Healing the past

Mmmmmmmm, eggnog in my coffee...one of the things I love about this time of year.  Another crystal clear morning enhanced by a beautiful sunrise--glad I gave up trying to sleep.

M is getting her ears pierced today.  She hasn't had much interest in jewelry until recently, so this is an exciting step in her life.  It's more than that for me, and I've had to curb my feelings so they don't shadow hers.

I wasn't allowed to pierce my ears while growing up.  As soon as I turned 18 and left home, piercing them was my first, independent decision.  My choice was based partly in rebellion, but mainly on my love of earrings--they're the only jewelry I wear daily...the novelty has never worn off.

The saddest part of that memorable day is that fact that my mother couldn't go with me, because my dad didn't approve.  My aunt and great aunt went instead--they held my hands during the process and were duly excited and happy for me.  We went to lunch afterward, and it was a day I'll never forget.

For years, I've nursed a vision of me holding M's hand and sharing in her excitement during this rite of passage.  Last night, I fully understood that my vision was healing my heart and had nothing to do with M.

She popped into my office to tell me that a close friend is joining her at the mall for the piercing and then asked if she could spend the rest of the afternoon at her friend's house. As an after thought, she asked if I wanted to go with her to the jewelry store too.  My heart felt like someone had stomped on it, but I looked at her happy face and had an emotional epiphany.

M's scenario is the normal one...of course her close friend should be with her...if I'd been allowed the freedom to make choices while growing up, I'm sure I would have chosen to go with a friend too.  Instead, I've always focused on my mom not being there, because I couldn't even share the idea with her.

I'm not sure what I'll do today...part of me would still love to be with M., but a bigger part wants this event to be uniquely hers in the way that she'll remember best.  Maybe I'll just enjoy a quiet cup of coffee at Starbucks, while I wait for her to show me her new earrings.

Awakening

The last fall leaves are gently swaying outside my window.  The sun is shining; the sky is dark blue and crystal clear.  It's icy cold and gorgeous.

I'm not working today...in fact, I don't return to work until December 2.  My preschool program follows the kindergarten conference schedule, so we don't have school when they don't have school...one of my favorite perks :)

I'm heading to the wildlife refuge after I finish my coffee.  It's only a few miles from my house, and I go there often to regroup and recharge.

I haven't blogged much in recent years--this has been a strange time in my life.  I guess I'm redefining myself as my children grow up and leave home...a process that has taken its toll in more ways than I imagined.  I've taken some positive, writing steps during the past six months though--I joined a local writers' group and started a book group with some new friends.

Baby steps, but they feel good :)

Shania Nia Lexy

Ten years ago, we drove to a remote piece of property near Lyons, Oregon, and met Shania Nia Lexy (M. was in kindergarten and had the honor of naming her).  She was half English Mastiff, half Bull Mastiff, and at four months old, she was already far too big to pick up.  We hadn’t had a dog in two years, but we were finally ready to open our hearts again.

 Shania was beautiful… the last puppy to be chosen from her litter.  I don’t know why other families chose her siblings, but I will be forever grateful that they did.  She was waiting for us, just as we were waiting for her.  She left her mother that day, which made us all sad, but she calmly climbed into our van and laid down on the floor.  From that moment, she completely trusted us—she never showed signs of loneliness or homesickness—and we completely trusted her.

I remember standing at the kitchen window the week after we got her, watching her tearing back and forth behind a row of rhododendrons, branches flying out of her way, tongue hanging out, a smile on her face.  It amazed me how happily she entertained herself….and me….I couldn’t stop watching her.  I also quit pruning the rhododendrons--she managed quite nicely on her own.

She played so hard every day that when she fell asleep in the evenings, we often couldn’t wake her.  Mastiffs grow tremendously fast, which requires a lot of energy—it didn’t take much exercise to wear Shania out.  There were many evenings when D. and I lugged her upstairs, each carrying one side of her bed like a stretcher, while she slumbered peacefully.

About a week after she moved in, I left her in the laundry room, while I ran errands.  When I returned and opened the front door, I faced a large pile of stuffed animals.  The laundry room door was open, and Shania was nowhere to be seen.  I called her, and she flew down the stairs, wild-eyed and shaking.  I immediately sat on the steps, and she threw her large body into my lap.

 

I held her for a long time, thinking about what it must have been like to realize she was completely alone for the first time.  Wondering how long it had taken her to search the kids’ bedrooms and bring stuffed animals downstairs one at a time, building a pile of softness and safety.  I truly understood the depth of her intelligence…she could have destroyed things in fear and panic, but she searched for comfort instead.

That’s not to say that she didn’t like to take things apart, but even then, her behaviors were uniquely hers.  We found that nothing with zippers could be left within her reach during her first two years.  Despite a strong under bite and very large mouth, she could take a zipper apart tooth by tooth, without destroying the attached clothing.  It was truly amazing, albeit a little costly.

