Strawberry Pie

My Dad used to take me back to Nebraska to visit family almost every summer. Then when I was old enough, my parents would put me on a plane to go for a longer visit by myself. It was something I really looked forward to every year. My cousin M and I would lie in the sun on the grass outside my grandma’s apartment (read: get burnt to a crisp and eaten alive by chiggers). We’d walk along the railroad tracks talking about life in the big city and small town. We’d go swimming at the little town pool. We’d use our entire summer allowance to buy an obscene amount of fireworks. We’d use whatever was left over for candy and ice cream. We’d hop from aunt’s house to aunt’s house for BBQ’s and family get-togethers. We’d always make at least one shopping trip into Lincoln that would end with dinner at Valentino’s (they had dessert pizza!). We’d make one longer pilgrimage to Omaha to see Aunt S and do more shopping. It was always a trip full of fun activities and me being a big city girl, exploring small town life and being absolutely enthralled with it (although not always well versed in the do’s and don’ts of small town life, like the time when my grandmother completely blew a gasket over me sitting on the curb on main street watching the teenagers cruise on a Friday night – how was I to know it wasn’t lady like?).

But one of my most favorite memories is that my grandma always, always made me strawberry pie. She knew it was my favorite and she always made sure she had a pie waiting for me upon my arrival. And I’ve been searching for the perfect strawberry pie recipe ever since, without success. But recently my Aunt J sent me several strawberry pie recipes that she found in my grandma’s recipes, so I’m trying the one that sounds like I remember tasting today and I cannot wait.

I cannot wait to see the looks on my children’s faces upon their first bite. And I cannot wait for the flood of memories that will come with my first bite.

1/2/10 - Aunt T

Aunt T is in the house ya’ll!

My dad has five sisters and one brother. The middle sister is my Aunt T and is, without doubt or contest, my favorite aunt. There’s just something about she and I that just clicks. Even when I was an angst filled, out of hand, balls to the wall teenager and my dad had all but written me off as a lost cause, my Aunt T was still there. When I went to college in Nebraska about 45 minutes away from my dad’s hometown, my Aunt T was there to greet me with open arms. When I spent my first Thanksgiving away from home and my grandmother invited me to the family celebration and everyone else there was either mean or flat out ignored me, it was Aunt T who stepped in to do her best to make me feel welcome (my grandmother later laid the smack down and the family was nice to me ever after).

She is a brilliant, funny, aware woman who loves to be challenged and think outside the box. She’s currently working on her dissertation to get a Doctorate in Education and she’s the superintendent for a consolidated school district in Nebraska. She spent years teaching on a reservation in northern Nebraska and she saves all year long so that she can spend all summer traveling.

She and I used to meet for breakfast on a fairly regular basis in my college town to catch up and trade familial gossip. I loved those breakfasts. Even though they were in a motel restaurant that only used Velveeta in their omelets, they were wonderful opportunities to have some family connection when I was 500 miles from home.

I’ve always looked up to my Aunt T because she has always unabashedly lived her life on her own terms. Regardless of whether it was conventional or not, she always chose to live in such a way that was not only an absolute celebration of her core values, but also cutting her own path to happiness.

And now, she’s here to spend some time with her big brother before he moves out of this world and into the next.

11/24/09 - A Little Diva and Lots of Stories

Remember how I was saying that The Girl was being the sweetest, most wonderful, atypical 3 ½ year old you’ve ever known? Yeah, I jinxed it. If it were possible, and legal, to punt my daughter, man she would have been sailing into the next county by now. I can usually blame these lapses of judgment of hers on lack of sleep or not feeling well. But she slept great last night (even slept in!) and she’s totally healthy. If I’m being fair, she’s just responding to the up and down nature of the emotional state of affairs right now. If I’m being as big of a brat as she is, she’s being a gigantic pain in my ass and I’d like for her to just stop it.

My mom, dad and I were up until almost 11:30pm last night listening to dad tell stories like only he can. Watching him remember days far gone in rural Nebraska and missing his own father more than ever, now that he is facing his own mortality. I think he’d really like to have his dad here to tell him it’s ok. That none of this is his fault and life is just life. It breaks my heart to see how much my father still adores and looks to his own father after all of these years. My grandfather died of a massive heart attack about a week after my mom and dad got married. So I never got to meet him and my parents never got a honeymoon. But I don’t think there has been a day gone by over the last almost 40 years that my dad hasn’t missed his own father.

