I would regret it if I didn’t come back and get to know you better.”

Don’t worry, this won’t evolve into a naughty story. I wasn’t that boy crazy.

But, it will evolve into something cringe worthy. After work, he and I got in my car and I drove him to see Shasta Dam. Just me and whoever he was. I didn’t tell anyone I was headed out with a stranger to a dark secluded location in the wee hours of the morning. You know, because that’s safe.

This was in the days when there were no cell phones. No security footage to review from my last known whereabouts. Nothing of the like. Luckily, he wasn’t intent on any nefarious activity, murder or otherwise. We remained pen pals for a while. Legitimate letters were sent back and forth. Postmarked from Nevada, for real. Bullet of blind faith effectively dodged.

I should have realized that I needed to be safer. Instead, I did something else.

At the truck stop, there are customers who are regulars even though they’re from far off places. A lot were from Seattle. It was the early 90’s and Seattle was the shit. So, when a regular invited me to visit there; I did what any overly trusting 19 year old would; I fueled up the yellow Prelude, opened the sun roof, and headed north.

As evidence that fully cooked adults can also make bad decisions, a co-worker asked me to take her children to Oregon and drop them off. Who does that? Kids were dropped off with who I guess were the right people, and onward I pressed.

I did not see the regular customer as a potential mate. He was a nice man, to be sure; but his look was a combination of Mike Ditka and stereotypical 70s era Italian gangster. PS it was not the 70s. I’m sure he worked hard, putting in a lot of OTR miles to get the weighty gold chain he wore. Nice man. Probably someone’s exact type. Not mine, but someone’s.

Looking back, I’m not sure what I expected to happen out of this experience. Maybe to find some strapping young grunge Seattle man in his flannel ready to take me to hear Eddie Vedder croon. That’s not what happened.

Instead, what did happen was I was met at the door of the humble home he shared with his mother by his two daughters, maybe 8 and 10.

They were extremely excited to meet me. This is what a grown-up would call a “red flag.” Baby me didn’t see it though. Baby me grew up a lot though when they said “are you going to be our new mom?” Shortly thereafter I was showered with the quintessential claiming gift of the time, black hills gold. I’m sure my jaw went slack as the light slowly started to come on for me. “Wait a second,…he….oh….no.”

I grew up a lot in those couple days. Nothing will teach you about learning to gracefully back pedal and regroup quite like being a 19 yr old in a situation you should have seen coming. Prelude and I beat feet back to C’wd.

Maybe the modern popularity of murder documentaries and podcasts would have scared some sense in to me. Maybe not. Maybe we all have to make questionable decisions to appreciate the good ones we be still making. Probably one of the best take aways from questionable decisions is the ability maintain hope in the growing up process. Teens are like turkeys that have that crispy golden skin, but are still undercooked on the inside. They look like the real deal that is an adult, but their internal temperature is still at that point that will make you sick. We got through it, and we need to know that they will get through it too.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious

First Job

This morning, young Dirty and I visited as he headed out way too early for his jail job. While he sat on the garage step giving a quick shine to his boots, I reflected on my first job.

I wouldn’t say I was a “go-getter” when it came to working as a kid. I’d had some babysitting jobs. But that’s not really work. Make some quesadillas, do some fun things, and make sure the house is standing when ‘rents come home. So, I wasn’t sure how I would do when it was time to get a real job.

A family member was a cashier at the truck stop, and let me know that they were hiring busboys. I was interviewed, which was really probably just a screening to see if I was not likely to end up stealing the uniform. I must have looked like I wouldn’t.

Turns out, I was eager to please, and tried hard. Weird. I was there early, in my preened uniform. Trying to move more quickly and smile more broadly than I knew I could. I wanted to wait tables. My hope was to be like the big girls with the bow ties and aprons with pockets stuffed with cash. I was a greedy girl at 18 too.

Soon enough, I was granted the precious burgundy polyester pants and that ruffled navy apron. To say I was proud was an understatement. I would starch the ruffles on the apron so they’d perk just so. It didn’t take too long of a job on my feet to know that I needed shoes better than Payless could provide. I invested in a delightfully hideous pair of Sas shoes. In navy, you know,…to coordinate with the apron. I was committed.

