The Front Porch

2011: An Evolutionary Year

2012-01-04T08:01:00.004-07:00

Wow. Time passes so quickly when you're immersed in living. I last posted a column several months ago, though I've thought many times to myself, "Oh! This would make a great essay!" as an intriguing idea or topic coursed through my brain. Unfortunately, I'm still trying to acclimate to waking at 6:00 almost daily; by 9:30pm, I'm wiped out. And those hours in between are spent working, ferrying kids back and forth, fixing meals, shopping for meals, or trying to keep up with this giant house and its many needs. I, a voracious reader, have not cracked open a book in weeks. That's criminal.

But it's almost my birthday, and that is the time of year at which I look back and take stock of my life. I will turn 47 this weekend. Forty-seven! That's almost 50. That's almost a half-century. That's almost...old. Older. Kind of old. I am grinning as I type because no matter how I word it, 47 is older than I ever thought I would live to be. I'm sure if Dad is reading this, he can remember when I, in all seriousness, declared my certainty that I would not make it past 19 because everyone on the planet annoyed the shit out of me. I am returning that favor to my teenagers these days, who find me obnoxiously annoying simply because I draw breath. I've tried to accommodate them by experimenting with ways to inhale and exhale (read: live) without actually opening my airways. Fun Fact: It's impossible. And so...I annoy them.

But seriously, as I recollect the past 365 days of my existence, I marvel at how different my life is now compared to then. When we are actually in the moments that comprise our days, it is nearly impossible to recognize those that will eventually be acknowledged as life-altering. But reflection offers crystal-clear magnification; it allows us to view our lives as a sort of slide show. Oh, look! There's Becky and Tavia holding up the Christmas tree that wants so badly to fall over, and hey! Here come's Tuck through the front door to save the day.

Another slide reveals a surprised and visibly elated Tuck as his eclectic group of friends surround him in celebration of his 15th birthday in what Tuck eventually described as the best party he's ever had.

And in another scene, there I am, packing boxes and crying because I'm thoroughly exhausted and torn between needing to move on and not wanting to move my kids from the only home (and community, and friends) they've ever known.

I watch as the kids and I make the monumentally difficult decision to let go of our beloved Oliver, whose seizures claimed his canine dignity and comfort. We surround him with love there on the vet's office floor as he takes his last breath and gently lays his head in my hand. We say goodbye.

In my mind's eye I see myself growing more frustrated and beleaguered as I try to maintain the house I sacrificed to stay in all those years, the one I lovingly painted and decorated and made into a home. I can't physically do it alone. I can't stay there, being told that it's not really my house anyway, that somehow, all the sweat equity I've accrued over the 12 years means nothing. I weep, for all the disappointment and loss. And then I resolve to keep my splintered family together because whether these kids know it or not, we are strong enough to start over somewhere else and create something wonderful. Different, yes. But wonderful nonetheless.

My brain cannot think of the most challenging moments without also conjuring memories of those most rewarding and enriching. I see myself in Mexico with Rick, where we slept late and indulged ourselves in whatever way we felt like indulging. Time ceased to exist, and we just enjoyed basking in each other's company. The breathtaking sunsets and crashing waves of the Caribbean didn't hurt, either.

I see Rick again, reaching out to my kids with patience and a genuine desire to make them feel comfortable. He knows it's a tough crowd. My kids are loving, but they're products of my influence: They say what they think and they aren't exactly in a place of great trust. I watch as he gently enters the sphere of this family in a manner that is at once cautious and yet oddly confident. He recognizes the importance of building relationships with my children; he knows I value their feelings and opinions. He understands that to embrace me is also to embrace my tribe. As weeks pass, I watch them accept him, welcome him, tread easier around him. He is with us when he can be, and we always look forward to his arrival.

As the year winds to a close, I see us pile into the van: Max, Tuck, Bella, and I (Tavi stayed in Windsor a few days longer), along with our two remaining dogs, Kya and Scout. We drive 2000 miles across the country and I marvel that the trip is so uneventful and, well, smooth. Ok, as smooth as it can be with four people and two dogs in an enclosed, moving vehicle. All in all, that trip could have been a nightmare and was pleasantly not.

Then there we are, Max having left for foreign shores, the three kids and I searching for our place in this new community. There are good points and bad, and in my most recent poll, I am told by all three that they would not choose to be living in Colorado now. Yes, they miss their friends. Very much. Yes, Bella misses her dad. Yes, school is better in some ways, worse in others. Typical issues that accompany a typical move. I miss my friends too, achingly so. I miss my old office, which was beautiful and bright and the only space I've ever occupied that felt like it was truly and only mine.

But we are adjusting and finding things to appreciate: Bella and I especially love the ocean that sits right outside our front door. We love to go down to our pier, where I relax and she explores, showing me her found treasures. Tavi marvels at how quickly she's made friends, good friends, and how easily she transitioned into her school. Tuck has arguably struggled the most, but he also was the one who left the most behind, being oldest and having just embarked on a music career. But even he has found a core group of friends and has begun performing publicly. And we are all lucky because those people we love visit us. Our dear friends Jennie and Tim stayed for a few days. My sister was here to help us with the move. The girls' dad has visited once. Tavi's friend Ali just spent a week with us, and Tuck's friend Dakota will be here on Friday. I'm pretty certain to see Wendy and Tami here in Vacationland before 2012 comes to a close, and the girls are going back to Colorado for the second time in four months this weekend.

We are learning a lot. The move, which foisted our little gang into unfamiliar territory, brought us even closer. We have relied on one another in ways we didn't before, and I realized not long ago, as we sat around the dinner table and laughed and sang and talked, that my kids are friends. A stranger remarked on this phenomenon a couple weeks ago, when Max was visiting and we all were out together. She was amazed at how much my kids seem to like each other, and how much fun they had just talking with one another. I think our self-imposed exile from all that we had known made us appreciate each other more, even as we continue to fight and argue about things we one day will look back on and wonder why.

I also believe that this leap of faith has served to show my children how resilient and strong they are. What they did was not easy, and each has exacted a toll from me in his or her own way. I accept that, because what I essentially did was ask them to trust me, to believe in my wisdom, to blindly go far away. I asked them to think back on their own lives and consider if I had ever let them down or led them astray. I asked them if I'd ever lied to them, or even put my own needs or desires ahead of theirs. They knew I had not, and so they reluctantly took the leap with me. And ever so slowly, their new lives are unfolding. And whaddya know? Those lives aren't too shabby.

It's been a tough year. A tender year. An evolutionary year. A year that serves to remind that we are never too old to change, to grow, to risk. It's been a year that underscores the value in staying true to oneself, in recognizing a good thing when you see it and holding onto it. A year that reminded me that struggle is part of the glory, and trusting my gut is always the right thing to do.

And so I embark on my 48th year with gusto and a belief that the good I put out into the world is coming back to me in spades. I have the love of a solid man and love him back like nobody's business; my children are good, interesting people whom I adore; I get paid to do something I love, which in turn helps keep my family going; and I find something to laugh about every day. I wake up to the sound of sea gulls every morning and coffee brewing in the kitchen. I regret little and have much to appreciate.

I am joyful.

So This is Maine

2011-10-13T07:38:00.000-06:00

I write this sitting on the sofa in what we call the "main room" while listening to Seals & Crofts. To my left is a fireplace, where a fire is roaring. To my right, on the floor, lies Kya, our beloved pit bull-lab; she is keeping my feet warm with her massive body. The view from where I sit is noteworthy: Rain is coming down in sheets, sometimes sideways, other times, all whirly and swooshy. The leaves on the trees that line our side of the inlet are red and orange, gold and green. The leaves on the other side of the water are still green.Wind keeps the scenery ever-shifting as trees sway and the water current swiftly churns. The tide will come in later today, as it always does, and the water line will be higher than usual.

I love being here.

The kids and I have lived here now for six weeks. We are still transitioning, and probably will be for quite some time. We've already had sleepovers, and we are learning shortcuts to the places we like to go. Tuck has found fellow musicians with whom he plays, and he has his first gig this coming Saturday in Portsmouth, NH. The girls and I have already stormed the public library, which is housed in two old buildings across the street from each other. I laughed when I realized that, instead of moving into one new, bigger building, it just adapted to the space it already had and made do. And you know what? It's exactly as it ought to be. Bella thinks the older building should have a ghost who haunts the top floor, where the young adult books are shelved. I agree; it's just that kind of place.

School has arguably been the most difficult transition for the kids to handle. Tuck went from a high school of 1200 students to one of 280. Within the first week, he knew basically everyone, and boy, did everyone know him. And somehow, before the week was out, kids at the middle school knew Tavia was Tuck's sister, though they don't even share a last name and the schools are not geographically close to one another. Word travels quickly in a small town, and though I had warned the kids that they would be looked upon as minor celebrities (I've been down this road myself, in high school) for at least a while, I don't think they believed me. Now that girls are after Tavia so that they can get to Tuck, I think my kids are getting the picture.

Tavi and Bella go to the same school, grades 4-8, student population of around 350 or so. They're already taking NECAPS (pronounced kneecaps), the Maine equivalent of CSAPs. Why they're taken so early in the school year, I don't know. And I've been asked by Bella's writing teacher to come in and make a presentation to the class about the importance of editing, much like I did at Skyview in Windsor. Looks like I will be teaching a creative writing class, too, for 6-8th graders during what they call CREW time, which is the same as a study hall. Academically, the school is decent. Athletically, not so much. Tavi dropped out of cross country because she felt it wasn't coached very well or effectively. Tried to sign up for soccer then, but it was too late. She's considering trying out for basketball now.

As small as we are here in Kittery Point, the kids have found things to occupy their time. Tuck continues with his music and has begun giving me guitar lessons (woo hoo!). How fortuitous is this: Two houses away from ours lives the owner of the York Harbor Inn, a restaurant and lounge. In his basement is a 16-track recording studio, and he gave Tuck an open invitation to take advantage of it whenever he wants. And the lounge has open mic night every Thursday beginning in November. My boy is heading down to Boston this weekend for his first concert at the House of Blues. Has another one to attend on Tuesday. He'll take the bus there and back. I like that he's broadening his autonomy while learning his way around a new city, doing something he loves to do. Life could be worse than being 15 and having the freedom to explore, maybe get lost, find his way, and return home to the comfort of his own family.

Tavi is enrolled in two dance classes at the dance academy in Portsmouth. She says they're hard-core and that she's learning a lot. She's considering auditioning for the school's honor choir, which joins other regional honor choirs to form one big group, and then they perform all over the place. She has also joined the school's yearbook staff. Come spring, she wants to audition for the regional theater troupe. Tavia? Drama? Really?

We arrived too late for Bella to sign up for the traveling soccer league (there weren't enough participants to have a local rec team), but she plans to sign up in the spring. She will begin violin lessons soon, as next week we make a trip into New Hampshire to fit her with a violin rental. Her interest in writing continues to develop, and she has joined the school's newspaper staff as a reporter.

As for me, I spent the first three weeks meeting just about every repairman in the area. Seriously, there were so many things that needed to be fixed in this house, I felt like Shelly Long in that movie "The Money Pit." I opened the mailbox and the door fell off. Rick flushed the toilet and nothing happened. The steam shower didn't steam, and the fireplace didn't light. To fix one thing sometimes meant damaging something else, so then that something else had to be fixed. It was unceasing. When things finally settled, I had deadlines, so that was two weeks of little else but work, and the last files for a book I'm writing were turned in this week. So here I am.

There are many things to appreciate about my life here in rural Maine. Living on the ocean suits me well. I love to head down to our dock when the tide is coming in and the sun is shining and just...be. The water, the geese, the gentle sounds of the trees, the tugboats in the harbor, the scent...altogether, it offers a sense of solitude I find at once comforting and exhilarating. I appreciate the warm welcome my family has received--at Open House at the high school, several folks came up to me (admittedly, after staring at me for a while), shook my hand, and introduced themselves by telling me which house they lived in ("I live in the red house," "I'm in the yellow house next door," etc). I love how everyone here on our little hill has dogs, and no one cares if your dog visits them. So Kya and Scout have lots of friends, and it's kind of a canine free-for-all. I dig the weather. When it rains, it really rains. We've even already had flash floods and power outages (but seriously, what is this, compared to a tornado?). And when the sun shines, it reflects off the water with a brilliance that takes my breath away. Gratitude. It fills me with gratitude.

Other things, I'll have to get used to. I know many people well enough to say hello, but I don't have any real friends here (I know: it's been only 6 weeks). I miss my friends in Windsor more than words can express. I miss the connection, the being known and knowing them. It feels like so much work to start a new friendship at this stage of my life. Someone is going to really have to be something special for me to invest in. I'm not as generous with my time as I once was. On a more shallow note, I miss authentic Mexican food and melon margaritas from Guadalajara (the restaurant). I miss the convenience of being five minutes from the grocery store. Sidewalks. There are no continuous sidewalks here, and the roads are so narrow that you could high-five someone in a passing car without having to fully extend your arm. I'm not kidding.