I expect I’m going to get to know that feeling pretty intimately in the near future.

So I am going to give him a journal for his upcoming birthday. So that as these winding tales from his childhood surface to the top of his memory he can write them down. And later, I can weave all the threads together into a story. So we can all make sure that these glorious memories of times, and people, long past go on being remembered and loved.

Continued Aftermath

So it turns out that my husband must have some sort of super immune system. Because this vomit madness aftermath has lasted a lot longer than the 24 expected hours for The Girl and me. By yesterday afternoon The Girl was on her way back to normal and I felt sure that other than the aforementioned muscle soreness, so was I. But I actually feel worse today than I did yesterday. I have less than no energy and I almost feel like I do post-migraine. The daylight is a wee bit too bright and I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out if I move any faster than a turtle. I just can’t quite get my brain to react at a normal rate or form thoughts entirely coherently. I have to erase about every other word as I type it because of typos and I have to re-read every sentence to make sure it actually makes sense. Very strange and I’m over it now.

I’m just thoroughly grateful that it’s the weekend. Because we can all have two full days without responsibilities to catch up, get completely healthy and get everything put back in order. That is, as soon as I can stand up for more than 2 minutes at a time. My husband got called to work some overtime today from home, The Boy seems to be feeling much, much better as he’s outside currently enjoying the gorgeous weather playing with his neighborhood friends decked out in his Captain Rex (red Clone Trooper) Halloween costume. The Girl is curled up on the couch beside me watching episode after episode of Scooby Doo while I clumsily type away on my laptop fighting the ebb and flow of nausea.

Today is also a bittersweet kind of day. It’s the birthday of one of my oldest and dearest friends – Happy Birthday T!! I love you and hope that you have a wonderful day which will set the tone for a fabulous year!

But it is also the fourth anniversary of when our dear friend and neighbor B was killed in Iraq. You are alive and well in our memories and we love you B. Be at peace.

11/4/09 - In the Heat of the Moment

**Sorry. Entire family consumed with vomit madness. Keeping fingers crossed that it misses me.**

I had woken up extraordinarily early one weekend morning when I was little and instead of turning on the TV or reading a book or any of the other totally permissible and appropriate things that I could have done, I decided instead to gather all of my mom’s nail polish and pour it down the banister leading to the basement. And then to add a little creative flair I decided to squirt an entire tube of toothpaste down the same banister and mix it all together into an artistic masterpiece.

As I was putting on the finishing touches, my mom came into the kitchen and discovered what I had done. I remember backing away from her rage and as I turned on my heel to bolt to my room, I ran right smack into the kitchen wall. I hit the wall so hard it knocked me down, and I ended up with the mother of all goose eggs right in the middle of my forehead. I remember looking up at my mom and she was laughing. And I didn’t understand how she could be.

But now I get it. Because when one of my kids aren’t paying attention and end up on their face or their little butts, I find myself laughing at them as well. And it dawned on me the other day that it probably really pisses them off. I remember the indignation I felt at the ripe age of 6 or 7 being laughed at when I felt like the world should have stopped in an effort to bring me recompense for not only the pain of my injury but also the embarrassment.

I also look back on that morning however and understand now that in that moment of me crashing into the strawberry wallpaper adorned wall, all of that rage my mother had was instantly transformed into laughter. And that is always a gift no matter the inspiration.

So what’s the point of bringing up these childhood memories? I guess mostly that I just hope to remember both perspectives in those heated moments and also I hope I have grandchildren so that The Boy and The Girl can someday understand too.

Fashionably Nostalgic

Do you remember powder jackets from back in the 80’s? I begged for one for about a year before my mom finally relented. It was light pink and grey. I loved it. I wouldn’t take it off for anything. I was so proud of it. I just knew simply by wearing it that my cool quotient went through the roof; making it so that I commanded all attention whenever I walked into a room at the ripe age of 9 or so. We went on a field trip one day at school and I left it on the bus. I was heartbroken.

There were several things like that growing up. I coveted Polo shirts (you could tell the real ones from the knock offs by counting the legs on the horse) and Converse shoes. Jelly bracelets and friendship pins.

The uniforms at my Catholic elementary school took the coveting out of the classroom itself, but not out of the friendships. After school and on weekends, the competition would commence. We would spend hours trading bracelets and pinning the bead-laden safety pins on the backs of our Cons. We would go to the mall with our immature selves which would do nothing but further fuel our already very mature sense of want. We’d giggle and whisper about the boys we saw in the food court while oohing and ahhing over a pair of shoes.