Her life-long vice was tearing apart anything made from foam, even when it meant destroying her own bedding.  She would spend hours meticulously tearing her foam pad into little tiny pieces, which I know gave her great joy.  She never outgrew this love, and we learned—albeit a little slowly—that foam pillows, bedding, and pads did not belong in our house.

If you’ve followed my blog, you know that we also have two other mastiffs—Shania’s nieces, Brecken and Sedona.  We’ve collectively called them The Beasts for many years, and we've loved them all deeply, but Shania was different…always more human than canine.

I’m writing this post because we lost Shania on Thursday, August 1, and it’s important that I honor her memory with the permanence of my words.  She woke up wagging her tail, happy to start a new day.  Within a few hours she had a massive heart attack.  We rushed her to the veterinary clinic, but there was nothing they could do…our beautiful beast slipped away, before we could really tell her good-bye. 

 

Our grief has been overwhelming, but I think we all feel a sense of peace today.  We buried Shania’s ashes in our backyard and planted beautiful flowers on her grave.  She is home with us, in the yard she loved, near the rhododendrons she pruned, near the nieces she mothered for 7 ½ years.

She completed us, made us all better people, and every year, watching her flowers bloom, knowing she’s part of them…I will see her beauty, grace, love, patience and joy. 

I love you, Shania…I’m so honored that you were part of my life, that you helped shape my children’s characters, that you gave them unconditional love.  You will live forever in our hearts and in the hearts of everyone who knew you…I love you.

The path of life experience

"All that we are is a result of what we have thought."

             Buddha

Two years ago, we were in another state touring a prospective college for A.  He was tired of the rain and determined to attend college in the sun.  The campus was beautiful, the location fabulous…I was ready to go back to college, just to live there.  That day, we knew this would be the location, even though we planned to visit other campuses.

That night, A. and I were in our hotel room, while my husband and daughter were at the store.  We were watching TV…conversation didn’t come easily to A. and me anymore…he was pulling away, becoming more independent…a natural process, but hard on my heart.

I remember the next moment so clearly, and I've watched it many times in my mind.  A. was sitting on one of the beds, and he suddenly turned to me, body rigid, face tense.

“This is crazy, this is crazy."

“What’s crazy?” I asked.
“This is crazy, looking at colleges, everything’s happening so fast.  This is crazy.  I graduate next year.  High school will be over.  This is crazy.  What if I’m not ready?”

This was a defining moment in time...a life path was splitting, and this moment was the deciding factor regarding which fork it would take.  It wasn’t just A’s life path, it was also mine, and my heart was screaming, “Then don’t go to college far away--stay in Oregon where we can see you regularly and still be part of your life!”

Then, through a tunnel, I heard a voice, and I realized that my brain had stepped in where my heart couldn’t.

“It’s a year and a half away, and when the time comes, you will be ready.  It’s ok to feel scared about leaving home and the changes that will bring, but you’ll work through those feelings by the time you graduate.  You’ll be at a different place than you are right now--you’ll be excited to go and experience the next part of your life.”

We talked for a while, and I remember the look of relief that I saw on A’s face—the fear wasn’t gone, but it wasn’t overwhelming anymore.  Instead, our emotional roles had reversed—it took all of my self control to counter the heartache I suddenly felt.  I knew he would soon be over a thousand miles away, and throughout the years of raising your child, nothing prepares you for that.

The past eight months have been a journey for all of us.  D. and I are adjusting to having just one child at home, M. is adjusting to being an only child for the next few years, and A. has found that the road to independence and adulthood has curves you never see coming.  He’s gone through a very rough time in recent months, and I’m incredibly proud of his inner strength and perseverance.

I’ve also learned that there is nothing harder than being separated from your child during a crisis.  I can’t be there to hold him when he’s scared or overwhelmed…I can’t be there to fight his battles…to stand up for him…to make sure he stays strong.  That isn’t my role anymore, and nothing really prepares you for that either. 

My role is to support and trust the amazing man that I helped raise…to know that he has the emotional tools and strength to continue pushing forward and dealing with his life…to know that how he handles tough situations now will be the basis for handling them in the future.

Do I wish that I’d spoken with my heart rather than my mind two years ago?  Do I regret not asking him to attend college closer to home?  Sometimes…for a moment…when my heart outweighs my mind. 

Then I remember clearly…this isn’t my path—it’s his…and his unique journey will shape and strengthen him, just as mine has shaped me.

Pieces of life

I grew up listening to my dad talk about how life would be better when...  When we moved to a new location, when he retired, when he discovered his dream job...  I left home believing there was a perfect situation in life that would make me happy...I just had to find it.