So like all periods of transition and change, this one unravels one moment, one event at a time. The kids and I aren't always alone, as Rick comes in every other weekend, sometimes more often. His visits with us in Colorado were noteworthy because they were sporadic; the dynamic of the family would shift, even if only slightly. Now, though, he just seamlessly fits in...life continues as it does during the week, only now we have one more person to talk to, laugh with, consider. His presence is a great support for me on so many levels. His thoughtful input, his willingness to treat my kids as his own, his easy rapport with them...these are the things I've come to cherish.

And for myself, this feeling of being truly seen unleashes in me a veritable tidal wave of emotion I didn't know I possessed. It owns me, and I willingly give myself to it. Because in this life, I have developed a strength borne of necessity, of the desire to survive and thrive. It is an unyielding strength, and I have relied upon it for as long as I can remember. But the strength Rick encourages in me is flexible. It builds on a sense of communion, of togetherness, of trust. The glory of it brings me to my knees, and it's just one more thing I add to my ever-growing list of things for which I am grateful.

So. This is Maine.

Packing Up, Taking Stock, Moving On: Thoughts on Leaving Home

2011-08-17T08:56:00.000-06:00

My house has always been cluttered. I share an intimate love-hate relationship with "stuff," and though I've tried to change my evil ways, I have never succeeded. Now my stuff is in boxes, neatly labeled and stacked along the perimeter of rooms. Except when it's lying in the middle of the floor, or stuffed into bags to be put in the garage and unpacked later this week for our yard sale. One of my favorite things, my simple pleasures in life, is to walk through my home at night, when children are asleep and lights are dim. I have taken comfort in checking doors to be sure they're locked, in folding that last load of laundry (alas, never putting it away until I need an empty laundry basket), in replenishing the dogs' food and water bowls. Before bed, I blow out candles, kiss the dogs, turn out the lights.

To walk through this house at night now is to put one's life at risk. Scissors, tape rolls, boxes both full and flattened litter every square inch. Thumb tacks, nails, even stray pieces of (unchewed) gum threaten my bare feet. I am leaving Windsor; I am leaving this house I've called home for the past 13 years.

I never dreamed I'd be leaving this house until Bella graduated high school. I fell in love with the house itself the first time Wes and I walked through it in 1998. I admired it for its practicality. I loved the open floor plan and imagined watching my kids playing in the backyard while I cooked supper. I liked the idea of playing music on the stereo in the family room and being able to hear it upstairs. I craved the sunlight that I knew would pour through the living room window each morning. I could easily envision raising my family within these walls, and so I set out to make it a home.

We covered those stark white walls in vivid colors: periwinkle, fire-engine red, autumn leaf orange, sunshine yellow, lime green, cerulean blue, turquoise, aqua, terra cotta, purple. This house is a veritable palette of color, and it loyally reflects the personalities of the people who have inhabited it all these years. I painted furniture--wood benches, kitchen chairs, children's bookcases, chairs, stools and chests of drawers. I decorated the walls with kids' artwork and family photos, and my kitchen cupboards became bulletin boards for pages ripped from coloring books, messages of "I love you, mom," and other youthful masterpieces. Books filled every room, and my children grew up understanding that, with books, you never have to be bored or lonely.

As the kids grew, our home became a place in which their friends came to hang out. Just this past summer, it was nothing to find a half-dozen--often times, twice that--kids in Tuck's room (sometimes, when he wasn't even here) or gathered on the back patio, just talking, laughing, and generally kickin' it. Some of Tavi's friends have basically grown up here, so much so that when Tuck came through the door just last week and saw one of them at the kitchen table, he asked, "Do you live here now?" And he was serious.

Kids who spent a lot of time here over the years were treated exactly as I treated my own. They got hugs, food, advice. They heard me yell when I got fed up, and they knew they were expected to respect the rules of our home or face the consequences. They heard me play piano and sing, lose complete control in fits of laughter, say bad words, apologize. Tuck has, over the years, lamented the fact that I don't act differently when his friends are over. He would prefer I have two personalities: one for public and one for private. That's never been my gig, though, so he's had to learn to deal with that. And when all is said and done, I believe that the kids who have returned to our home time and again know they are welcome, that in some cases, I dearly love them. As I contemplate the days ahead and know I will not see the faces of my children's friends, I feel a genuine sense of loss. They have been a major part of my own life.

A house is just a house; I know that. It is because I made it a home that it matters and means something. But still, I struggle with leaving this physical structure. This is where two of my four children took their first steps. In this family room, the kids and I would push the furniture to the side, crank up the stereo, and dance like there was no tomorrow. Sometimes, other people's kids would join us in our joyful silliness. Scores of birthdays were celebrated in this house and the backyard. How many birthday candles were blown out at this kitchen table? These walls once vibrated with the sounds of Max learning to play piano and baritone, of Tavi's singing and learning to play piano, of Tuck learning to play guitar and trombone. There was nothing I liked more than to be in my upstairs office and hear Max and Tuck playing guitar and bass and sometimes even singing as the sounds drifted up through the floor vents. The bedroom walls brought comfort as I read bedtime stories with my children each night before tucking them in and telling them one final time that day how very much I loved them.

The memories aren't all good, of course. The master bedroom is where Wes and I lost our baby boy, and where I very nearly lost my own life in 1999. I sat at the kitchen table in disbelief as my sister hyperventilated over the phone, screaming that our mom was dead, in 2004. It was in these rooms--and yet so far beyond them, as well--that my relationship with Wes fell apart, into such a state of disrepair that there was no salvation for us. And it was here that I had to tell my children what that meant for them.

And consequently, it is within these walls that the kids and I learned how to regroup and continue growing as a family in which the dynamic had changed but the love remained. So I feel a profound sadness at leaving this place that has seen countless milestones, been home to the people I love with a fierceness unparalleled by anything else I know. And yet I leave it also with a sense of excitement, of hope, of security and certainty that I have never known before in my life. I know that home is something carried in the heart. It is created and nurtured, not simply found. It is not so much a where, but a who, a communion of hearts and souls.

I guess, then, I'm leaving home to go . . . home.

Do You Know Who I Am? I'm the Bejeweled, Long-Haired Cheese...the One in the Mini Dress

2011-06-27T12:40:00.012-06:00

As of this past Saturday, I am the mother of three teenagers and one "tween." Technically, one of those teenagers is an adult, but that's a term loosely used on any 18-year-old, I don't care how mature or wise he may be.

Three teenagers.

Three!

How the hell did this happen? Well, I know how it happened. But I mean...how? I am 46 years old, clearly old enough to claim these kids as my own. But I don't feel like I should be able to claim them. Just this morning, Tavi was chastising me for buying this very cool, multi-colored peace sign bracelet cuff. It screamed my name as I did my best to walk by and ignore it in the store. But seriously--that bracelet belongs on my arm. And it was under $5, which I interpreted as a sign from God that it should go home with me. Tavia informed me that I should give it to her, because I'm "way too old" to wear it. She did not, however, deny it's cuteness.

I remember my mom telling me that once a woman gets to a certain age (can't remember what that predetermined age was), long hair should be cut and no longer worn with ribbons adorning it. My hair is still long. And I still wear ribbons in it. And flowers. And flowered ribbons. I'm also partial to peace signs and anything reminiscent of the 60s, like go-go boots. I not-so-secretly covet a pair of shiny white go-go boots. And a mini-dress with bell sleeves made of some kind of groovy-patterned fabric. I can't help it. It's just who I am. I don't really care if I'm 60, 70, 80...if I want to tie my hair up with a pink ribbon and sashay around town in go-go boots, I'm damn well going to do it. So get the hell out of my way, people. Or at least stop and give me a ride. On your motorcycle, 'cause that's another thing I'll never get too old for. And the faster, the better.

But I digress. It's just the three kids and me living here now. I am outnumbered 3 to 1. And in any situation involving Tuck or Tavi, they gang up on me and take up each other's cause. Doesn't matter what it is, I am the enemy who must be brought down. Their ability to collaborate and cooperate is impressive; I wish they'd use that skill to do housework or wash the van. Or rub my feet. Something that might benefit me in some way. Alas, their focus is always on "making a point" or "proving" me wrong. Often, it's just on arguing for the sake of arguing.

I remember feeling as if I always had a point to make. That lasted until I was about 20. Then I gradually stopped caring if people agreed with me. In fact, if too many people agreed with my point of view, I thought I must be wrong. Because the cheese stands alone, and I liked being the cheese.

Now, in my late 40s, I still don't feel the need to get people to agree with me. Add to that a distinct lack of needing approval for whatever I might do or say, think or feel, and I've come to a satisfyingly liberating stage of my life. Is this what most women in their 40s feel like? I would truly like to hear from any of you, because in my 20s, I thought getting older would be awful. But now that I AM older, I actually prefer it.

The writer in me appreciates the irony in that concept. The mom in me relishes the idea that my kids feel sorry for me because I'm OLD. The woman in me just wants those freakin' go-go boots.

So I Wrote This Book...

2011-03-04T10:12:00.009-07:00

In April of 2009, I was contacted via email by a guy named Travis Thompson. Travis had a story to tell. A BIG story. A loooooong story. A fascinating story, really, about a Mormon kid who made good despite having an extermination order on his head, witnessing his uncle's violent death, surviving the death of his own beloved 5-year-old daughter, and experiencing the inherently risky life of a 19th-century adventurer on the American frontier.

This pioneer's name was Perry A. Burgess, and if you're at all familiar with Steamboat Springs, you've heard of him, or at least his last name. It permeates that town. Maybe you've ridden his ski lift, or attended gatherings in one of his meeting rooms. Perhaps you've visited the Tread of Pioneers museum (which just happens to sit on the site that was once his backyard) or strolled along Burgess Promenade, which enjoys views of Burgess Creek. Seriously. The dude is everywhere.

So Travis asks me if I'd be interested in writing Perry's story. Only a fool would have declined that offer, and come August, Travis and his wife Becky were seated at my kitchen table, along with--literally--a suitcase of research and books and pamphlets and photos and well, stuff.

Initially, Travis tried to write Perry's story himself. He got to page 25 and realized this was not an undertaking for a novice. Travis is a whiz-bang IT guy; he is a technical systems god. Which makes him intelligent. Which allowed him to realize that he needed a professional writer. That he chose me was sheer luck. But when he and Becky arrived at the house, I greeted them believing the information he had shared with me already in an email: He had written those 25 pages and figured he needed another 50 or so.

Yeah, right.

After a couple hours pass and Travis is exuberantly explaining all the tangents of Perry's life story (Travis could not sit; he stood and paced, sat and fidgeted), it dawns on me that this will most definitely not be a 75-page manuscript. And boy, was I spot-on with that prophecy. The final book, published in late October 2010, was 540 pages.

Yes, that's right: 540 pages.

Beyond the Land of Gold: The Life & Times of Perry A. Burgess took more than a year of my life to research and write. Travis would send me outlines of what he thought each chapter might look like. Now, I use the term "outlines" loosely, because in my book, an outline is just that: a vague guideline. Travis's outlines were sometimes 13 typed pages long, single-spaced. I'm not kidding.

Both of us were learning as we went along. I don't think Travis had any idea how this book would take over his life, and I had to learn how to write using a process far different from the one I used to write any of my previously published books. I guess, at the end of the day, Travis and I weren't just developing a book; we were building a relationship.

Creating a book or building a relationship...either is a monumental endeavor. Try doing both simultaneously. Oh, and I should mention that while this was going on, I was extricating myself from a 12-year relationship with my daughters' dad. It was not a smooth ending. Toss into the mix the reappearance of a high school boyfriend who, 28 years later, was even more intriguing and wonderful than he was at age 16, and you can imagine the emotional rollercoaster I was riding. And there's the fact that I watched as my first-born child graduated high school, went off to college, and turned 18 (in that order); it was almost more than I could bear. All the while, my focus was on keeping life as drama-free as possible for my 3 kids who remained at home. It was no easy task. Most days, I felt hugely inadequate in one way or another.

All things considered, 2010 was both one of the worst and the absolute best of my 46 years. And I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Because I am immensely proud of Beyond the Land of Gold. Just last night, we found out that it is a finalist in the 2011 Colorado Independent Publishers Association Evvy & Technical Awards. They haven't yet announced the finalists for the content/editorial awards in Biography, Memoir, or History (all of which we entered), but the book has made it to the final round in Cover Design, Illustration, and Printing. I am honored, and await word on the finalist selection for the other 3 categories.