Of course as time went on I went from ogling the shoes at Nine West to Doc Martens. And the powder jackets retreated in the face of leather motorcycle jackets which I passed around my artist friends to paint, thus making MY jacket one of a kind. Polo shirts faded to tartan miniskirts and eventually the jelly bracelets and friendship pins merged into tongue piercings and purple hair dye.

And now I’m watching my childhood come back into fashion. With the hot pink fishnet gloves and the leg warmers, the loud patterns and colors. Jelly shoes are even back. And they weren’t even comfortable the first time. Now I shake my head and sigh at the boys we see in the food court and wonder whatever became of my old powder jacket.

7/25/09 - Teachers to Remember

***Sorry this is so late...my brain is swiss cheese and I'm on staycation.***

When I think back over the number of teachers I have had over the past years, there are several that stand out. Mrs. C in elementary school for not letting me quit and resign myself to being stupid when it came to math. Mr. T and Mrs. G in high school for encouraging my creativity and inherent rebel nature without compromising my intelligence. Drs. W, R and McP in college who all played a heavy hand in taking me from high school drop out to passionate over achiever with a mission. I will remember these teachers for the rest of my life.

And there is one more that I will also always remember. My first grade teacher, Mrs. H. When I stepped into her classroom I was bright, excited, creative and vibrant with my want and willingness to learn. I was pretty much a typical precocious six year old girl who taught herself how to read at the age of 4 because she got tired of not being able to read what was going on around her and who started writing stories not long after. And I was ambidextrous. I loved that I could do everything with both hands. Especially write. More from a place of convenience than anything else. It was just really nice to be able to write with whatever hand happened to find the pencil first.

Mrs. H answered that little piece of convenience by rapping my knuckles with a ruler every time I wrote with my left hand and a stern clucking. Whenever I worked ahead on any given assignment, she answered my want to learn more by humiliating me in front of my classmates. When I would beg to go to the nurse on the verge of tears with a migraine she would refer to me as a crybaby in front of the whole class. She was, in essence, a bitch in the first order armed with a classroom from which to rule.

The Boy starts first grade in a week. And I am equally excited and terrified for him. I am keeping my fingers crossed for him to find the teacher who encourages his journey instead of de-railing it.

Wyoming Memories

I am an only child. My mom is an only child. All of my dad’s family lives in Nebraska. Needless to say the bulk of my extended family came in the form of family friends. There is one group in particular which populate my childhood memories from beginning to end. These were people with whom my mom was very good friends (one of which since high school) since way before I was even a glimmer in her eye.

J has just about always lived in Wyoming and he had a sweet little house in Lander when I was little. We used to go up there just about every weekend. Keep in mind that Lander is an 8 hour drive from Denver. And we literally would go every single weekend. They had a hot tub and kitties and the whole house just had a lovely, soft, homey feeling about it. I loved that house. Except for one thing. There was one exposed heating grate that you just knew to stay away from when the heat was because that sucker would get white hot. So I learned from almost the moment I stepped foot into that house to just stay far away from it when it was cold enough for the heat to be on. Period.

And then one day I was playing chase with the closest person I have to a sibling and forgot what I was doing. I suddenly found myself standing on that grate with both feet and before I knew what was happening I was just screaming. It hurt so badly that I just could not move. So I stood there, my feet getting more and more burned by the moment, screaming. J finally rushed in after a minute or two and whisked me off the grate and onto the couch. I had perfect lines in what were probably second degree burns running across my feet like railroad tracks. I will never forget that moment of pain paralysis. And I will never forget that house or the people who lived and loved in it.

My mom and I are heading back to Wyoming this weekend and I cannot wait to see these people.

3/22/09 - Daddy's Girl

I don’t remember the first time my Dad took me fishing. I just know that it was always there. An activity that bound us, gave us some common ground and allowed him to connect to me, even when he didn’t really understand much about me or the things I did.

I remember standing on the rocky banks of rivers, The Poudre and The Platte mostly, with the sun bearing down on my then small shoulders, dutifully throwing cast after cast. Following his footsteps diligently so as not to make too much noise or stumble myself right into the water.