I've since discovered the truth...life is a series of challenges.  Some big, some small, some rewarding, some heartbreaking.  Each contributes to personal growth and change, and they are never ending.

Especially when you have children.  Part of your challenges are due to their challenges, and sometimes the weight on your heart is crushing.  Letting them navigate the tough times is part of your job and contributes to their growth and character, but oftentimes...there is no greater challenge.

I've learned through the years to break life into pieces, just like I approached finals week and term projects in college.  Tackling one piece at a time makes the whole manageable.  I've found that although there isn't always a neat solution, there is always a way to cope.

And I guess that's the key, recognizing that you can get through things, no matter how insurmountable they seem.  Knowing and trusting that time will make you stronger.

These thoughts are on my mind, because I have friends facing very difficult challenges.  I can't offer solutions, but I can be a sounding board and a reminder to face things piece by piece. I know that I could be in their shoes at any moment, which makes me poignantly aware of the sweetness in my life right now.

I like the phrase "seize the day," because the arbitrary moment "when," like the elusive pot of gold, keeps your focus on the unattainable, rather than the colorful layers right before your eyes.  Life is this moment, and sixty seconds from now, it will be that moment...take it one piece at a time.

Valuing time

M and I are reading "The Hunger Games" series by Suzanne Collins.  We're almost done with "Catching Fire," and I can't imagine how the third book will top the first two.  It's actually hard for me to deal with the subject matter at times, but it's a creative, well-written series. 

Mostly...I just enjoy the time with M.  We take turns reading out loud, and I treasure those shared moments.  I'm a closet actress and love doing the voices of each character.  Years ago, I spent many special hours reading the Harry Potter series with my sons, and I'm so glad to have a similar experience with M.

These special moments, so hard won in my busy world, are what keep me going.  They're the moments that ground me, that make me realize how lucky I am.  They're the moments that make me realize how important the little things are...the things so easily taken for granted that actually provide the substance in life.

We all walk a tight rope...life can fall one way or the other, no matter who we are or how we live our lives.  Treasure the moments in time...the moments that touch your heart and lift your spirits.  Those moments carry you through everything else...those moments make it all worthwhile.

Helpful is not a four-letter word

We spent the weekend in Bend, OR at a soccer tournament.  M’s team was amazing, going into playoff games on Sunday as number one in their bracket.  They played a very tough final game, losing in overtime, penalty kicks.  It was a hard way to lose and a triumphant way to lose…they were proud leaving the field.

After the game, many of us spent a lazy afternoon floating the Deschutes River, soaking each other with water guns and enjoying a camaraderie built on years of soccer sweat.  The river was incredibly beautiful, and the laughter floating across the water was peaceful and heartwarming. 

There aren’t enough moments like that in my life…there probably aren’t enough moments like that in anyone’s life.  I take them when I can and completely savor every second.

Today, I enjoyed a hot stone massage, an experience so deeply rooted in relaxation and emotional release that experiencing it is the only way to appreciate the bliss I feel right now :))).  The masseuse took one look at me when the session ended and told me to lay on the table until I could actually sit up and walk—I’m pretty sure I looked a little drunk on life.

Amidst all these wonderful experiences, I also had a moment that caused personal introspection.  After one of the soccer games, our team manager asked parents to help take down and pack the sunshade our girls use during games.  I always respond to those kinds of requests, but I happened to be talking with someone, so I asked my son to go.  He argued a little, and I jokingly said, “You go.  I always go—I’m a helper.”

The woman I was talking to immediately replied, “YES, you are.”

I felt the strangest sensation…part surprise, part guilt, part embarrassment, because her tone conveyed criticism, and I’ve never considered helping a bad thing.  Before I could stop myself, I responded self-depreciatively, “Yes, I guess it’s one of my flaws.”

“It definitely can be,” she agreed, “if you don’t know when to say no.”

Ironically, this woman has relied heavily on me for help getting her daughter to and from soccer events for the past eight years.  She has five children, so her schedule is far more hectic than mine.  It’s never bothered me--her daughter is M’s closest friend, and I’ve truly enjoyed having her around.

After thinking about this for the past two days, I’ve decided that I’m OK with my helpfulness—I’d rather know that people can count on me than otherwise.

I want to be the parent who helps put away chairs after a concert or who cleans trash from the soccer fields after a tournament, because I want my children to know that responsibility is part of life.

I find it sad and ironic that helping is viewed by many as a weakness or flaw…because most of us rely on others, in one way or another, on a regular basis.  That’s what strengthens families, cements friendships and creates communities.

Helping, helps the world go round…although, I’m pretty sure there’s a song that says the Candy Man does the same thing.  I can spare a few minutes on Wednesday, if you need a hand.