Since last fall, I've traveled to Boulder, Steamboat Springs and Craig, where Travis and I made presentations about the book...our audiences were gracious and enthusiastic. We've had book signings in Denver and Cheyenne, and have another planned for May in Longmont. Beyond the Land of Gold is carried by the Tattered Cover bookstore, and believe me, that's not an easy venue to get into for lesser-known writers or publishers. We're hoping to travel this summer--Utah, Montana--to further promote the Mormon and gold rush aspects of the book. In short, the book has allowed me to broaden my horizons as a professional, to visit places I might otherwise never see, meet people I wouldn't otherwise get to know.

But it has also enriched my personal life. I've gotten to know Travis and Becky Thompson, two wonderful people who recognized the value in what they had and have taken great pains to bring Perry's story to light. While it was me who put the pieces together to provide a comprehensive and clear picture, it was the Thompsons' relentless pursuit of information that made the writing possible. They put more than 10 years of their lives into this story. That's impressive. And the resulting book provides a heretofore missing piece of American Frontier history. To have made 2 new friends on the road to publishing a book? Priceless.

I remain vigilant in my dedication to creating a stable and secure home for my children. There have been some bumps in the road, but nothing we haven't been able to steer around or just completely jump over. I'm one of those lucky moms who has kids who know they will be just fine no matter where they land. I do have two teenagers in the house, however, so...well, I am often outwitted and always outnumbered. I am one tough cookie, though, and I will survive.

As for the high school boyfriend, well, let's just say I love being older and wiser. I love that he never let go of the idea of me. And I love him.

So yeah. I wrote a book.

(To learn more about the book or to purchase a copy, please visit www.burgessdiary.com.)

Just How Similar Are We?

2011-02-22T08:51:00.004-07:00

Writers write for different reasons. Most of us, if pressed for an answer, will say we can't not write. It's like exhaling; we must do it.

I write to make sense of my world. I've been writing since I was a young girl, when it became clear to me that there wasn't a lot of logic or predictability or even, sometimes, sanity, in my world. I wrote poetry and journal entries. As a tween, I suspected my mom was reading my diary, so I wrote a series of, shall we say, colorful entries regarding boys. Total fabrications, mind you, but it was the only surefire way I could tell if she was indeed invading my privacy. I came home from school one day to have my face slapped, hard. Yep. She was reading my diary.

At any rate, writing helps me think through both the tedious and the monumental. It allows me to cope, escape, confront. As an adult, I've written about my mother's struggle with mental illness, her death and my ensuing grief, the death of my son, the birth of my children, the raising of those children, my experience with divorce and late-in-life discovery of genuine, reciprocated love. I have also written about the more mundane: breastfeeding in public, children's carsickness, Spongebob Squarepants, politics, human nature...there is little I haven't covered.

I just finished reading a book about language and, because it is a cultural convention, we assume it reflects the culture in which we live. But there is a strong argument for the idea that individual languages actually shape the culture in which we live and how experience it. Because language and words are the tools of my trade, this idea fascinates me. It might not do much for you, though, so have no fear--that's not what this column is about. But the idea did get me thinking...

How much of our lives are based on the assumption that our experiences are shared? I don't mean shared in the sense that, say, when we go to a concert, there are a thousand other folks sharing that experience. I'm talking shared in that, what I see, you see. What I understand, you understand. How much of this sort of daily analysis is based on assumption?

For example, I was in my 30s before I realized I experience simple activities such as hearing music and tasting food in a way that is not considered "normal." I live with synesthesia, a condition in which the real information of one sense is accompanied by the perception of another. For example, I "hear" color. Every song has a color. Whether I'm merely listening to music or performing it on the piano or vocally, color accompanies every song. It's the same with food. All food has color to me; I literally "taste" color. Smells, too...each one presents itself to me in color.

Now, having not known that this is abnormal (estimate of synesthetes range from 1 in 200 to 1 in 10,000), and having experienced life in this way since I can remember, I naturally assumed everyone I knew shared this phenomenon. Then I had to research an article I was writing, and I came across this information and thought, "Holy shit! This is ME!" and that thought was immediately followed by absolute shock. So it's not normal to view life through the lens of an acid flashback? Your world is not psychedelic with colors like mine is?

I was left pondering the idea that all along, this world has shown itself to me in a way that is more vivid, more intense, than it is to most people. I got to wondering if this sensory issue was all-encompassing for me. I mean, if someone touches me, do I feel the same sensation as you do when someone touches you? I just always thought I was sensually vigilant. Turns out I am, instead, a scientific anomaly. Supposedly, this sensory crossfire is not supposed to be able to occur in the human brain. Huh.

This idea of assumptions then led me to contemplate our daily life experience. We humans assume so very much of others. How much of our miscommunication and misunderstanding is borne of the assumption that we share an experience and so must share the results of that experience? How many marriages and friendships have ended over the inherent (mis)understanding that the other person's response to any given situation(s) was wrong simply because it was not our understanding? A simple concept, but incredibly far-reaching.

I guess, at the end of the day, it comes down to judgment. When we judge, we analyze and determine the value or worth of any given act according to our own personal template. But wow. Those templates vary so greatly, yet we want--perhaps need--them to be one-size-fits-all.

Thing is, they aren't. And they never will be.

Of White Lights & Wisdom

2011-01-06T13:05:00.006-07:00

In two days, I will celebrate my 46th birthday.

I can't look at that number without chuckling because it is the same age my mom once was, only then, it was as ancient as Mesopotamia to me. Now *I* will be the bearer of 16,790 days of life experience, and yet I feel remarkably...not old.

2010 was a year of change for me, and more often than ever before, I'd find myself pondering my life, my choices, my circumstances. Like most 46-year-old women, I have teeny white Christmas lights strung across the headboard of my bed. I like to lie there at night, looking at them, thinking. At first, I could only think about how cool those lights were. Everything looks better--dreamier--in the soft glow of white Christmas lights. It's true. Scientific studies have proven it. Now I have too.

But as I grew accustomed to having a purple bedroom with white Christmas lights on the headboard and vibrantly dyed Mexican sarongs hanging in the windows, my thoughts turned elsewhere, to more...grown-up musings. And eventually, I realized I was deconstructing my life as it has unfolded thus far. And here's what I know:

I know I've done the best I could. I think even as a young girl, I approached everything I did with 100% commitment to do it to the best of my ability. Whether it was my nature or a learned attitude or a bit of both, I can say I take great solace in the certainty that even if I didn't always make the choice a more prudent me would have made, I did, at least, dedicate myself to that choice and seeing it reach its potential.

I know I've grown and stretched beyond my comfort zone more in times of strife and conflict than in times of general peace. I've come to recognize the blessings inherent in even the most agonizing tribulations, and knowing those blessings serve a purpose makes forging through the challenges worthwhile.

I know I am one stubborn mother...and sister, friend, lover, etc. My iron will is a double-edged sword that both protects and at times wounds me. I've learned to wield it more carefully as I've aged.

I know I need very little to be happy. But I also know I can be happy with more. It's comforting to be able to straddle that line between struggle and abundance and feel at ease on either side.

I know that I deserve more than I've historically allowed myself to have. In every way.

I know that my children are so much a part of me--and I of them--that though we may one day live apart, we will always be together. They are the best things I've ever done with my time, energy, and love.

I know I'm no picnic. I'm opinionated. I can be loud. I am outspoken and don't need anyone's approval. I am not always diplomatic and I know how to use words as weapons. I don't let people inside my life easily and there will always be secrets I don't tell even those closest to me. At times I am remarkably vulnerable even as I stand strong in the face of great challenge. I protect my heart because it has been broken so often, always by those who claim to love me most. But at 46, I know there's more room in my heart for love precisely because it has been so boldly broken.

I also know I am worth the effort. I am simple yet complex, a free spirit who is demanding in some ways yet refreshingly low maintenance in others. I believe in the goodness of people and strive to find it, even if it brings me to my knees. I love fiercely and passionately, and support those I hold most dear even if I can't agree with what they're doing. I know joy and I share it without reservation. I believe in promises I've been given until they're broken. Then I believe again. I laugh a lot and never pass up a chance to let those people I love know how dear they are to me.

And most recently, I know that being independent doesn't necessarily mean standing alone. It doesn't mean I can't lean on someone when my own legs feel wobbly. I can be independent and still reach out for that hand to hold, that whisper to guide, that look to reassure. I can, finally, accept as my own the love I have always been willing to give.

So. Happy Birthday to me.

Why Do We Kill People Who Kill People?

2010-11-05T12:22:00.005-06:00

I'm thinking about the death penalty and have been for weeks.

I don't know why this is so, I only know that it is. And then my most recent issue of Utne Reader magazine was delivered. After letting it sit on the kitchen table with approximately 237 other items that don't belong there for about a week, I opened it one afternoon while eating lunch. And there before me lay not one but two articles on capital punishment. OK, Universe. I'm listening.

I am not superstitious, but I do take this as a sign that I am supposed to be thinking about this topic. So I finally let it take hold of my mind. While preparing dinner, I'm thinking about state-sanctioned murder. While folding laundry, my thoughts turn to parents of victims and criminals alike. While soaking in a hot bubble bath, I close my eyes and wonder why.

Why, if capital punishment is justice served, do I struggle with it so?

On the days I entertain the idea that maybe society has legitimate use for the death penalty, I am focused on the idea of punishment. If someone takes the life of someone else, he should pay a price. I was raised in a home that was big on retribution. If we kids did something we shouldn't, we would be punished. That usually meant some form of physical pain. And as I would hide in my closet listening to my sister scream as our dad hit her, my little mind would wonder how this was helping my sis in any way. Oh, that's right. It wasn't supposed to help her. It was supposed to "teach her a lesson." Huh. Some lesson: If you do something you shouldn't, the people who claim to love you will hurt you.

We are a society that loves its retribution, though. Nathaniel Hawthorne's Hester Prynne fell in love with a minister and when their love became physical, she was outcast and forced to wear a scarlet "A" on her breast, just in case the neighbors didn't already realize she was an adulterer. And what punishment was served up to her lover? Nothing. That's because punishment is never fair, and that includes the death penalty. It is applied somewhat arbitrarily, to people who are not always guilty. And so innocent people are put to death. Which means instead of one innocent victim of a crime, there are two.

How is that justice?

The logical part of me then considers the cost of life imprisonment. We like to think that it's cheaper to just kill someone rather than pay to let them live out their lives in prison. But that's not reality. The reality of capital punishment in this country is that it costs 2 to 5 times more to execute someone than it does to keep him alive. This is due to the numerous appeals and legal processes involved. It's a criminal waste of money and resources in and of itself.

I might actually be able to justify a judiciously imposed death penalty if it did, in fact, serve as a deterrent to would-be murderers. But there is no evidence that it does and plenty of research to suggest that it doesn't come close to serving that purpose. In fact, since 1990, the murder rate in states that inflict the death penalty has been consistently higher than in those that don't (according to the FBI and census figures). That means the death penalty has the opposite effect as intended. 'Nuff said.

There is, of course, the "eye for an eye" argument as bolstered by that bestseller, the Holy Bible. I don't buy into that logic for a minute. Even as a child, that seemed suspicious to me. I've read many accounts of families of murder victims who did not experience the relief or sense of closure they expected to upon the death of the person allegedly responsible for killing their loved ones. And here's where I try to truly imagine how I would feel if someone took the life of one of my kids. Would I want that person to die? Would that make me feel better, or somehow repay my child? The answer I always come back to is No. And it may very well tarnish every memory I have of that beloved child because I would never be able to separate in my mind my child from his or her murderer.

I can't help but wonder, too, why we don't televise state-sanctioned murder if it's really a good thing. If we truly believe in its innate usefulness and righteousness, let's put it out there for all the world to see. But no, we limit the viewing audience and do it behind locked doors. That alone gives me pause.

I understand that we are human and therefore subject to feelings of hatred and desire for revenge. But that same humanness also makes us inherently compassionate, even if we sometimes quell that trait in favor of something we deem more valuable or worthy. I don't have an answer. I only have intuition and gut responses. I have intelligence and the ability to reason and follow logic. I guess, at the end of the day, that's what we all have to do.

Sometimes, I let my heart lead me. Other times, I obey my brain. But here, in the case of capital punishment, I have to call on both and listen very closely to their responses. And then I have to decide for myself what I believe is just. I think we all must do that.

Perhaps Dante said it best when he wrote, "The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in time of great moral crisis, maintain their neutrality."

Think You're in Control? Think Again.

2010-10-20T08:42:00.005-06:00

I was talking with a friend over coffee the other morning. We share a common situation in that both of our eldest children have gone off to college this fall. It's a new experience for us, and one we acknowledge as bittersweet. It's great to have someone to make this parallel journey with me.