I remember him stopping at some clearing where I wouldn’t get my line stuck in the branches as I clumsily reached back, ready to use my entire force of will to propel that lure into the perfect spot. So perfect that I was sure I’d have a fish hooked before he had a chance to resume his foraging upstream. He would get me set up with lure, point out the sweet spots, watch me cast a few times and then carry on, looking for his own quiet spot to whisk his flies back and forth in perfect 10 and 2 rhythm.

That was always my least favorite part of our forays into angler communion. Watching him walk away from me. Leaving me alone on the riverbank. I just wanted to spend more time with my Dad. I didn’t care that there was little conversation. I just wanted him to keep teaching, to keep being there. And watching him walk away from me, even though I knew he wouldn’t be much further than 10 or 20 yards was like getting taken on the most wonderful date you could imagine and then being left to dine at the 5-star restaurant alone.

I worked hard on that time on the riverbank. I worked hard to catch a fish that would make him come running back to help me reel it in. I worked hard to perfect my lurching casts. I worked hard on being quiet even though I longed to sit and chuck perfect stones into the soft river. I worked hard on being a daughter that loved fishing.

List Maker, List Maker

I’ve become a tireless list maker. Grocery lists, to-do lists, lists for what the kids each need to bring to school, lists of things I want to do, lists of everywhere I’ve submitted resumes, lists of clothes the kids need to replace those they’ve outgrown, lists of possible topics to write about. It goes on and on. Some are mental lists, but most are lists that I’ve written down on post-its or random pieces of paper. Notes on my computer are also fairly numerous. I’ve found that my once impossibly accurate memory is now full of big, sucking holes. And almost everything that I need or want to remember disappears into these holes never to be seen again.

I should probably make some sort of list central desk or something at which to keep all of my notes and random thoughts I’d like to be able to find again. Because the only thing more irritating than forgetting something important is losing the paper that I wrote it down on so that I didn’t forget it. And this happens frequently.

There is a part of me that rebels against the need to make all of these lists. That is just positive that if I keep practicing remembering things that the holes will seal themselves back up and I can go back to remembering every little bit of trivia and happenstance. But at this point I’m fairly sure that the holes were created, permanently ripped into (or away from?) my memory sometime during childbirth. Before I had The Boy, I could remember how just about everyone I had ever known took their coffee. After? I couldn’t even remember how I took my coffee. And it only got worse after The Girl arrived.

My memory was always a great source of pride for me. With the exception of being able to remember birthdays, they’ve always eluded me for some reason, I could always recall some important thing about everyone I knew or had ever known.

And now, as I’m reconnecting with some dear friends, I find myself playing tug of war with those holes in my memory. Trying to regain the snippets of memory along with the friendship.

Grandma Kinda

My grandmother died when my mom was only 18. When I was born my great Aunt Deanie, who had promised to take care of my mother when her sister died, came to the hospital to see me and dubbed herself my grandma. My mom reminded her that she wasn’t really my grandmother and she replied, “I am her Grandma, kinda.”

Thus, my Grandma Kinda was born. I actually didn’t know this whole story until just a handful of years ago. I never thought about it to be honest. The technicality didn’t matter; she was my Grandma Kinda and absolutely one of the biggest influences in my life thus far.

We used to go see her and my Uncle Don every weekend and Grandma Kinda would take me on dates about every month to this little soda shop in the old Cinderella City mall. In the back wall of her house, just off her kitchen, was a little milk box built into the wall. It was my treasure chest. That’s where all of my toys, coloring books, crayons and surprises were kept. Every week she’d add a little something in there for me to discover.

She always had two bags of marshmallows in her kitchen. One was kept carefully closed so that the marshmallows would stay soft and squishy for hot chocolate. The other was left callously open so that the marshmallows would get all hard and chewy. The hard ones were my little after lunch treats (or just given on the sly). I would go into the den, sit at her old spinning loom desperately trying to figure out what it was for, wish that her little Teacup Poodle, Twinkie, would come sit next to me, and as slowly as possible, eat my marshmallow.

Grandma Kinda taught me to say flutterbye and scutterbotch. Grandma Kinda taught me to always look at the eyes; if there was kindness there, then I should go out of my way to bring it into my life. Grandma Kinda taught me about the absolute beauty in peonies. Grandma Kinda taught me about perseverance in love, even when it changes and especially when it was hard, to never, never stop loving.

La Foret

My dearest T brought me to La Foret halfway through my freshman year in high school. It was a UCC affiliated camp that she had been going to for years. Like the guardian angel she is, she knew that it would bring me the safety I needed to learn how to be me. And it did.