Coffee shop computer woes

I’m in my favorite coffee place, waiting for M to finish hip hop class. This is normally one of my favorite nights of the week. I pick up M immediately after work, drop her at dance and come here, where I order a black, iced tea and relax for the first time all day. I normally check Face Book and see what’s up with friends and family…this is actually a big deal, because I have no time for FB during the rest of the week.

So, here I am…iced tea by my side, computer up and running, a gifted stranger playing the piano, and…no Internet connection. This happens periodically at my favorite coffee place, which is frustrating and leads me to believe that I may have chosen the wrong favorite coffee place.

Another customer approached me when he could see that I was contemplating tossing my computer on the floor and stomping on it for a few minutes. He was equally frustrated and had already complained to management.  He'd also been trying for 2 hours to connect, so I’m thinking that he either has the patience of a saint or has nowhere else to go.

He’s now playing cards with some other patrons and showing no signs of stomping on his computer. I could offer to do it for him…I would certainly feel better, and my own computer would be intact for future use.

If I’d been gifted with computer genes, I’d know exactly how to solve this issue. If the employees here had been gifted with computer genes, not only would they solve my problem, they’d be working for Steve Jobs, which would mean there still would be no one here to help me.

I have my own computer-genius son, but he’s probably tired of solving my computer issues, plus he finds far too much humor in them. I know my actions become fodder for his workplace story mill. I’ve made it a point to never ask for a tour of his office…a person can only take so much humiliation.

So, here I am…no connection…20 years ago, this would have been a nonissue…life was simpler then.

"Public" Conversations

Have you ever noticed how freely people talk in public places…how anonymous they feel? Sometimes you learn more about strangers while sitting in a public place than you do about the people closest to you.

Tonight, M had hip hop, so I spent the hour in Starbucks catching up on email and helplessly eavesdropping. A couple came in right after I sat down, and like it or not, I learned the girl’s life story. Her date had more decorum and kept his voice low—I wondered how he felt about the broadcast of her escapades.

She was a beautiful girl…stylish, tall, slender, very sure of her attractiveness. She was popular in high school, she ran cross country, and she’s been in jail twice for drug use and shop lifting. She’s now on 18 months probation—I know the details, stores involved, and names of friends who hung her out to dry.

I also know she attended a local high school, the boy friends who cheated on her and the fact that she’s pretty sure she’s now ready to take responsibility for her life. That statement brought me some measure of relief—I was getting emotionally exhausted listening to her.

She was a personal-information Niagara Falls, because she felt the guy she was newly dating should know everything about her. I’m a true believer in honesty, but wow…maybe some things are better in small doses…

Makes me wonder who’s overheard my personal conversations. I’m careful about what I say and where, but everyone slips into the trap of feeling anonymous sometimes. Maybe it’s ok in a strange, distant city, but possibly not the best choice in your own backyard.

Definitely food for thought, especially because I’m meeting a friend for coffee in the a.m. Guess I’ll make sure to whisper if I mention the traffic tickets I got last spring.

Puberty wears pants

I washed M’s jeans in hot water last night, which put me in hot water this morning. She’s at a delicate age…some experts call it puberty…I just call it hell.

This is my third trip down puberty lane—it’s not one of those experiences that get better with time. I have a new appreciation for mothers with more than three children…I also wonder if they take drugs.

This morning, M was be-bopping around the house, getting ready for school. The last sane moment I remember was hearing the dryer door open and close.

Suddenly, M was crying from the top of the stairs, saying that I’d shrunk her jeans and she couldn’t get them on. I tried to explain that jeans stretch out while you wear them. Based on the crazed look in her eyes and the way she was yanking at her jeans while stomping toward her room, I’m pretty sure I didn’t exist for her at that moment.

In the midst of this emotional turmoil, I had an epiphany. “Why don’t you just change your pants?”

I was already feeling relief—problem solved—when she turned wild eyes in my direction.

“I don’t have time to change! I’m going to miss the bus!”

More tears on her part, less patience on mine…

“I’ll drive you to the bus stop—you can choose different pants or you can go to school miserable, it’s up to you.” Maybe not my most sympathetic moment…

When I heard knocking on the door, I realized M’s best friend, R, was walking to the bus stop with her, and I felt a moment of panic. I didn’t want a scene in front of the child who’s practically my second daughter. R still likes me—she has her own mother to blame for everything.

I opened the door, whispering to R, “I shrunk M’s jeans last night…she’s not very happy with me.”

R just smiled, the ghost of her own mother’s failures flitting across her face.

I heard M’s footsteps on the stairs and risked a peek—she was in Capri pants and her eyes were dry.

“Has your mother ever shrunk your clothes?” I asked R, wanting M to see that all daughters suffer through and survive these little obstacles.

“No, but I’m pretty sure she’s changed the color of some,” R replied, more ghosts accompanying her smile.

Part of me smiled too, watching these two child-women slip out the front door, pants forgotten.