At one point Deb said, "I realized this last time that he's never really coming home again." Simple statement, but wow, did that pack a punch. She's right. She put words to this feeling I've had every time I've seen Max since he moved out in August: He will visit and find his comfort here, but he will never truly come home again.

There was a time not too long ago when this thought would have sent me reeling. Max is, after all, the child of mine I have spent the most time with. I had 3 1/2 years of him to myself, and he had those same years of not having to share me. He was the king and I was his queen, he told me when he was three years old. "What's Daddy?" I naively asked. "Sadly," my little boy replied, "he's just a knight." And truly, that about summed it up. Max has always been my kid. We belonged together.

But to go from literally wearing your child in a sling on your chest or hip and co-sleeping with him to nervously watching him navigate playground equipment to getting a quick kiss goodbye as he heads out the door with friends to hugging him one last time as he tells you it's time to leave so he can organize his dorm (and for the record, I'm not sure he's done that yet, two months into the school year) is a veritable lifetime. It is a constant push and pull, a see-saw, at times a merry-go-round that doesn't feel so merry. In fact, the older I get, the more that motion makes me want to vomit.

So when reality kicks me in the ass as Deb utters her observation, I look to the heavens (I do that whenever I'm in the midst of an epiphany, which seems to be quite often these days) and recognize the raw truth in that proclamation. And I instantly think how natural that idea feels to me now. Of course he won't come home. Of course he's a visitor. That's how it should be.

And, given all the other changes in my life as of late, I thought about how the idea of natural progression translates to each of those circumstances. For instance, I am now the only parent living in this house with my three remaining kids. I'm it. If it gets done, I do it. If it needs paying for, I pay it. If someone's yelling, it's probably me. If it warrants a laugh, I'm the one doubled over, gasping for air and worried that I'll wet myself because I can't control my snorting. I am Woman.

And it feels right. In my gut and in my mind, this living with my children alone is the way it should be. For now. I can't know what the future may bring, and I'm not concerned about it. I actually haven't ever been too adept at looking far ahead. I can plan about a month in advance and that's about as good as it gets. I have always been a live for the moment girl, and that life plan so many of my peers grew up with in their heads? It never existed for me. Made for a life of surprises, but it also afforded me surprising flexibility and the attitude of "OK, so this is where we are. Let's do this thing." As a result, I've got four kids who aren't rattled by much. If you know them, you know the boys are so laid back you have to check them for a pulse. And the girls have sunny dispositions (though at 12, Tavi is more often at turns dramatic and brooding these days).

Then there's my new book. For over a year, the research and writing of that book consumed my work schedule. Published in late September, the book has garnered a lot of interest in our region and beyond, into Montana and Utah. As a result, I am traveling to promote the book through book signings and slide presentations. It's an unexpected pleasure. But it's a nightmare logistically in terms of figuring out how to do that aspect of my job and see that my kids are taken care of. And that's a worry I never had before. I've always been home. I work where I live. Now I go on the road and hope I've instilled in my kids the security to know they can step up and take care of at least some of their needs on their own. I hope they use common sense when making choices that I'm not around to help support or discourage. I hope...that I've done my job as their mom well.

But even this, this traveling and separating from my kids now and then--this too, feels right. It's exactly what I should be doing. And I find solace in that knowledge. It's a new day. Wes and I are no longer together; Max has moved out; the family that was 6 is now 4 and we're finding our way. It's not always easy, but it's also not too challenging. And I chalk that up to the idea that this is so because it is right.

At the end of the day, we aren't in control. We can make choices and decisions. We can exercise free will and live with the consequences. But to believe we are in control is an illusion. Once I accepted that idea--and I had to grieve the death of my child before I could--so much of life became opportunity. For joy, growth, learning, celebrating.

Change is inevitable. What we do in the face of it makes all the difference in the world. It's kind of like giving birth: You go through intense pain at times, but the reward is so uncompromisingly fabulous that the pain is becomes a distant memory.

Choosing Happiness

2010-10-03T08:13:00.004-06:00

I've got happiness on the brain these days. Maybe it's because I'm happy in a way I've never truly been for any consistent period of time. No, that's not right. I am happy in a way I've never been. Period. Which is not to say I've never been happy, because it is my nature to be happy. I am happy even when circumstances are not optimal. I am, at the core, a remarkably happy person, despite the fact that I spent a childhood--including those all-important formative years--in an atmosphere more consistently conducive to anxiety than to bliss.

Genetically speaking, I am even predisposed to suffer from anxiety and mental disorder. My brother experiences anxiety attacks; my beloved sis seems to fall victim to depression. My mother lived with serious mental illness, which inflicted its wickedness on the whole family. It was literally like living with an invisible monster; we never knew where it was lurking or when it would attack. That kind of dysfunction breeds distrust and a serious level of angst for all those who endure its wrath.

And as a small child, I was anxious. I was prone to stomachaches and even obsessive-compulsive disorder-like symptoms. I would think awful thoughts about my mom--they were uncontrollable, really--and then capitulate to the mind-numbing guilt those thoughts imposed upon my young psyche. How could I think evil thoughts about the woman who is supposed to love me more than anyone else in the world? But then, how could that woman do and say such hurtful things if she loved me? I could not break free of that cycle of taking responsibility for her choices (at the time, I had no idea she was officially ill) and feeling like I was a bad child, that I in some way caused her to behave like she did. From my earliest memories, I remember that unceasing torment of feeling unworthy and yet not knowing how to fix the situation. I would never be good enough, and yet I couldn't figure out what "good" meant because Mom was so inconsistent in her responses and reactions.

And then somewhere along the way, I made a conscious decision not to let her break me. I was still young...not even in double digits. Where the strength and determination not to let my circumstances dictate who I would be came from, I can't say. I don't even remember the moment I made that choice. I just know that I made it. I knew that I was not going to give up my one shot at being happy simply because it seemed it was my destiny to grow up in turmoil.

Maybe I was able to do that because deep inside, I always knew Mom loved me. Her actions and words may have indicated otherwise, but children are wise; they see and understand what is not apparent. I see that all the time in my youngest daughter. Although her illness was not officially confirmed for me until I was in my 20s, perhaps I understood that Mom was not always in control of herself. Maybe I saw that finding her own happiness was a major struggle for her. I don't know. What I do know is that my determination to be happy allowed me to get to age 45 and feel--truly believe--I've had a wonderful life so far.

And it just gets better. I am happy--profoundly grateful--for small things: the smell of rain, the moments of raucous laughter I share with my children, the opportunity to sit on my patio swing in the morning while I drink my coffee and watch the birds at the feeder. I love waking under mounds of blankets, the cast of light in this western sky around 6:00 each evening, the taste of ice-cold water as it slides down my throat. I consider it a blessing to be able to fill my refrigerator with enough food to keep my family comfortable, and I never underestimate the power of a kind word to strangers and friends alike. The feel of my children's arms around me as they hug me goodbye or the urgency of my man's mouth on mine when we are reunited after weeks of separation...these moments are what bring me immense joy. They make me happy even as other circumstances might pose challenges and difficulties.

There is no doubt in my mind that happiness comes from within. You can't buy it, and if you spend your life searching for it in other people, you'll be left with only a lifetime of disappointment and emptiness. Being happy within the context of the life you have been given is a choice; wanting what you have and letting that be enough is so much more fulfilling than being on a dedicated mission to acquire what you think you want. Because once the acquisition is made, then what? Where do you go from there?

I am fortunate not to have inherited the DNA that leads to mental illness or even anxiety. Those anxious tendencies I experienced as a young girl gradually disappeared. If there is a lingering after-effect of growing up in a home with that type of upheaval, it's that I am a realist. I don't count on much and I'm not good at depending on others. I believe I am the creator of my own destiny in that I choose what to do with the circumstances in which I am placed. I can embrace what is before me or reject it, and the results will depend on my choice. I find comfort in that.

Happiness isn't a goal; you don't reach it. You live it through your thoughts and words and actions. No one has the power to take it from you unless you give that power away. The world will always be full of pain and suffering, of evil and wrongdoing, of injustice and despair. Accepting happiness in spite of that is not an easy choice; it requires constant vigilance and commitment not to fall prey to misery. It requires you to allow yourself to experience all the normal emotions that make up humanity--grief, sorrow, disappointment, anger--and then move past them into the light.

Happiness isn't always easy; it's not your birthright. But it's always there, just waiting for you.

Like a Phoenix from the Ashes, Good Things Rise from Difficult Transitions

2010-09-24T10:33:00.008-06:00

Every now and then, something happens that gives me pause to consider my life and where I'm at in the grand scheme of things. Yesterday, my newly published book arrived--100 copies of that book arrived, actually. And for a writer, I'm not sure there is a greater thrill than holding your book in your hands for the first time. It's heady stuff. In this case, that 500-plus-page book is the result of a year's worth of labor. So of course, I can't help but think back over the year.

And what a year it's been.

My life has been on ongoing series of transitions in the recent past. I left a 12-year relationship with the father of my daughters. It was a painful, gut-wrenching decision, one I had been struggling with for years. We had never married, but that fact didn't make the parting of ways any less difficult for us or our children. We had bought a house together, lost a son, built a life with four kids. Dismantling that life was not something I took lightly. Demanding something more, something better, for myself and those children required me to take a leap of faith. I knew I was making things more difficult on one level in the here and now in hopes of creating a brighter, more positive future for all involved.

I am fortunate--so incredibly blessed--to have four kids who know they occupy the first slots on my list of priorities. They are, in part, why I remained in the situation I was in for so long, and they are largely the reason I finally chose to leave it. Although tears were shed and anger brewed, they each knew, at the end of the day, that our life together was not ending, but rather shifting. Change was happening on several fronts this past spring, and we would face those changes as we always have: side-by-side.

In addition to my split from Wes, my son Max graduated high school. That last year of school was a tug of war for him, I think, internally and externally. I watched as he made choices--nothing major, but still--I wish I could have kept him from making on the one hand. But I felt I needed to trust that all the years I had dedicated to him would have some positive influence. And I believe they did. Max has repeatedly proven to me that he is a person of integrity and principle. We may not always agree--and frequently don't--but that is not necessary for me to love and admire him.

Still, watching him pull away and knowing he was doing exactly what he needed to do was not easy for me. Max and I have shared a strong bond, and I had to let that bond guide me as I saw him less and missed him more.

As if high school graduation wasn't enough, he had the audacity to go off to college. Now he lives in Boulder, and I see him more than I dared hope I might. We text regularly, and sometimes I chat with him on Facebook. He is in my heart constantly, along with his brother and sisters. But when I spend time with him now, it is clear he has an "other" life. That is, other from my own. And I'm okay with that.

All the while these struggles of the heart and soul were taking place, I was crafting a book. This wasn't just any book; it was one man's dream to see this story in print. He dedicated 15 years of his life to uncovering the story of American pioneer Perry A. Burgess, and he trusted me to make that adventurous tale come to life. Some days it took all I had to sit in front of the computer and immerse myself in Perry's experience. My emotional life was in turmoil as sadness and resentment crept into the corners of my solitude. I had no peace. Most of the time, it took all I had to remember to just breathe. Ugh.

And yet writing that story--researching the details and events of years gone by--breathed wonder into my life. There were days when time literally just disappeared as I felt myself being transported to a bygone era, one that was not influenced by technology or even motorized transportation. It was an era of great hardship and hope, persecution and loss. My spirit was buoyed by the determination and can-do attitude of the men I was writing about. In the end, as I typed the final word of the final paragraph of the final chapter, I knew that this writing assignment had been a major gift, its timing a perfect example of mystical synchronicity.

Having lived nearly 46 years, I am wise enough to understand that gifts come to us when we least expect them. And I've had enough experience with grief to know that sometimes, it clears the way for joy to grow. And joy is what I have found in someone I once knew who never completely let go of the idea of me.

After having made the decision to leave my relationship as 2009 became 2010, I got a phone call from an old friend, someone I had dated briefly in high school. Rick was charming, handsome, athletic back when I knew him. He came from a wonderful, loving family who welcomed me into their home and lives. But circumstances dictated the course my life would take, and I left the area soon after getting to know them all.

Twenty-eight years later, the phone rings and I find myself in a 2-hour conversation that leaves me smiling and feeling, well, happy. In the midst of the tempest that was my life at the time, there blossomed a seed of pure happiness at having reconnected with someone who had once meant something to me. As I thought about the details of that first butterflies-in-the-stomach-inducing phone call after hanging up, I realized Rick had become the kind of person--the kind of man--I wasn't sure really existed. He laid bare his soul in that conversation by willingly talking not only of his successes but also his failures. He made no excuses for his regrets but clearly had great expectations for a fulfilling future. He confided in me things he'd shared with no one else in his life...somehow trusting me not only to keep those secrets, but to understand. I did, and I do.