The place was always just so dang busy. It was great. Anything I know about multitasking, I learned right there. And, if you ever want to learn a quick lesson about the interplay between your attitude and your income; a day of waiting tables will teach you.

I added another job working at the bank. I went from daily dilla making for elementary kids to two jobs with 3 different shifts each week. I’m not built for graveyards, by the way. But it was important to me, so I did it.

There were sections to work at the restaurant. If memory serves, they were “family,” “middle,” and “truckers.” Truckers was where it was at. The same folks week after week. It was like their home away from home. You got to know them pretty well, and it felt good to that home base for them.

It was my first time learning to interact with other adults in their world. There were certainly bumps, missed cues, overread cues and the like. I met a lot of characters. At least twice I made decisions that could have led to me being on a murder documentary. Youthful decision making,…geez. I was probably an annoyance to my more mature, much better at table waiting, chain smoking peers. But I got through it.

I was there about 2 years before I moved on. There was a moment of sadness as I handed over the paper sack that held my treasured uniform. But the memories and lesson learned were mine to keep.

Categories
Blogolicious

My Lame Bucket List: 3 of 3

With such exotic tasks as “beer with the judge” and “hug from Maxine” out of the way, it was time to add something else to the questionable bucket list. Keeping with the “quirky obsession with public service” theme, I decided that I needed to get a selfie with Shasta County Sheriff, Tom Bosenko.

I suspected this one would be easier. As an elected official, it’s part of his job to placate constituents. I figured snapping a photo would be easier for him than some of the other requests/demands he’d been given over the years. In comparison to demands of “end crime” or “get rid of that nuisance hot dog man in C’wd,” getting a selfie should be cake.

Plus, in an encounter I’d had with the sheriff years before, I’d decided he was cool.

A million years ago, I’d spent some years as the chairman of the Cottonwood Rodeo Parade. It was a big project that I loved. One task as a part of that role is to check off every entrant as they enter the parade. One year, Tom Bosenko and Brad McDannold were both campaigning to become the next sheriff.

There I was in my mesh safety vest with my rented radio and clipboard. When Bosenko arrived, I thought it would be funny to say, “McDannold for sheriff?” as though I thought he was the other guy. He paused for a nanosecond, then laughed. When I tried the same #momjoke on Mc Dannold, he did not laugh. He didn’t smile. It was clear he didn’t think I was funny one bit.

Skip forward a decade and some change, I’m intent on interrupting this busy man for my silly list. It was now just a matter of time before I ran into him.

I was at a community presentation, minding my business while judging the content presented. (I swear to God, if I hear that gangster horse story one more time…), then in walks the big man. THE sheriff himself. He stayed at the back of the auditorium as though prepared to dip out at any second if needed to address public safety. Or perhaps if he just wanted to bail.

I tried to be subtle as I continued to monitor his location. I didn’t want to miss this change. But I also didn’t need to find myself restrained on the ground by a deputy as I try to explain, “No, it’s okay. I was just going to do something funny.”

The talk ended. The auditorium was rather full, and many people had their own hopes to rub elbows with the big dog. I exhibited the patience of raised-hand kindergartener dying to be called upon.

Finally, it was my turn. I led with “I’m a social worker for the County.” Maybe I was trying to align with him since technically we have the same employer. Or maybe I was trying to lead with showing a little street cred (bwah haha!).

Luckily, I’d had 2 previous rounds of practice telling my lame bucket list story to respectable people, so that part went pretty smooth. He was down for it with zero questions. Instead of a selfie though, I handed my phone to some other respected community member. Instead of asking a Deputy DA, I should have found a 17 year old girl. Or Jen Forehand. One of those types who’s good a making sure the picture is quality. One of those folks who maybe would’ve asked “If the look you’re going for is ‘over-eager fangirl’, you’re nailing it. If not, maybe lets dial it back about 20%.”

I’d expected the dorky picture to be the pinnacle. But it got even better. “Hold on a second, I have something for you,” the top Law Dog said as he reached in his pocket.