I put my own mother through a similar episode regarding a pair of jeans and leg warmers. Somehow, she survived me…I guess chances are pretty good that I’ll survive M :)

Generations

Aging is a funny thing…as you’re aging, so are those older than you…eventually, they slip away, one by one. It would probably be unbearable, except nature offsets loss by birth…nieces, nephews, grandchildren.

I attended my grandmother’s memorial service in northern California last weekend, which set many thoughts in motion. I have a lot to appreciate in life, in part due to my grandmother. A huge part of who I am was shaped by her—via my dad, her actions, my dad’s siblings.

Interestingly, there was tremendous heartache in my family…for multiple generations. And through it all, my relatives persevered, doing the best they could. That’s not to say there wasn’t pain caused by actions that never should have happened, because, of course, there was.

But through it all, every generation found the strength to keep going…trying to make things better. And every generation gained skill—regarding relationships, parenting, friendship. I think that’s all you can ask for in life…that every generation be better than the one preceding.

All this is on my mind, because I’ve produced another generation who’s trying to find its way in the world. A generation who will face things I’ve never faced…who are emerging into a computer-based world that I will never completely understand. Let’s face it, every time Facebook changes its layout, I endure weeks of confusion.

I honestly don’t know what the future holds for my children, because things are changing exponentially. All I can hope is that the roots D and I’ve provided will help them persevere…that our positive affects outweigh the inevitable negative ones we’re bound to have.

As I followed Highway 101 north, driving home last weekend, all these thoughts cascaded through my mind. The sky was crystal clear…never in my life has that drive occurred during a cloudless, ice-blue sky. The north coast of California tends to be enveloped in clouds and fog, just like the coast of Oregon.

Some would say my grandmother was paving the way, and maybe they’re right. What I know for certain is that it was a beautiful, peaceful, fulfilling drive. Via soul searching, I learned a lot along the way…enough to help me connect with the next generation a little more than I could two weeks ago.

So, I will trust my heart and my memories and continue adding to the scaffolding that began many years before I was born. As long as I don’t shake the foundation too much, my children should have a pretty good base upon which to possibly start another generation. And that’s something that I know would make my grandmother smile…

Neskowin Good Samaritans

Today, JAM, I and two of The Beasts (Brecken & Sedona) went to the beach. It was an amazing day, the kind of day you seldom encounter on the Oregon coast. The sun was shining, the sky was incredibly blue, there was absolutely no wind, and temps were in the t-shirt/shorts range. We walked, chased waves, climbed cliffs, played Frisbee and laughed more than we have in a long time.

Neskowin is beautiful—our favorite beach hang-out…eclectic and unique. It wasn’t even crowded today…another plus. Overall, it was pretty much the perfect day…until Brecken appeared seriously ill.

The Beasts had been leashed most of the day. A couple of times, when no one else was around, we’d let them loose to run. Toward the end of the day, Brecken started limping on her back, right leg. Not long after that, she was struggling with both back legs and kept sitting down for long periods. I glanced at her pads, but there were no cuts or scrapes, so I assumed she’d pulled a muscle. Deciding to get her off her feet, we packed up and headed for the car.

Within six yards, she sat down, not wanting to move. We coaxed her to her feet and walked another 3 yards, only to watch her start wobbling on her front legs also and sit down again. By then, I was starting to panic. Something was affecting her limbs—I was concerned that she’d gotten stung or eaten something toxic. We coaxed her another eight yards at five-foot intervals, listening to her cry, and then she lay down and refused to get up.

She weighs 150 lbs…I knew we weren’t getting her off the beach without a stretcher. At that point, I was also terrified that the reason she couldn’t walk was because she’d twisted her stomach while running around, a big-dog owner’s greatest fear. If that was the case, she needed veterinary attention immediately.

I sent JAM to the car to drop off Sedona and grab our beach towels, hoping to devise a makeshift sling. In the meantime, a couple staying in a local condo had been watching our struggles and decided to help. They left their condo, carrying a large blanket, and walked down to offer their services.

We were surrounded by other beach goers who hadn’t given us a second glance—I’d never felt so alone in a public place. This couple laid their blanket on the sand, helped coax Brecken onto it and struggled to help us carry her to a nearby parking lot. I wish I could say that Brecken made it easy, but she fought us every step of the way, refusing to lie still. 150 lbs of shifting weight is a back breaker…

Just as we reached solid ground, Brecken fought free of the blanket and miraculously began walking. I watched her perk up and slowly gain her stride, stunned by her sudden recovery. The woman Samaritan and I hugged, JAM and I hugged, and tears of relief suddenly flowed quite freely.

After profuse thanks, we left the Good Sams and led Brecken to the car, where I thoroughly checked her feet and was horrified to find the skin between her pads raw and inflamed—she’d refused to walk on the sand because it was unbearably painful. But not once had she tried to lick her paws, giving us an indication that’s where the problem lay.