Since that phone call, Rick and I have managed to get together as regularly as two people who live across the country from one another can. Between us, we have 8 children between the ages of 6 and 18. We come from vastly different lifestyles: his has been one of luxury while mine has been one of yard sales and coupons. His kids attend private schools while mine face the wilds of public education. He votes Republican and I just have to forgive him for that.

It's easy to do, because Rick has awakened in my soul a peace I never imagined I would know in this lifetime. Somehow, he knows my heart so well that he often gives voice to thoughts and feelings before I get a word out. He talks to me--and truly listens--and sees me for the person I am. Being with him is at once exhilarating and comforting. He reflects to me a piece of myself I never knew existed. When I tell him I love him, it is with a depth and a knowing that I have never before experienced. And when one of my children says she loves him because she likes how he respects me, well, my heart soars to remarkable heights. Especially in light of the fact that he considers my own four kids "a bonus."

And so I am reminded that sometimes, the best things in life--the gifts--are born of those most difficult moments, those times when we forge ahead even as we really just want to curl up into the fetal position and block out the pain. Every now and then, perhaps we are rewarded when we force ourselves to push past settling for less simply because it is familiar and dare to demand something more because we deserve it. There is no growth without risk, and even if the risk does not pan out the way we thought it would, being able to say "I tried" makes it all worth it.

And sometimes, as this past year has shown me, letting go of what makes you sad makes room for unmitigated hope to find you.

To College, and Beyond

2010-08-26T13:31:00.005-06:00

One week ago today, I drove with Max to CU-Boulder. And I left him there. And he was happy about it.

Huh.

Just a couple months earlier, Max spent nearly a full month in India, hiking and backpacking. It was his high school graduation gift. I thought it would help me prepare for his leaving in the fall.

I was wrong.

Nothing prepared me. Oh, I knew he was growing up and pushing himself away from shore. I knew that when he made some crazy choices over graduation weekend. I knew it when he transported home a hookah from India, cradling it in his lap as if it were a precious newborn. I knew it when he spent more time with friends than family throughout the summer.

I knew. I swear I did. And I told myself that this was nature's way of getting me used to not having him around. Let me tell ya, I can be one convincing broad. But now that he's actually gone, meaning, HE DOES NOT LIVE HERE ANYMORE, I realize that there is no getting used to it. There's just acceptance, because what else can I do?

Though he once spent nearly all his waking hours--and many of his slumbering ones, too--literally attached to me by sling or backpack or some other baby-carrying apparatus, the Barnacle Boy did develop into an independent young man. Despite the warnings of people who did not know me or Max but who likened our family bed to child abuse, my son did not grow up to be a serial killer (yet) or a mama's boy. He does not suffer from low self-esteem, nor does he have intimacy issues. He's a normal young adult. And he was so ready to leave this house, this town. And me.

I tried not to take it personally. I mean, really. He had the confidence to strike out on his own in part because I nurtured that independence and spirit in him. How many 17-year-olds hop on an international flight to a foreign land by themselves (though he did meet up with a friend) and take each day as it comes, just living in the moment and embracing whatever adventure awaits him? But that's Max. He's comfortable in his own skin, and the unknown doesn't unnerve him. He lacks street smarts (come on, we live in Windsor, population 20,000) but makes up for that in the level of faith he has in himself. Those attitudes? They don't just happen. They are crafted.

So I totally realize and understand that Max was able to tell me it was time for me to go last week as we stood outside his dorm because I did my job right. We don't share all the same values or beliefs. We don't agree on a lot of issues. One of our favorite pasttimes these last few years was late-night debating. Max and I are two sides of the same coin. We are of one another, but we have steadfastly different views on life.

And that is why I can respect my son even as I want to shake him and ask what the hell he is thinking. It is why I can truly feel how much I love him even when I don't necessarily like the person he is being (and he's not liking me). It is, ultimately, why I can let him go with tears, yes, but also with the knowledge that he is exactly where he should be.

That, and he's coming home to visit tomorrow. Heh.

Saying Goodbye to Tom

2009-08-02T10:14:00.009-06:00

I awoke this morning to a phone call I didn't want to take. Tom, the man I have considered my stepdad for more than 20 years, had died some time during the night.

Mom and Tom had been together 17 years when she died quite suddenly and completely unexpectedly in 2004. They'd never married; I didn't care. They were more "together" than I had ever known my mom and biological dad to be, despite the fact that they were married for 27 years. In my heart, if not on paper, Tom was my stepdad.

Today he is gone. All those stupid things people say to try to comfort those in mourning mean nothing. I don't care if he is with God or if he is in a better place or if his suffering is over...he is not here. And yet, what was here to Tom?

In all the years Mom and Tom were together, she encouraged Tom to be dependent on her. She cooked all the meals, did all the shopping, the laundry...you see where this is going. Mom liked being needed; she liked playing the martyr. I'm not disrespecting her; Mom was a complicated woman. Her mental illness kept her from ever feeling she was good enough; in her own mind, she always fell short. Being needed gave her something to live for, something to make her feel worthy. And Tom seemed to enjoy being waited on, hand and foot.

But when Mom got a new job in her mid-60s, her responsibilities demanded she be away from the house, which meant Tom would be alone. Older than her by 5 years, he was not able--had not been trained or encouraged--to stay on his own for extended periods of time. And by this time, he had several health issues, though I can't tell you what they were because one manifestation of Mom's mental status was pathological lying. One week he had Parkinson's; the next it was Touretts syndrome. I couldn't keep up and I didn't know what to believe.

This new job of Mom's brought her a new circle of friends and gave her a renewed lease on life; she was happy and felt valued. But Tom's presence and neediness stood in her way. So she put him in a home. And she abandoned him. And of all the things my mom has ever done that hurt--and there have been more than I can tell you--this is the one I can't get past.

It hurts me to type that admission, that confession of one of her most mortifying acts. And yet as Tom's body is being prepared for cremation, I can't NOT say it. As these tears wash over my face and blur my vision, I see in my mind a picture of a healthier Tom. And while I'm grieving, I know it's not so much over his passing, but over his ending.

Because Tom worshiped the ground my mother walked on. She could do no wrong, even as she belittled him, chastised him, complained about him. In happier days, they would go dancing at the Fire Hall or the Legion. And people would back up to watch them, they were that spectacular. Mom loved to cook; Tom loved to eat. She was bossy; he didn't seem to mind being pushed around. It was a symbiotic relationship and one that brought both of them a form of happiness.

And so to know Mom just warehoused him because greener pastures were calling absolutely slays me. At the same time, I know she was not well herself. She never had been mentally stable, and her physical health was in rapid decline, though only she knew just how so at that point. Was this tossing away of Tom an act of love, done so that he would be taken care of when she suddenly dropped dead? I've wanted to--tried to--believe that, but I know better. She did this because she wanted something else. It causes me deep shame to admit that, and I know she would never have let me get away with doing something so morally corrupt.

But Mom didn't play by the same rules as those of us with all our faculties. And most of the time, I let her slide. But not this time. I told her I thought what she did was appalling. I reminded her of all the good times they'd had, how Tom loved her like no man ever had loved her. I beseeched her not to just lock him up and abandon him to a life she knew would be sheer torture for him. She did not listen.

And in fact, during the last phone conversation she and I had, she lied and told me she'd been to visit Tom at the nursing home. I, ridiculously enough, believed her. I thought maybe she'd had a change of heart. But no, I later found out that had been just one more in a very long list of lies. She wanted me to think better of her.

After Mom's death, I visited Tom whenever I went east, which was not often. And whenever I did visit him, he would be so drugged up he wasn't fully aware. He'd have lucid moments, but that was the most I could hope for. Still, I went because if there was even a remote chance my presence could bring him a moment of happiness, I wanted to give him that. He deserved much more than that, more than I was able to give.

The last time I saw him, this past October, he was bent over in his wheelchair so far that his nose almost touched his kneecaps. My aunt and I got him into his bed, propped him up, and made him as comfortable as possible. He remembered me and my kids; he didn't remember Mom. He had photos of my family on his bulletin board, and there were cards I had sent him on his nightstand. I tried to remain a part of his life, let him know he was still thought of and loved, even if I had to do it long distance.

As I sat on the bed with him holding his bony hand, I knew I probably would never see Tom again. In fact, I wished for him an end to the indignity, the emptiness, the nothing-life my mom committed him to. Yes, now he was sick enough to require professional care around the clock. When Mom sent him away, he was nowhere near the shattered man who lay before me. Did her getting rid of him cause this rapid decline? I can't say for sure.

But here's what I do know: Tom Bellante loved my mom despite a mental illness that caused her do to unspeakable things to those she loved most. He cared for her and made her laugh. He rescued her from a life of loneliness and gave her something--and someone--to live for. He told her she was beautiful and believed the sun rose and set with her. He took her dancing and made her feel important. He was all the things a partner should be, even when she didn't deserve it.

Rest in peace, Tom. And know how much you meant to me.

If They're Never Mad, You're Not Doing Your Job

2009-07-11T11:12:00.008-06:00

I've been home alone with my 16-year-old, Max, since mid-week. Wes took the three younger kids to his annual family campout in Missouri. With just the two of us to care for, life has been much slower. Quieter. Yes, dare I say, easier?

Just yesterday as we were driving to get Max a burger, I asked if he was enjoying the solitude. "Yeah," he replied. "Just think Mom, this could be how life is ALL the time." I smiled at that...Max has always and forever believed he should be an only child. I ruined that, three times over.

I know Max believes in the truth of what he said, but I also know how much he loves his family, even as he denounces us as stupid and annoying. Tucker and Max are as close as any brothers I've ever known. When they're here at the house, they're usually together. They exchange insults on a regular basis, but separately, they admit to the love they feel for one another. It's how family is.

Last night, I had the good fortune to enjoy the company of some wonderful friends, people I respect. The topic turned to parenting and kids, and we pondered the idea that raising kids with strict discipline does not necessarily result in kids who regularly make good choices. Conversely, kids raised with looser discipline don't always head down the wrong path.

I do think there's one measurement for parenting that is consistent across the board, regardless of parenting style: If your kids are never mad at you, you better step back and think about what you're doing.

With four kids between the ages of 8 and 16, I can almost count on the fact that at any given moment, at least one of them thinks I know nothing, am out of it, am mean, abuse of my power...the list goes on. In short, I suck. Knowing that the people I love most in this world feel that way on a semi-regular basis used to make me crazy. It hurt my feelings, made me second-guess my decisions and choices, left me feeling inadequate. But as they got older and began to voice their dissent more often, I came to recognize the phenomenon as one that I was just going to have to live with or change how I parent. And that second option wasn't very realistic.

Not that I'm a perfect parent. God, no. I wish I were, but Mom always told me to wish in one hand and poop in the other and see which filled up fastest. But I listen to my gut, and that intuition is reliable. And, generally speaking, my kids are good people. As one friend put it, I "allow them to be individuals and still give 'em a kick in the ass when they need it." Well said, friend.

I'm not here to be my kids' friend; they have enough of those. I feed those friends. I let them sleep at my house. I counsel some of them when they ask for advice. In short, I live with those friends; I don't want to be one of them. Some days, I don't want to be a parent, either. I'm tired. Or just feel lazy. Or am on the edge of the abyss because I have said, "Would you (fill in the blank)" 821 times already and the request still hasn't been fulfilled. Maybe I have a work deadline I'm struggling to meet. I don't want to cook dinner for myself or anyone else. Really, I just don't wanna do it.

But.

I signed up for this job willingly and without much understanding of what it entails. I took the risk, accepted the challenge. And so I will see it through. And if that means Max is mad because I won't allow him to sleep at a friend's house unless a parent is home and knows Max is supposed to sleep there, too bad. It's my job to know where my kid is, or at the very least, where he isn't.

If being a parent means explaining to Tucker for the 93rd time why I will not let him see that R-rated movie he so badly wants to see and which everyone else has seen, so be it. I'll do it. My teeth will be clenched, my eyebrow may twitch. Saying "yes" would require less effort, and I'd be the hero instead of the enemy. But I will still say "no."

If parenting this particular set of children the way I think they should be parented means Tavia is going to shoot me the 56th dirty look--really, Mom, are you serious?--of the day, then I will be the recipient of the 56th dirty look of the day. She will stomp up the stairs, slam her door, and be mad...until she isn't, which is probably not too long because she wants me to paint her nails, draw with her, toss her the volleyball so she can practice her bumps.

Bella, at 8, is young enough that she still wants to always do the right thing. My requests and restrictions may impose upon her happiness; they may be met with pouts and slumped shoulders to show me she's carrying the weight of the world. But by the day's end, I'm getting kisses and being told she loves me.