Even when I was an absolute mess, which was more often than not through high school, it was one of the safest places I’ve ever known. Full of people ready and willing to accept and love me for exactly who and where I was at any given time.

Some of my most favorite memories happened at La Foret. There were secret kisses in the meadow, under a veil of fog. There was my corner on the smoking porch. There was singing “Landslide” and “You are my Sunshine” at closing circles. There were mud fights after the rain. There was running through the forest in the dead of night carrying out glorious pranks. There was head banging until I’d lost all control of my neck muscles. There was writing, and sharing and connecting.

It was sort of like a fairytale land. Not because it was always perfect, because it wasn’t. There was heart ache and tears and loss. But regardless of whatever was happening there, or whatever I brought with me, it was always safe. It was always a haven for me to process and heal. And because everything was always just a little bit more beautiful there. And even when I was living at the very core of sorrow, my pain grounding me in the real, it always had an element of surreal to it.

I reveled in that piece of fantasy. I indulged in the notion that anything was possible there. That there was a place where a wish coming true was an actual possibility. That no matter whether joy or anger streaked my face, that I was always beautiful there.

These memories are one of the biggest gifts my past has brought me. Because they bring with them the safety of the place. The permission to create everyday in its image. To play architect to my present.

Songs of Remembering

I have songs for just about every significant memory I have. I can be a million miles away from a point in my past and then a certain song will come on the radio or my iPod and suddenly I’m transported back in time as if it had just happened yesterday.

Men at Work and Heart take me back to elementary school. Depeche Mode warps me back to middle school. “Love Shack,” “Forever Young” and early Indigo Girls take me back to the camp I went to all the way through high school. Old school Metallica takes me back to a girlfriend I had in late middle school/early high school and us learning together how to be rebels and push boundaries.

My old friend DS introduced me to Sarah McLachlan and Utah Saints and I will forever find myself riding shotgun in his white pickup truck when I hear anything by either one. H brought me to Low, Kristin Hirsch and The Verve Pipe. One listen to any of them and I’m in my happy car, his vintage Mustang.

“Brown Eyed Girl,” “American Pie” and “Cherry Bomb” puts me in J’s maroon Subaru sitting outside of the pool hall, smoking cigarettes and talking into the wee hours of the morning. Anything off of Pretty Hate Machine takes me to the bedroom of my first high school crush, having my mind blown by this new band and the simple fact of being granted the wish of seeing the inside of JK’s room.

Live and Jane’s Addiction take me to my first love. Pearl Jam, The Cranberries and The Counting Crows take me to Mackinac Island.

Dave Matthews’ “Crash” reminds me of saying every time it came on the jukebox at the bar “This song makes me want to fall in love.” And the first dance at my wedding.

This is such a short list. Music has been such a defining element in my life. Helping me suss out the mood in any given situation or permanently etching a moment into my memory. Songs can just as easily bring a giggle as tears to me no matter my present situation. It’s a bittersweet tie to my past.

High School Drop Out

I dropped out of high school. My senior year. I only needed one class to graduate. And I just quit. I told myself it was because of the teacher of that one class. She was a raging bitch with a major chip on her shoulder who had flat out told me that there was nothing I could do to pass her class. So I simply walked out. In reality though I think I quit because I was just done. For most of high school the only thing that got me out of bed was the opportunity to be involved in the drama department. And my senior year, that really kicked into high gear. I got to student direct the school musical first semester and then essentially have my pick of roles in the play second semester.

But the rest of it? Just didn’t matter to me anymore. My boyfriend at the time was the star goalie of the lacrosse team so I went to all the games and the parties on the weekends. Drama and my social life were the only reasons to even step foot on campus. So I found myself sneaking around the old school so that I could tailor make my days. Mostly hiding in the drama department, occasionally sneaking a smoke out the back doors.

It didn’t really sink in that I was a high school drop out until the rest of my friends graduated. I went to the ceremony to support them and about half way through the proceedings it dawned on me that I would not ever get to do this. That my parents wouldn’t ever get to take the requisite picture of me in my cheesy cap and gown holding my diploma. There would be no bragging about my GPA or what colleges I had been accepted to.

I never went back to high school so to speak. I took a summer school class a year after I should have graduated and got those last three credits. I never requested a copy of my diploma or anything. The simple knowledge that it was done was enough. And I wouldn’t trade the memories of that senior year for anything.