Tonight, she’s resting peacefully…her paws have been medicated and she’s unaware of the emotional turmoil she caused this afternoon. It looks like she has a yeast infection between her pads…not uncommon in her genetic line.

I don’t think the couple who helped us will ever forget their efforts, and I know the JAM kids and I won’t. We couldn’t have gotten Brecken off the beach without their help, because she physically couldn’t walk on the sand. I don’t know their names and can never repay their kindness, but I wanted to acknowledge their efforts, because they truly touched my heart.

So thank you Neskowin Good Samaritans…enjoy the rest of your vacation, and know that you made an unforgettable difference in my family’s life today.

"Hello" Starling

I have yet to share the most recent member of our menagerie :) Her name is Starry, and she fell into our lives on Mother’s Day. She’s a European starling whose parents chose a precarious nesting site two stories above our cement porch.

One by one her siblings fell and died—it was awful. When Starry fell, I wrapped her in a towel and expected the worst. She didn’t move for hours, but her little heart kept beating. Gradually, there was movement, and eventually, she was making hunger signs.

My emotions swung from sadness to panic--her nest was unreachable and obviously not a safe choice. She was only a week old and just getting feathers—she needed constant care, and I had as much baby-bird knowledge as her parents had nesting-site knowledge.

I was worried about dehydration, so we used an eye dropper to give her some water, then I accessed the Internet: http://www.starlingtalk.com/index.htm. I immediately read that you should NEVER give baby starlings water, which they can inhale, thereby contracting pneumonia or drowning.

I read further, discovering that starlings are insectivores and can be fed dry dog food soaked in water. We decided to throw in ground worms for good measure. After feeding her, I read some more and discovered that you should NEVER give starlings worms, because they carry parasites.

Thank goodness she survived a deadly fall so that we could imperil her life multiple times.

Finally, after reading ALL the information, I found a dog-food recipe specifically geared to the nutritional needs of baby starlings. I purchased necessary ingredients and combined them in the specific quantities required. Starry is thriving…despite us.

She flies freely through the house now and has become part of the family. We’ll never be able to release her, because we began caring for her during the crucial bonding period—she imprinted on us, not Starlings.

My husband isn’t pleased, but the kids are thrilled. I haven’t told D that starlings can live 15-20 years…he’s not ready to handle that information yet.

An old college prof. chastised me thoroughly for saving Starry’s life—he’d be quite happy if I tossed her to my cats. European starlings are not native to the United States and the bane of bird enthusiasts everywhere. They’re highly adaptive and prolific, interfering with endemic species across the US.

They also help control insects, a fact not taken lightly by farmers. If you view massive flocks of birds imitating schools of fish in agricultural areas, you’re probably viewing starlings.

Our Starry won’t affect the argument one way or the other, because she will never leave our house. But on her behalf, she’s incredibly smart, affectionate, resilient, adaptable and funny…if catastrophe befalls the earth, rats and cockroaches won’t be the only species surviving.

Fuchsia Man

Driving A to soccer practice, just before leaving our neighborhood, I passed a forlorn-looking man carrying a fuchsia down the hill. The plant looked forlorn too—it’s been averaging 100 degrees during the past few days…we’re all looking a little forlorn.

I watched the man, the fuchsia swinging gently in its wire, hanging basket, and wondered aloud if he was leaving home, fuchsia in hand. A. laughed, commenting that maybe he’d had a fight with his wife and she'd kicked him out.

“Surely you’d take more than a fuchsia,” I replied, “like maybe a ficus to provide shade on your journey?”

We continued down the hill, my thoughts still on the fuchsia-man. Why would anyone be carrying a heavy, hanging basket in this heat? The plant wasn’t perky enough to be a gift—it was definitely sad and droopy.

“Maybe he’s carrying it to a neighbor’s house so someone can take care of it while he’s on vacation?” (I thought this was a pretty good guess.)

“And his neighbor can’t walk?” A. replied with appropriate teenage scorn regarding older, less active individuals.

“They would have to go uphill to get to his house,” I pointed out.

“Haven’t they heard of cars?” Scorn and teen logic in one sentence…

We continued on our soccer-oriented journey, and I started to laugh…sometimes funky, bizarre moments in time are the best :)

Butterflies on my mind

I have a vivid imagination. With few exceptions, most scenarios are far better in my head than in reality. I haven’t decided if this is a flaw, because I love the creativity my imagination spawns. However, many real-life experiences are somewhat anticlimactic after traveling the curves of my mind…

My preschool students and I have been enjoying the wonders of the butterfly lifecycle. A lifecycle so exact that even a biology degree hasn’t lessened my amazement.

Ten Painted Lady caterpillars grew at the same rate, until the day they all climbed to the top of their enclosure and attached to the ceiling. Within 24 hours, they were enclosed in chrysalises—genetics are amazing.