I can live with all of this. What I couldn't live with are kids who don't talk to me. Who never share the good and bad of their day, who can't be bothered to hug me goodbye or kiss me goodnight. I can live with the unpleasantness, but not without the good stuff. And I don't think the good stuff is a given; I earn that. How? By caring about where they are and who they're with. I love them with words and actions. The limits I impose act in the same way hugs do; they say "I love you," "you are worth caring about," "I know you're smart, but I'm one step ahead of you."

I'd rather my kids are always happy with me; that would be a slice of heaven. Who needs angels and clouds and everlasting life if you've got kids who understand you're just doing the best you can by them, even if that means not letting them do what they want? But I'm no fool. I know being a parent sometimes means they see me with horns and beady, red pig eyes.

That's cool. I look good in red.

Blizzards, Tornadoes: Just Another Day in Windsor

2009-05-22T12:49:00.003-06:00

One year ago this day--a day that was, like today, the last day of school--a tornado took a surprising turn north and vacuumed our town of 19,000. Some folks suffered more serious devastation and damages than others, but no one was left untouched by that mighty twister.

A drive through the Cornerstone neighborhoods reminds me how far we've come in terms of rebuilding. But the wood frames of houses yet unfinished indicates we've still a ways to go. Those centuries-old trees that once lined the cemetery on the way out of town no longer stand. I miss them. They're trees, I know. Some would say they're just trees. But I love trees and the idea of all the comfort they provide not only us humans, but the animals as well. Trees tell stories if you listen close enough. But those trees? Their stories? Gone forever.

The tornado is still talked about in town--we chat about it in the coffee shops, in line at the post office, in the hallways at school. It has become part of Windsor's folklore, and there's no need to exaggerate what happened that day. Those of us who were here when it hit will never forget it: not the sound, the eerie color of the sky, the outrageous hailstones, the vibration of fear that pulsated through the streets.

Talking about it has been therapeutic. We share experiences--Where were you when it hit? Is your house repaired/rebuilt? Did insurance come through for you? Do you need anything? The very beast that tore us apart within a matter of moments is also responsible for forging bonds that will hold us closer together, possibly forever.

And today, the one-year anniversary, we celebrate. Schoolchildren are letting go of balloons, a color explosion to signal that we're still here. Neighborhoods will enjoy block parties, a traditional gathering that nurtures fellowship and camaraderie. The Town is hosting a party this evening for anyone who wants to attend. Hundreds of new trees have been planted throughout Windsor, and our baseball field has been renovated. Life goes on.

When I think of this time last year, my thoughts immediately turn to my children. Max, who was at lunch when the tornado hit. Tucker, a sixth-grader at the middle school right next door to the high school. Tavia and Bella, huddled in darkened rooms within their elementary school. My most vivid memories of that day play through my mind like a slide show...and still my hands begin to sweat when I allow my thoughts to go there.

What else do I remember? I remember the utter, raw terror in the facial expressions of my daughters, their visible relief when they saw me, the amazing Skyview staff who remained calm in the face of the unknown.

I remember Gene, our neighbor and friend who worked as maintenance man at the middle school. When he saw me there, he knew I was in search of Tucker and instructed me to stay where I was. He would find Tuck and bring him to me. And he did. I will love Gene until the day I die for that.

I remember going into the high school, where I went to a table, gave my student's name, and was told to wait while someone brought him to me. Only he never came; the school went into lockdown again before I could get Max out. It was one of the most helpless feelings I've ever had. Even as I write this, I cry. I had to make a choice: Stay inside the school with one of my children, or retreat back into the storm to where my other three were waiting in the van. I left Max behind in the safety of the brick building. But still. I left him behind.

I remember Tucker, 12 years old at the time, calmly putting his arms around me and saying, "Tell me what you need me to do, Mom. Just tell me." This quiet gift of his, as I was trying to comfort 2 hysterical little girls and maneuver 3 frightened dogs into the basement.

I remember thinking that Wes must be about out of his mind with worry because cell phones were dead and he was working on a job in a nearby town. So he knew what was going on, but not what was going on.

365 days later, I look back on that day with a sense of awe. The kids have their own perspectives of that day. My 3 younger ones volunteered their time at the emergency center for days. They folded clothes, unpacked boxes, did whatever they were told to do. For them, the tornado presented an opportunity to go beyond their own comfort zones, to give of themselves with no expectation of getting anything in return. For Max, that disaster meant no classes. The year before, an unexpected blizzard cancelled the last day of school. He woke up this morning hoping this closing of the last day of school was a pattern. Alas, today is alternately cloudy and sunny, with a breeze and warm temperatures. It is a perfect last day of school.

Then again, with our recent history, what wouldn't be?

Decriminalizing Drugs: Should America Consider It?

2009-04-27T21:09:00.008-06:00

Portugal decriminalized the personal possession of drugs--pot, coke, heroin and meth--in 2001. Prior to that, the country had one of the highest rates of hard drug use in Europe. Faced with a problem they could not control, Portugal chose instead to try a new approach. Instead of jail time, those found with small amounts of the drugs were offered therapy--which they could refuse with no repercussions.

What do you think happened? The answer might surprise you. According to a Cato Institute report published this month, drug use among teens in Portugal has declined, as did the rate of new HIV infections due to dirty needles. The number of folks seeking treatment for drug addiction more than doubled. (To read the Time magazine article in its entirety, visit http://www.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1893946,00.html.)

This is impressive news no matter how you look at it. Portugal has proven that government can manage the drug problem if it can let go of the need to punish. We're big on punishment here in America. Maybe it goes back to our Puritan roots. I'm not sure we'll ever be able to evolve beyond that need.

But clearly, we are failing miserably--over and over again--in our approach to dealing with drug use. America has the highest rate of marijuana and cocaine use, yet we have the most stringent laws. We fear liberalism so much that we are unwilling to pay attention to the success other parts of the world--mainly the EU--is experiencing with their policies.

Like so many of our national policies, the ones we enforce regarding drugs are based on fear and speculation. We ignore empirical evidence in favor of wild imagination and "what if" scenarios.

Let me be clear: I am not a fan of drugs. I've never smoked pot, popped pills, tripped on acid, or taken anything stronger than an alcoholic drink. Drugs do not interest or fascinate me. My brother's drug use informed my childhood, and I believe it played a large role in the breakup of my parents' already dysfunctional marriage, and hence, our family. If anyone could be the Anita Bryant of the drug issue, it's me.

But I'm not in the majority. Most people experiment with one drug or another at some point in their lives. Many continue to use if not regularly, at least sporadically. Recreational drug use is an integral part of modern society, and like it or not, we must find a way to deal with it so that it ceases to be a major health and safety concern. Portugal seems to have stumbled on to something that works.

There is a segment of the American population that holds the attitude that drugs are bad and must be gotten rid of, and anything less is unacceptable. We've tried this; it isn't working. I agree they're a health hazard, but I'm a realist and know they will never be gotten rid of. Our punitive response to drug use has at least proven that: Regardless of how we view any and all drug use, it is never going to disappear. Drugs are here to stay, and we can either seek effective methods of management and semi-control, or we can continue to let the problem spiral downward, taking more and more of our friends and family with it. Portugal understands this; why can't America?

When the taboo of something has been lifted, common sense says more people will participate. The taboo of drug use is not what it once was. More people are more open about their use. The world has changed. We must find a way to work with the change because society will never revert to what it once was. Conditions and attitudes will never regress. We are where we are, and we have to work with that and stop trying to move backward.

Yet here we are, banging our heads against the wall because we can't seem to get a handle on things. But we keep trudging along the same path. Don't know who said it, but the quotation "When the only tool you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail" comes to mind. We have hammered away at the drug problem long enough, with pathetic results. It's time to take a new approach, come up with a strategy based on the desire for true impact, not punishment of the "wicked."

More than one million nonviolent drug users are behind bars. I don't call this progress. I hope you don't either.

Of Snow, Naked Women, and the Definition of Art

2009-03-27T19:35:00.002-06:00

Our Spring Break is nearing its close, and I'd have to say it's been a memorable one not because of any unusual events or magic moments, but because of its remarkable calm.

We began the week with a short trek to Denver. If you have children of a wide age range, you know how difficult it is to find activities they'll all enjoy. Max is 16; Bella just turned 8. Tuck and Tavia fall somewhere in the middle. Inevitably, someone complains or doesn't want to participate in any organized activity.

This wasn't the case for us this time. We began our adventure with a (free) tour of Hammond's candy factory. Watching how candy canes and ribbon candy were made was fun. What I didn't expect was the kids to notice that every factory worker we saw was some ethnicity other than white. That opened up a discussion on wages, hiring practices, and workplace conditions. Who knew a free tour to a candy factory could be an educational experience? I'm thinking maybe the younger kids were expecting Oompa Loompas, but the reality was a far cry from Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. Don't misunderstand--I have no idea what Hammond's pays their employees, and the factory seemed in fine shape. But I was totally loving that my kids' minds were thinking past what they were seeing to what it meant.

Next stop was the Denver Museum of Nature & Science, where we attended a free interactive exhibition: Nature Unleashed. It featured four types of natural disasters: earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes and tornadoes. Windsor was included in that last segment, so we had a vested interest in what was being presented. And it was fabulous. Bella kept excitedly sharing with me new information and facts she was learning along the way, and she was mightily impressed with what she was finding out. For Tavi, knowledge is power. And after living through the tornado last May, she's struggled along the way to get past her newfound fear of any weather other than sunshine. This exhibition helped a great deal. Again--entertainment proved highly educational, and we talked about history (the volcano that leveled Pompeii, the great San Francisco earthquake of 1906) and devastation (Hurricane Katrina, our own F3 tornado) all the way to the hotel.

We spent our second day at the Denver Art Museum. It features a new exhibition called "The Psychedelic Experience," which chronicles the hand-designed venue and rock concert posters from Haight Ashbury (San Francisco) from 1965 to 1971. Think Ken Kesey's acid tests, Beat poetry, the early days of Jefferson Airplane, Grateful Dead, and other history-making musicians. This exhibition was admittedly less interesting to Tavi and Bella than it was to the rest of us; they have scant knowledge of that era and no understanding whatsoever of the drug/psychedelic culture. Bella was curious as to why there were so many "naked ladies" in the posters and artwork. I asked if she was uncomfortable, and she said no, she just wanted to know why there were 17 women in various states of undress adorning the walls. So I explained the history of that era using age-appropriate language and descriptions, and she was quite satisfied with what she learned. And she left that temporary exhibition with the knowledge that many folks consider the naked human body a work of art, something to celebrate and honor. In that spirit, she informed me she'd found two more.

All in all, we spent 4 1/2 hours in the art museum. As we visited various floors, we took in art from around the world. Some of it was fantastic; some not so much. Max and I got into a great debate on the definition of art. Specifically, he asked if something is functional, is it art (he says it isn't, I say most certainly can be). The younger kids were amazed that some art pieces were created centuries ago, and they gained a solid understanding that art can be an enlightening representation of a culture. We discussed the purpose of art, what it's "supposed" to do, why it's valuable or not. I was thrilled that each of the kids was able to appreciate what s/he was seeing on an individual level. Mostly, I like that even Bella can now go beyond saying "I like that" to explaining what it is about something that moves her.

The hotel we stayed at--a Sleep Inn on 120th Ave--was a nightmare. Exposed electrical boxes in the pool room, a hot tub guard rail that wobbled and came out of the ground, peeling paint (lead, anyone?), crumbled wall tiles, a plastic chair with a broken leg that someone propped back up and which Max quickly discovered was not stable, a headboard that pulled out of the wall if you so much as leaned against it to watch TV, bathroom doors that refused to lock or even close all the way...the list is endless. But we got a lot of laughs out of it anyway and felt like we were livin' on the edge, wondering what would fall apart next.

And then yesterday, we enjoyed a major snowstorm. The entire family spent the day inside, watching Indiana Jones movies and playing the game Life. We made a huge breakfast and ate too much junk food as we hung out. Wes had a roaring fire going all day, and throughout it all, snow continued to steadily fall and blow with a beauty only nature can pull off. It was just perfect.

Too often, there's conflict of one kind or another when you put a large family together and try to please everyone. This Spring Break has been a gift to me and my family. We all deserve that once in a while.

What Makes for a "Good" Father?

2009-03-04T13:52:00.008-07:00

While this may not come as a shock to anyone who really knows me--and I mean knows me--it bears being clearly stated: I am not the easiest significant other to be with.

Yes, I am extremely low maintenance. Nope, I'm not needy in any sense of the word. In fact, any guy whose been with me for a substantial amount of time very likely has wondered at times if I even like him, I need so little. I'm an eternal optimist, even as the world comes crashing down. Just today, Wes called from work to inform me that he's losing his job for at least a month, if not longer. My first thought was, Wow! We can finally finish painting the family room. It's been half done for 3 years!