Now I’m SURE he carries around little SCSO badges for small children, or perhaps war heroes; but on this fine day,…he gave one to me!

It’s a really tremendous souvenir. Like, really! I’ve made sure not to abuse my self-implied power of the miniature brass. There’s a number of reasons l like it; not the least of which is that it affirms what I thought when I made my mom-joke to the poor man all those years ago, he is cool.

And thus completed the Holy Trinity of Quirky Challenges.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious Social Worky

Lame Bucket List 2 of 3

If you read my first bucket list happening, you’ll know that my second bucket list item wasn’t really destined to set the world on fire either. But it was something that was a challenge, and that I thought would be funny, so it had to be.

I am NOT a hugger. I’ve been raised by a hugger, but it didn’t take.

It’s not that I don’t love to hug on my people. My poor boys will do that thing where after I start the hug mob they just freeze and disassociate. It’s their primal defense mechanism. So far, it hasn’t deterred me from my repeated hug assaults.

I can interface with huggers. There’s times when people need the hug. I can and will abide.

I also know that there’s sometimes where being held is the only thing that soothes the soul. Those magnificent embraces that remind you that it’s going to be okay. The ones where you just be still and let it work it’s magic.

Buuuuut,…aside from those instances; not a hugger. I’ll shirk away from contact a kid from a sink of dirty dishes.

My guess is that our former director was also not a hugger. She was able to manage an agency based on feelings in a way where she didn’t let feelings have an impact on her work. By no means was she warm and/or fuzzy. I’m pretty sure she crossed a street one time just to avoid interacting with me.

So obviously, getting a hug from her had to be on my list.

I’m pretty sure I could’ve just gone up and asked for one any day, but where’s the fun in that.

So I waited for just the right time. I plotted and schemed. I shared my goal with others. There was speculation on how it would go; maybe even some assumption that she was a robot. “I bet she’ll have to access her ‘engage hug’ sequence.”

There was a get together one evening to celebrate on our attorneys moving on. When I’d parked at View 202, I saw her honor from my first bucket list item being dropped off. I walked in right behind the judge in hopes that people would think we came together. It would have been more convincing if I’d actually talked to her as I did that.

I didn’t expect my hug target to be there, but she was! I had to rally. It seemed like a good idea to check in with my mentor/supervisor before making a spectacle. I sent her a text asking if I should, but she didn’t respond instantly. I had a “Fuck it, we’ll do it live” moment.

There was a quieter moment in the event. I stood up in front of probably 20 people who I really respect and,….yup,…announced that my bucket list included wanting a hug from Maxine.

She shrugged her consent. I walked towards her. Cameras rolled. I felt certain it would be the uber safe one arm side hug, but it wasn’t! It was the two armed, with a squeeze hug! There was cheering (not kidding…we’re all weird where I work).

The occasion wrapped up with a photo of me with both the judge and the director. As we stood there an smiled, both of them flatly told me “You need to do better on making your bucket list.”

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious

My Lame Bucket List: 1 of 3

I need a bucket list. I’m a person for whom a pending project is key to sanity. The last big project I had is done. I know that parenting doesn’t ever really end, but we’ve gotten to the point where those boys o’ mine are raised. And despite my unintended efforts to ruin them, they’ve turned out to be such rockstars. So now what? 

Historically, I’m really bad at bucket list making. A real life judge even told me so. 

She was the first of my trifecta of weird bucket list tasks. “Have a beer with the Judge.” She was the presiding judge of our Dependency (CPS) court. I became a social worker to help families. But when you’re involved with families like we are, they can have a tendency to not see your help as helpful. 

In court we had a designated chair in the front of the courtroom. I affectionately called it the Time Out chair. Sometimes in that chair vile and untrue things were said about you. It’s hard separate out that the lashing isn’t really about you. I wanted to turn to the judge and say “that’s not me. I’m a nice person who’s trying hard.” So after several years of this, I decided I wanted to have a beer with the judge so she could know I wasn’t the monster I was reported to be. It was a joke of mine for years.

Then…! 