Last week, the butterflies emerged…a truly magical event. After enjoying them for a few days, we decided to set them free—they needed to finish their life journeys.

I think I was more excited than the children. With great anticipation, we carried the butterfly enclosure outside, and I gently picked up each butterfly, lifting my hand into the air, waiting eagerly for it to fly.

Have you seen doves released at a wedding? Picture a grassy meadow and barefoot preschoolers skipping happily while butterflies flutter overhead.

This was so not that experience.

Each butterfly gripped my finger for dear life. In the end, 10 butterflies were left clinging desperately to a bush. My class waved good-bye, quickly moving on to thoughts of recess and lunch.

It took me a few days to let go of my disappointment and erase the meadow vision from my mind…it’s probably time to psych myself up for my next anticlimactic experience…you know it’s inevitable.

The Listening Wall

I never knew his name. I never knew where he lived. But for eight years, I watched him stand by a vine-covered, stone wall giving magnificent orations. I don’t know how long he spoke each day, but he was intensely dedicated. Rain or shine, hot or cold, he shared his thoughts.

His hands moved eloquently, with fierce determination as he expressed his ideas. Passersby never affected his concentration—I was amazed by how completely he shut out the world around him. He always dressed neatly, his hair trimmed, and I wondered where the important people in his life were.

His wall was on my route home—I watched for him daily. Over time, I looked forward to seeing him—he was part of my life, in a strange sort of way. He also became part of my children’s lives—M talked about him constantly, full of curiosity about a man who spent so much time public speaking.

There are apartments near the wall, there’s also a retirement community. Instinct told me that he didn’t live alone—concern made me wonder who kept an eye on him…an elderly man standing beside a busy road, speaking intensely, passionately…and completely alone.

We were surprised when he quit appearing in the fall and found ourselves searching for him when we passed the wall. I worried about H1N1, wondering if he was ill. As the weeks passed, I decided that age must have made him succumb to the cold, wet winter—I assured myself that he would be back in the spring.

But still, I worried, and I knew in my heart that something had changed. The first day of spring came and went weeks ago…he’s never reappeared.

I feel sadness when I pass the wall and wish I’d taken time to hear his words. I think he must have been well-read—I could tell he was well-spoken. Who knows what he was sharing or what memories played over and over in his mind. Did his family listen to his thoughts, did anyone record them? Will the words that meant so much to him live on in perpetuity?

M and I talked about him the other day, each of us missing his presence. As we spoke, I realized that we may not have known his name or where he lived, but he’s someone we’ll never forget. Through us, part of his life retains importance, and maybe that’s all any of us can hope for…to be remembered in bits and pieces…by those we know well and those we affect without ever knowing at all.

Life without coffee

Struggling to wake up and feel productive this a.m. I’d like to sit and do nothing, possibly for the entire day, but that would increase my stress level tomorrow…I’m not into self torture.

Due to continuing torrential rains, the grass soccer fields are a mess, so my kids’ teams are scrambling to borrow turf time at local high schools. That means late, weeknight practices, which are wearing everyone down.

Not to mention the fact that my husband was working in CA most of February and March, and solo parenting is never easy. He arrived back in Oregon on Saturday and will be home for a couple of weeks, temporarily bringing balance to our crazy routines.

And we’re not busy compared to many families—we’ve limited the kids to one major sport each, but at the competitive level that’s still a big commitment. A lot of people thrive on chaos and constant demands—unfortunately, I’m not one of them. I like quiet time at home—a rare commodity some weeks.

On top of all that, I’ve lost my taste for coffee, and I really miss it. I miss all the sensations…the aroma of freshly ground beans, the coffee maker singing, my mug filling to the brim, the massive jolt of caffeine starting my day... I don’t have cause to use the word baffling very often, but this is one of those times.

I can trace my coffee apathy to November, when I was really sick. I wasn’t concerned at the time, because I’ve always preferred tea to coffee during illnesses. However, my good health returned, while my taste for coffee didn’t. Like I said…baffling.

So, now I drink tea regularly—a pleasant, soothing drink completely lacking coffee’s full-bodied impact on life. Once in a while I buy an Americano, just to see…who knew there could be such sorrow while sipping… Life shouldn’t be so hard.

Colon cancer makes an entrance

I have no direction tonight...I'm just following my thoughts. My dad is in the hospital due to complications from a colon biopsy he had 1 1/2 weeks ago. He had a cancerous growth removed two weeks before that, so the surgeon was hoping for clean margins.

We don't have the margin results yet, but unfortunately, my dad hemorrhaged Tuesday night, was rushed to the emergency room and is now rebuilding his blood supply in the safety of a hospital room.