But.

I have high expectations when it comes to parenting. Only, I didn't know they were high. To me, they seem reasonable and obvious. I believe in being involved in the lives of my kids. Not when it's convenient or easy. Not when I feel like it. Not when I don't have something else I'd rather be doing. I believe in it at all times. Both parents.

And by involved, I don't mean overbearing or hovering or coddling. I don't tell my kids they're awesome when they're not. I don't heap praise on them for behaving as they should. If they're acting like brats, I tell them they're being bratty. I'm not politically correct. I use the words "shit" and "hell" and "damn" because sometimes they're the only words that express what I mean. I yell when I'm mad and don't act any differently around other people's kids than I do my own. What you see of me in public is what you'd see of me at home.

What I'm trying to say is, I am far from perfect. I make mistakes. But I don't let a day go by without telling every one of my kids I love them. I try to have a few uninterrupted moments with each of them every day. I don't hesitate to tell them I'm proud of them if the situation calls for it, and I am available to them when they need me. I advise, listen, discuss, debate. Together we learn, butt heads, compromise, concede. We are a family. A messy, loving, loud family.

Recently, one of my kids' friends' dad told me he's a good father to his school-age children. I asked him why he thinks that, and he said he drives them places, cooks for them, helps with their homework when he can. He puts food on the table.

This same dad thinks it's okay to drink himself into unconsciousness every couple of weeks because he used to do it every night. He thinks it's okay to smoke a joint or bowl and then try (and fail) to be responsible and attentive (he and his wife are divorced, so he has his kids on his own 3-4 days/nights a week). He leaves the house without tellings his kids while they're out playing, then doesn't answer his cell phone when they call, worried and wondering where he is. He doesn't pay his bills, doesn't work much, doesn't give them any sense of security.

His house is not a home; the kids have very little of their things there. He commits to attending and participating in school functions and then backs out last minute. His kids say they're used to it. I hate him when I hear them say that.

I understand that perhaps this father is an exception to the vast majority of dads out there. But I'm not sure he is. Why do so many men who have kids believe they should get gold stars for doing the bare minimum? Why do they think putting food on the table is all that's required of them? Why do they think they can drink and party and set a horrible example and then smack their kids around when they fall out of line? Why are so many dads assholes?

I know there are some fabulous, dedicated, loving fathers out there. I know some. I read about others. Some of them, I see at school when I'm picking up my kids. Some are reading this column right now. I know they exist.

And I know there are some frighteningly awful mothers. I see them too. Even know a couple. But there seems to be some sort of internal mechanism that tells a lot of guys that this parenting thing is like a hobby: Do it when you feel like it, but don't let it take over your life.

Being a volunteer in the schools, teaching classes and making presentations, I see a lot of wounded kids. A lot. More than I ever thought there could be. They're hurt, angry, distant. I know some second grade kids whose defenses are already in place; their lives will not be easy.

Life's hard. I get that. But when we have kids, we must put them first. All the time. That doesn't mean we need to be perfect, or with them at all times. It doesn't mean we never allow them to struggle or fall, fail or fear. It means we love them. And when loving them isn't enough--and most days, it isn't--we must put our weaknesses and desires aside and step up to the plate.

Being good enough should be the exception, not the rule.

2009-02-16T11:48:00.002-07:00

Autism & Vaccinations: Where the Personal IS Political

The federal court ruled last week that there is insufficient evidence to prove the link between autism and childhood vaccinations. Specifically, the MMR (measles, mumps, rubella) vaccine. A victory for some, a crippling defeat for others, it is a ruling that, to me, is moot. Courts must rely solely on physical evidence to make their decisions; proving beyond the shadow of a doubt that the MMR causes autism in some children is impossible. There are too many underlying and individual factors.

But that doesn't mean I believe there's no link between the MMR and autism. I do.

And before I go any further, let me be clear that I have no medical background or vested interest in taking one side or the other. I don't have an autistic child. Nor do I have a vaccinated child. I have healthy children who have never been vaccinated. And I researched the hell out of vaccinations before making the decision to forego that particular childhood tradition. This was back in 1992. I haven't stopped studying the topic since.

I think the decision to vaccinate one's children is personal. Parents have the right to choose either way, and then they must live with the consequences of that choice. What irritates me to no end is when a parent accepts vaccinations as mandatory and doesn't question their efficacy, safety, or logic. I mean, we're talking a child's life here...this decision is not along the lines of piercing ears or even circumcision; this is a decision which may involve injecting toxins directly into a healthy human body in an unnatural way. If a parent has thought this through, weighed the circumstances, and then makes the decision in favor of or against, she has done so (presumably) out of love for her child and the desire to keep that child healthy and safe. If, on the other hand, she allows her child to be vaccinated simply because it's what she's told to do, then I have no respect for that. I'm a firm believer in questioning authority when authority needs to be questioned.

I'm not writing this column because I think children shouldn't be vaccinated. I'm writing it because I think the time has come (is overdue, actually) to re-evaluate the role of vaccines. They were definitely a blessing when first introduced, as were labor unions and public schools. But times change and our social constructs and institutions must change if they are to remain valuable and effective.

The first cases of autism were diagnosed in 1943; all eleven diagnoses were among children who were born in the months after thimerosal, a form of mercury, was first added to infant vaccinations in 1931. Today, autism has reached epidemic proportions, and parents are advised to give their children more vaccines than ever before. Is it mere coincidence that the number of cases of diagnosed autism has drastically increased as the number of "required" childhood vaccines has risen? I can't imagine it is.

I made the choice not vaccinate based on research and instinct. As parents, we must trust that inner voice that alternately screams and whispers to us. I have been chastised by medical personnel (but not all of them) and scorned by other parents for my decision. Yet I have never regretted it. That doesn't mean I think it's the right choice for everyone. But it was right for me and my children.

I just want people to think. Think about their choices, their actions, their behavior. Too many folks seem to just go along with the norm and never stop to consider why it's the norm. I don't necessarily want you to agree with me. I just want you to know why you disagree.

For a thought-provoking expose on autism and vaccinations, check out this Rolling Stone article: http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/story/7395411/deadly_immunity/ . The level of integrity and investigative journalism is noteworthy, and regardless of which side of the fence you sit on for this issue, it will give you pause to ponder.

2009-01-20T12:58:00.004-07:00

A New Day Dawns

As I write on this glorious, sunny day, I'm watching the Inaugural ceremonies. I've been watching since earlier this morning, and as the day unfolds, I find myself feeling a stronger sense of national pride than I've felt in years. It's not that I ever did not want to be an American; no mere mortal could ever wield that magnitude of power over me. But in recent years, I've come to feel misrepresented as an individual American on virtually every front. Respect for the presidential office aside, Bush simply was never my president.

Today I feel hope--unlimited, bottomless surges of hope. The idea of hope is a welcome one regardless of circumstances. But the climate of our nation has been one of fear, frustration, disappointment, anger, and dissent for so long that hope had become little more than a four-letter word. It was distant, unattainable, fading into the horizon.

Many things about today contribute to my feeling of hope: the fact that the man who now leads us is young and vital, a loving father and husband who seems in touch with the reality most of us accept as our own; that this one man had the courage to step up and speak out at a time when our nation most needed a clear, intelligent voice; that he sacrificed his private life for a cause much bigger--and more difficult--than any one person's endeavors. I think Barack Obama chose to seek the presidency not because he could, but because he felt he should.

But more than this, I am hopeful because we as a nation banded together and said Enough. We've had enough. And we did what we had to do to bring about the change necessary to right ourselves.

I believe most hatred and ugliness is born of fear, and the fear stems from ignorance. Racism has long divided our country, and to an extent, perhaps, it always will. But for this one brief moment, we robbed racism of its power and banished it. We chose hope and a belief in the power of the people over hatred and fear. We made an active decision to break through a long-standing paradigm of limitation based on tradition and an unwillingness to take a chance.

There is but a one-letter difference between "chance" and "change," and I think one relies on the other for existence. I truly believe we have the leader we need to guide us out of the mire we find ourselves trudging through. He is no savior, not a messiah. He is probably scared to death and will undoubtedly make mistakes. But my gut tells me his mistakes will have come from an attempt to do the right thing for the most people, to make the best of difficult choices and decisions. I see an integrity in this man I never was able to detect in his predecessor.

I will forever be proud to be able to tell my children that I helped bring Barack Obama to the White House. When he stumbles and falls--as we know he will--the fallout will be tempered by the spirit which permeates this day. We will remember the elation, the sheer relief, the unabashed triumph. We will remember why we put him in office.

This day belongs to us all, regardless of creed, political party, race, or any other factor that leads to division. Today is our day.

Today is a good day. And for me, it's doubly wonderful; my baby--the last of the tribe--turns 8 today. One look into Bella's dear face and I am reminded of the goodness and delight this life has to offer.

Life is good.

2009-01-03T18:44:00.011-07:00

The Front Porch Returns

Happy New Year! I hope this column finds you in good spirits and even better health. It's been more than 6 months since I've posted a new column, and that's just not okay. Many of you have asked if I stopped writing The Front Porch. The answer is a resounding NO! I just got swamped with writing gigs that pay, so something had to go.

But we're back on the porch, and I hope you'll join us there. I'll publish my column bi-weekly, more if there's something I just can't let pass. I think 2 columns/month is doable, and I'm looking forward to getting back into the good and the bad of writing an opinion column.

There is one major change: I will no longer email you when I've posted a new column. Instead, you can sign up to be automatically alerted to new columns. It's easy.

To your immediate left is a "Subscribe" button. There is also a Subscribe link at the very bottom of this page. I don't know the difference between the two, but I figure one of them will suit your fancy. Click on the button/link, and you're done. That's all there is to it!

If you don't want to read The Front Porch any more, don't do a thing. You won't receive alerts. But if you do, be sure to subscribe, and forward the column to folks you think might find it interesting.

Now...enough with the technical stuff. My brain has been mulling over a few morsels:

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I turn 44 this Thursday! Yes, absolutely I'll have a drink with you. A big one, the kind that smells so good you want to take a bath in it. You think I'm kidding...you're funny.

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Someone told me last week that I am only the second Democrat he's ever liked. Does that say more about me or him?

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2008 clarified a few things for me:

1. I'm no fan of tornadoes.
2. I voted for Vazquez for mayor, but only because I thought he was less wrong for the job than the other guys. I have since changed my mind about him. As far as I'm concerned, the guy has proven his ability to lead effectively even under dire circumstances. He has my full support unless he starts to act like an idiot, and I don't see that happening.
3. I live in a town where folks sometimes over-react (I'm thinking about the MySpace "scandal" at the high school...could we have made a bigger deal of that if we tried?), but also where, when disaster strikes, residents pull together and reach out to help those in need. I spent the weeks immediately following the tornado with an overwhelming sense of pride in my community. Even now, that whole surreal event chokes me up and brings tears to my eyes.
4. Bruce Springsteen really IS the Boss.
5. The dark years for this country are fading into the shadows (for now...history does tend to repeat itself). Though we have a lot of clean-up to do, I believe we've proven we're up to the challenge. We placed more value on hope and the chance of better tomorrows than we did on experience and old-white-guyness in this last election, and I think that was the right call. Again, there's that sense of pride in my fellow man.

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And finally...

OBAMA WON!!!

2008-06-05T10:44:00.008-06:00

Of Tootsie Rolls and Gray Hair

It's been two weeks to the day, nearly to the hour, since the tornado ripped through our town to the tune of hundreds of millions of dollars in damages. And that amount includes only those things upon which we can place a monetary value. It doesn't begin to address other losses we've incurred. For some of us, that loss is a sense of security. Our young kids are frightened. They can't sleep. They don't want to be too far from Mom or Dad. My own Bella, usually one of the most joyful kids you could imagine, is suddenly fixated with death and dying. She doesn't want to die, and the only thing I could say that finally brought her peace is that if it was time for her to go, the tornado would have taken her. Clearly, I told her, there's more in store for her. She thought about that, and her 7-year-old brain wrapped itself around the idea that life has purpose, and until she achieves that purpose, she's here for the duration. Good enough.

For others, that loss comes in the form of personal momentos that were swept up and scattered, never to be returned. How can we put a price on that lost family photo, the one where all the kids are wearing ornery expressions because they don't want to be sitting there in front of the camera? Or the one of a beloved parent, now long dead? Maybe the keepsake isn't a photo, but a hair ribbon. A love letter, perhaps.

Regardless of the extent of damage to our homes and businesses, all of us here in Windsor have lost something. As days pass and we reconnect with friends, make sure they're okay, offer assistance, those of us who do not live in the disaster zone can temper our loss with the idea that we're luckier than many. And there is truth in that. But while we're feeling grateful, I think it's imperative to recognize that the fact that we still have our houses, our belongings, our families, doesn't dis-count the other fact: Our lives were turned upside down on May 22, and it will take time to recover.