Watching the Colt .45s baseball team is a fun summer activity. Got there one night, and saw that the first pitch was being thrown by our judge. She stayed for the game and I creepily stared at her. They look so different without their robes on. They have legs! She was with people, one of which I sorta knew. And, she was having a beer! It was all accidentally falling into place. I’d never talked to her outside of answering her questions in her courtroom. I wasn’t sure I could. 

It was the 3rd inning before I mustered up the courage. I’d ran over the words in my head several times. Do I start with “your Honor”? If I call her by her name, will a hole rip open in the time/space continuum? I’d prepped to be looked at with confusion, or maybe to be pepper sprayed. I’d spent a LOT of time in her court room, but I wasn’t sure if she’d recognize me.

With all the grace of a 7th grade boy asking a girl to dance, I shuffled my way up the bleachers. “Uh,…hi?” I paused waiting to see if I was to be taken down by agents in sunglasses and suits. She “hey”ed me back (It’s going okay…keep going Adams). “So, I’ve got this weird bucket list where I was someday hoping to have a beer with you so know I’m a normal person.”

There I was, vulnerable in the presence of a hero. I had no idea what to expect. “That’s a pretty lame bucket list, but okay.” Her response was more perfect than I could’ve imagined. She added that there better be a picture or “it never happened.” 

Maybe I should’ve capitalized on that opportunity in a different way. Maybe I should’ve tapped into that brain trust and she could’ve helped me come up with better bucket list ideas, because the next two were equally questionable. Those stories deserve their own time though. 

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Social Worky

Blame it on the Algorithm

Well. Somehow we got here. The place where a random guy’s facebook post generated enough conversation that there was a story on the legitimate news about it. To be clear, I’m not weighing in on what he said or what she said. That’s not my concern. The last time I cared about a backing-and-forthing on the social media front was in the days of the Cottonwood Food Truck Crisis (#LongLiveHotDogGuy).

But I do care about how social media is shaping reality. I care about that very much.

I’m ill equipped to describe the dangers of media algorithms, but imma be still trying.

I watched this interesting show on Netflix called Social Dilemma. I’m sure someone has a better summation than this, but in short; it talked about how our attention is a very lucrative product that is battled for. I liked the quote that “if you don’t pay for the product, you are the product.” And the brilliant software folks are very good at getting, and keeping, our attention.

The show discussed the negative consequences that have come from less than 100 programmers being able to influence the opinions of 3 billion people. For example, humans weren’t hard wired to have a need for “social approval dosing” every five minutes. But here we are.

They said that since 2010, this attention feedback cycle has resulted in an increase in psychiatric hospitalizations for girls 10-14 by 189%. By the show’s report, the youngn’s of our time have been manipulated to believe that they need specific kinds and amounts of social media interactions, and that they can hyper-focus on negativity to the point of self-injury.

I don’t know they are right or wrong about that, but I do know that the manipulation doesn’t stop at tween girls. We’re all susceptible to it. Look around you. Can you see something you bought because it popped up on your Facebook or your Instagram? Do you have a strongly held opinion that started after seeing someone’s post?

You’ve probably heard about algorithms. (Again, non-smart person description here) Algorithms are the math-y way that your media controls what you see. What pops on my mine versus your Facebook is specifically engineered to be different so that each of us is inclined to stay on longer. (I’m a size 7 ¼ in tinfoil hats, by the way).

So what does this have to do with the guys’ facebook post becoming news?

Media and social media are feeding their version of reality to us. And since it’s designed to harvest our attention, we’re in a dangerous spot if we take the spoon fed information as gospel.

The show talked about how if I’m always looking at “the chicken came first” stories, my feeds and recommended views will want to keep my attention by showing me more “chicken first” stories. Never challenging me to consider if the egg was first. However, if my neighbor is always looking at “the egg came first” information, that’s what will her medias will continue to push her way. A confirmation bias feedback loop that just tells us each we’re right.

Who needs that much divisiveness? But it takes work to seek out our own information, do our own research, and come to our own conclusions. It’s soooo much easier for me to get my news from memes (What happened in Oregon that made crack legal?).

But let’s see if this loosely associated example helps.