No one is sure why he hemorrhaged--we're assuming it was related to his surgery--but really, even the surgeon has no idea. This is one of those scenarios where you stabilize the patient, feed them a liquid diet and determine if the colon can handle its job without major, life-threatening protest. Then you send them back home and hope for the best.

Ironically, this is the last thing anyone in my family contemplated threatening my dad's health. He's been dealing with heart issues for at least 20 years and has needed a second bypass surgery for at least two.

Cholesterol is the enemy my family fights, whether they're male or female...cancer has never been an issue. And truthfully, cholesterol has taken enough lives and threatened even more that it's hard to fathom anything else as powerful. Trust life to throw you a curve ball, then sit back and critique your swing...

I'm just tired tonight... Tired emotionally, tired physically, and tired mentally. My husband has been gone for four of the past five weeks, and this entire cancer scenario has occurred during his absence. That's the way it's been during our marriage, I don't think he's ever been in town during a crisis. Uncle Sam and Mother Nature need to invest in an all-inclusive texting/email plan, if they care about their constituents' mental health...

Thank goodness I have the ever-consistent soccer schedule to follow and keep me sane. Seven days per week, rain or shine. As long as I keep showing up on the side lines, I know I'm keeping my head above water...

On that note...

Yesterday, parents all over Oregon did little happy dances…today, it’s my turn.

Kids returned to school yesterday, after the two-week, holiday break. My preschool parents were wreathed in smiles when they delivered their children. Quick kisses and hugs (their children, not me—although, I’m sure they felt like hugging me)…see you in two and a half hours…fa la la la la, la la la la!

This isn’t to imply that parents don’t enjoy being home with their children; it’s to acknowledge the fact that parents also enjoy being home without their children. Two weeks is a long time, for parents and kids alike, especially when everyone is used to the social/physical outlets school provides. Oh…along with the learning aspect…the learning’s important too.

I actually had a wonderful time with my family during the holidays. J was home from the University of Oregon, my aunt visited one weekend, and my parents were here for a week. We watched my nephews wrestle one day, played a ton of board games, mastered difficult crossword puzzles (woohoo Internet search engines), took long walks with The Beasts, and indulged in morning Sudoku (which was far less intimate than it sounds).

Sure, the JAM kids argued, sometimes multiple times in the same minute, multiple times a day. Which led to moments of me wondering why children ever need breaks from school, but overall, it was a great two weeks.

Sunday, J returned to UO (always a difficult good-bye), and yesterday, A, M, and I returned to school. I was thrilled to see my students and hear their exciting holiday stories—I had really missed them. However, I understood the looks on their parents’ faces, the excitement they could barely contain…I’m probably lucky any of them returned for pick up.

But today, it’s my turn…my face mirrors theirs. I don’t work on Tuesdays and Thursdays—this is the first time in three weeks that I’ve had the house to myself.

I’m listening to a Kenny G holiday CD, surrounded by decorations I need to take down. I’ll do that later…right now, I’m savoring the last quiet moments of holiday thoughts, traditions and blessings. Sometimes, it’s hard to do that in the midst of the holiday crush…

Maybe I’ll take a walk with The Beasts, maybe I’ll do one last Sudoku puzzle, maybe I’ll finish the book I started last week. Or maybe, realistically, I’ll clean the house, finish lesson plans, write thank you notes and make lasagna for dinner.

But, for the moment…life and decisions can wait until Kenny G’s last note…fa la la la la, la la la la :)

He who cooks the turkey...

I baked decadent Sweet Potato Soufflé, creamy mashed potatoes, and sausage/apple stuffing that was to die for.

I prepared Scandinavian bread sticks so rich they should have been chased by anti-cholesterol meds.

I caramelized and sautéed a vegetable side dish that looked as beautiful as it tasted.

I followed my mother’s pecan pie recipe, creating a dessert so tantalizingly delicious it would've turned famous bakers green with envy.

I whipped together a pumpkin pie so rich in flavor that adding whip cream would have been sacrilege.

And the table…it was beautiful. Warm, fall colors lit by candle light, bathed in ambiance.

The one item I didn’t prepare was the turkey, which my husband rotisseried on our barbecue.

While he played games with the kids, the turkey meticulously spun and baked. While I slaved in the kitchen, the turkey meticulously spun and baked. While I set the table, the turkey meticulously spun and baked.

Finally, while I timed every dish perfectly and placed them on the buffet with flourish and finesse, my husband retrieved the turkey from the grill and sliced it.

Roast turkey aroma filled the house, eclipsing everything else. It was perfect, as rotisserie meat always is...moist, flavorful, tender…the maestro to my supporting cast of side dishes…the crux of a successful Thanksgiving meal.

"Mmmmmm, this is delicious, Dad."

"Wow...this is perfect, Dad."

And all my husband did was skewer a bird and turn on the grill…

He who cooks the turkey gets the glory.