Vegas. I’d seen it a million times glamorized in movies and media. Everything from “Hangover” to “3000 Miles to Graceland” glorifies this town. So imagine my surprise when we went there a couple years ago and it dawned on me; it’s a real and little place. Sure it’s cool and all, but being there instantly demystified that it was larger than life.

If Vegas wasn’t exactly like it seems in media and social media, I suppose it’s possible there could be other confusing representations out there as well.

So before you vilify or champion any side of any argument; ask yourself this: Are you being  shown Vegas they want you to see? Or the Vegas that really is? Is the news that you are seeing really news? Or is it the result of algorithms feeding off each other?

There’s an old psychology phrase of “self-fulfilling prophecy.” It means a prediction that causes itself to be true. That’s what’s at risk with algorithms.

I could be going around thinking my neighbor and I are going to have to fight about if it was the chicken or the egg that came first. My algorithms could fight for my attention by making me believe that it’s going to happen. Tensions rise. We each put symbolic frames around our profile pictures indicating our allegiance. Next thing I know, there’s a donnybrook going on as we take out our garbage. A right scrap that maybe would’ve never happened if we didn’t let social media make our opinions for us.

Good on ya’ if you were able to stick with this one as a read. I know it’s a little out there. With that being said, I’m off to post some pictures of my crockpot (full of chicken) on my IG to see if I can land myself on the news.

Thanks for reading!

Categories
Blogolicious

Totally Witchin’

“Oh! You’re in the house that scares kids!” That’s how the nice dad we met at the mailboxes a few months back was able to figure out where we live. Yes. Yes we are the house that scares kids.

Halloween is my favorite. I still think that the reason for that has something to do with how my mom took 2 year old me to see The Exorcist in the theater, but I suppose there could be other reasons too. But even though it’s the holiday around which my world revolves, I never set out to be the kid scaring house, but man am I glad I am.

It wasn’t until this house that I lived somewhere where there are trick or treaters. I LOVE seeing the kids and their costumes. Everything from the little babies in lion costumes to the grown up skunk couple. I even love the ones who half-ass a costume in the name of candy begging. “I’m too old and cool for Halloween, buuuuuut, I’m not to old to put on my baseball jersey and see if there’s candy to be had.”

We get enough trick or treaters that Katie Barnette said that she’d like to come over on all hallows and scare children. I couldn’t see anything wrong with that plan at all. Mask, jump, loud noise, then children hollering. And like that; a tradition began.

Sure, as a child welfare social worker I worried about whether or not I should be involved in scaring children. But as the years have gone on, I’ve capitalized on another social work value; that of informed consent.

EVERYbody knows that this is the house where you may get scared. Parents ready at their cell phones to record the reaction of their little ninja’s, construction workers and princesses. Last night, there was chanting on one of the flatbed trailers full of trick or treaters as it pulled up, “Scare-y House! Scare-y house!” A family told Chris that last year her sister got so scared she may have thrown a toddler out of the way to clear a path for her escape.

It’s a pretty good heart starter to have a clown or demon on Michael Myers jump in your path. But I’ve wondered if it’s become so expected it’s no longer effective. Kids will walk from the street looking for Michael. Last night, a 6-ish year old said with a sage wisdom “Every year you guys get me.” You could almost hear the finger wag in his voice. His 4-ish your old brother echoed, “every year.” They were scared though. Them and plenty others.

And, last night there was a carrot that convinced me we’re still on track.

Middle schoolers came to the door. A gaggle of them. There was a couple basketball jersey kids and a kid dressed as a carrot. One of the boys said his muscles were bigger than mine. I told him he was incorrect. There may have been some flexing. They started talking about how much they bench; one said 2 pounds another said 4,000 pounds. They got comfortable at the door. Their guard was down. They were ripe for the scare.

As they headed down the spooky sidewalk, they were met by several frights. You’ve never really lived until you’ve seen a carrot run screaming from your Halloween haunts.

Neighbor Sommer is glad we keep the scares up but she gets to deal with the aftermath, “That carrot was a mess.”

Thanks scarers and scar-ees for the great memories!

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!