This became crystal clear to me when I was in the check-out lane at King Soopers last week. The cashier asked how I was, and without giving it a thought, I replied, "Well, it's a good day when foot-long Tootsie Rolls are on sale and there are no tornadoes." Then I simply stared at her, amazed that such a sentence even formed itself in my brain. "Wow," I said. "Have my standards lowered!" And we laughed, but the humor didn't hide what was left unsaid: What I once took for granted was no longer a given.

I'm disorganized, easily flustered, incredibly forgetful. I'll open my mouth to say something and before the words come out, the thought has left me. I don't like this at all. But I also know I'm not alone in my stumbling, fumbling days. Many of my friends are experiencing the same thing. There's a sense of disconnect, and when we try to focus on something, our thoughts drift. It's an odd feeling to have that happen, especially if you're usually an organized, get-it-done type of person.

And many, many of us are dealing with our insurance companies, making appointments, getting estimates...our days are really interrupted and disjointed. And even when the insurance company comes through and helps us rebuild and repair, it's stressful. I am not exaggerating in any way when I say that I've had more gray hair appear on my head in the last 2 weeks than ever before. I wake up each morning, and there they are, a few more strands. I had my hair pulled back last week, and Tucker thought it was awesome. "Woah, Mom! You have, like, Wolverine gray hair!" For your viewing pleasure, I've posted an illustration of Wolverine so you can see what Tuck means. See those black wingy things? Imagine them gray, and that's what Tuck thinks I look like. Now, he's also the kid who asked me if I was going through a midlife crisis last year when I bought a pair of white sneakers with little silver-sequined stars on the outside of them, so maybe he isn't the best judge. But take it for what it's worth. Now I'm an X-Man in midlife crisis. (And for the record, I bought those shoes because they were cheap.)

At any rate, we plug away with each day, hopefully feeling a sense of normalcy gradually replace this murkiness. I really just wanted to reach out and let people know that we should feel grateful, yes. But we should also allow ourselves time to feel sad. We all lost something two weeks ago. Big or small, major or minor, we lost.

So whatever it takes...sale-priced Tootsie Rolls or a day of sunshine (remember sunshine?)...find your joy where you can.

2008-05-26T20:34:00.002-06:00

Tornado tore out our buildings, trees, but not our hearts

We take photo after photo, intent on capturing the extent of the damage wrought upon our community by a tornado that chose Windsor as its rest stop. We want to remember as intensely as we’d like to forget. And somewhere in between those two desires is the reality of life here, from this point on.

But photos capture only images, expressions. They show us what’s gone, what’s ruined, what’s forever changed. But they can’t show what I’ve seen here these past four days, since power went out around 11:47 a.m. on a day no one here will ever forget.

They can’t show you our spirit.

Sixteen thousand people live in Windsor, a community that in recent years has been experiencing growing pains as it evolves from being a rural region to one that is home to industry and energy resources. I’ve felt exasperation at some of the choices my town has made as it struggles to decide who it wants to be. I have never held back on calling the shots as I see them.

But what I’ve seen since Thursday’s tornado wreaked its havoc to the tune of tens (hundreds?) of millions of dollars in damage is like nothing I’ve ever been a part of. Past frustrations aside, I am proud to call Windsor home, and I’m proud of the people who live next door to me, down the street, across town.

The F3/F4 tornado and its accompanying hail damaged more properties than I know. It stole the homes of hundreds of people, leaving them with little to nothing. It killed beloved pets as well as one war veteran who tried to outrun the funnel in what would be a valiant last stand. It has forever changed the lives of every citizen, some more than others. But unlike the homes and businesses, the historic buildings and century-old trees, it hasn’t torn us apart. If anything, this disaster has brought out the best in my little community.

The response to this sudden emergency has been nothing short of phenomenal. The volunteer emergency response teams from all over the region have dropped their own lives to help us get on with ours. The National Guard, the governor, Xcel Energy…they have reacted with such clarity of purpose and commitment that I couldn’t be more impressed.

And then there are the local businesses and organizations. Our recreation department was turned into a command center, and I have never seen the likes of such dedication. “Whatever you need, you come to your rec department and we will help you,” the director promised. So great was the turnout for individual volunteers that by noon that day, they had all the volunteers they could use at that point. Our police and fire departments have answered the call of duty and worked 24/7 to help Windsor remain safe in what has turned out to be a most vulnerable time. Loodles, a newly established coffee shop, provided free coffee to everyone all day, for days on end. Our local 7-11 distributed milk, water, bread and other staples free of charge. And if you didn’t have them in hand as you walked out the door, the employees encouraged you to take some. If you already had some, they told you to take more. I’m sure there were other instances of goodwill throughout town that I don’t even know about.

With each passing day, Windsor gets a little cleaner. People smile a little easier (though I’m sure we will remain paranoid over every little storm for months to come). A drive down Garden Drive, Cornerstone Drive, or Hwy. 257 shows you what these people are made of as neighbors help neighbors, strangers help strangers, and everyone shares a common goal: To pick up the pieces of the past so that we can move forward into the future.

I’ve driven down the “disaster area” streets several times. The devastation is mind boggling. My entire body is sore from struggling against the 130+-mph winds as I collected my children from the storm. Mentally and physically, I’m exhausted. Drained. And I’m one of the luckier ones. Throughout this ordeal, I managed to remain composed and focused, in “mom mode,” as my siblings call it. But all composure crumbled as I slowly took in the sights along Hwy. 257. I saw houses one couldn’t really describe as “standing” any longer. Overturned pickup trucks, demolished businesses. I would liken it to images I’ve seen of war zones.

But what finally broke through my stoicism was the sight of a woman and her family, standing in what I assumed was once her kitchen. There were no outside walls, only the crumbled ruins of inner walls and rooms. And as twilight fell upon the outskirts of this shattered town, this woman was rummaging through her cupboards, trying to salvage what little might be left inside. My heart just ached for her. Our immediate world had fallen apart in less than fifteen minutes, but here was someone finding purpose in the simple act of finding…what? A frying pan, maybe? A colander? A bag of rice? It seemed absurd and totally logical at the same time. Though I didn’t know her, for that instant, I loved this woman, just for doing the best she could for her family at a time when they most needed her to be strong.

Windsor will slowly rebuild. Our streets will no longer be lovingly cradled by the old trees that link us to our past, but they will still take us from here to there. We will forever be reminded of an event we’d rather forget as we take those streets through town and say “Remember when the flour mill stood there?” or any number of similar remarks. We can never go back to the way we once were.

But if what I’ve seen happen here is any indication of the way we are now, we’re headed in the right direction.

Please feel free to post your comments here...share this blog with others who went through this experience. Some days, it's enough just to be reminded that you're not alone.

2007-07-21T15:20:00.000-06:00

That last column I wrote generated quite a strong response, mostly from women who either a) confessed to having their own love-of-their-life-but-can't-live-with-him stories, or b) wondered how I could admit that I wasn't with the love of my life any longer while at the same time be linked to someone else. Some people--yes, even men--emailed or stopped me in town to explain how my story brought tears to their eyes, gave them goosebumps.

I had no idea.

I mean, you live the majority of your life protecting your heart because you simply don't have it in you to offer yourself 100 percent any longer, and you tend to think it's a secret, an experience no one else shares. But there are so many who are on that same journey, albeit via different roads. If it's true that for every one person who takes the time to speak up there are seven who feel the same way but remain silent, then ours is a society of walking wounded. Every town--each individual neighborhood--is a microcosm of a global population whose hearts get broken to one degree or another, sometimes repeatedly, and yet who find reasons to get up each morning and start the day anew.

Since several people have asked me how the situation in my last column was resolved, I'll explain here briefly. Jamie was indeed in charge of the company whose platoon was involved in the ambush back in March. However, since only 30 soldiers were out on a mission, he did not accompany them, but stayed back at camp, per procedural policy. So while he was not involved in the actual incident, he was held accountable as a senior enlisted in charge.

Although the details are many, the end result is that he was relieved of duty. And since he technically retires in December, he will simply go on "permanent leave" in August and that will be the end of a life-long military career. Did his men do what the media has accused them of doing? I asked him that. He unequivocally denied that his men willy-nilly slaughtered innocent people. To explain how he knows this, he likened his role in the company to that of parent. When your kids lie, you know it. They don't look at you, they fidget, they struggle to answer your questions. His men returned from the ambush and recounted what went down, and with the exception of details relating to where the soldiers physically were in the attack, the stories were the same. He believed them; I believe him. "I trained those men, Beck. The average age in my company is 28, with more than 2 years of battle experience. I would not train my men to do what we've been accused of."

That's all I needed to hear. He's disillusioned with the military, left feeling betrayed by the silence of the higher-ups in the chain of command. But his relief at being out, finally, was palpable. I'm happy for him, and I don't think I could piece together any selection of words that would convey my own feelings of relief. Life for my old friend/lover/protector is beginning again at the age of 42. More power to him.
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On a lighter note, the Windsor Weed Nazi has visited us again and issued another citation. Despite the fact that we have been out pulling weeds while MANY of our neighbors have not, we are yet again the ones to be cited. So we pulled those weeds (fewer than we've ever had in any previous summer). And then I went through the neighborhood, along Stone Mountain Drive, taking photos of all the properties that actually HAVE serious weed issues. There's one property right across from Skyview Elementary that has weeds almost as high as the privacy fence. I'm talkin' weeds so big and bountiful they could almost be classified as bushes. Yet no one has pulled them.

I took my photos and enclosed them with a letter requesting that the weed watchers get off my back if they're not going to go after other property owners with the same level of concern and dedication. I used those photos as evidence to back up my claim that I think I'm receiving special attention...my weeds haven't been nearly as nasty as some other properties along Stone Mountain. I think they just love me there at Town Hall.
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On the other hand...my two dogs have been escape artists this summer. We have construction going on at the house, and these two Houdinis have found some remarkable means of escaping over, under, through fences. The animal control lady (Vicki) has been ever so kind and understanding. Really, she's been a gem. Granted, both Scout and Oliver have their registration tags, ID tags, rabies tags...they're not dangerous dogs by any stretch of the imagination. And they aren't getting out because of neglect. But I think we've used up our chances, so until the addition to our house is complete, I've got the evil eye on them. I swear these two actually commiserate about the most effective strategy for escaping...I've come outside to find them standing in front of that fence wearing expressions of great concentration. I know they're dogs, I know. But something is going on between them...telepathy or sign language or whatever. All I know is, I'm wishing I had a cat about now.
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I officially turned old earlier this week when a routine eye exam resulted in my needing to buy bifocals. Yes, you read that right. Bifocals. My eyeglasses prescription has always been very minimal, and even that was only for the left eye. Now, at 42, I suddenly need bifocals? This is just wrong. And guess what happened while I was at my eye exam? THE DOGS ESCAPED. This, even though I made it a point to call home and warn my kids not to let the creatures out without supervision. I was not a happy mom that day. Old, yes. Happy, no.
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I was outside this morning, watering my little evergreen trees, when I noticed my friend and neighbor walking toward me. Usually, she's one of those upbeat people whose inner light just shines. She's always got a smile, a "hello." This morning she looked drawn, weary, beaten.

By the time she got to where I was standing in my yard, I had learned through her tears and her quiet, unstoppable hiccups of breath that her eldest son (who is 50) was found dead in his home, apparently of a heart attack. I dropped my hose and hugged my friend, whose sadness and grief I absorbed. In an instant, I was back to November 4, 2004, sitting at the kitchen table as my sister informed me that our mother was found in her home, cold, not breathing. She couldn't bring herself to utter the word "dead." All those emotions--along with the knowledge that this was one of those before-and-after events that would forever mark my life--ripped through me like they happened yesterday. And as I held my friend, I cried. I imagine we were a sight there in my front yard...I repeatedly apologized to her: for her immediate loss, yes, but also for the dark, merciless grief I know she will have to endure in the days, weeks, months to come.

The thing is, we expect to have to let go of our parents; that's the course of nature, right? But a parent burying a child--even an adult child--that's not in keeping with our idea of how things are supposed to go down. It's wrong, no matter how you look at it. It's wrong.

I crossed the street to offer my friend's husband my condolences. I like this guy. A lot. He's one of those older retired guys who doesn't seem to get that retirement means chilling out, taking it easy. He sweeps his driveway! He and his wife have been caring for 2 of their great-grandchildren this summer. They're amazing people. Good people. The kind you would handpick for neighbors if you had the choice.

So when I get to his side of the street, I tell him how sorry I am, and I hug him. And that hug just about kills me because in it I can feel him slump into me as he quietly repeats himself, "My son, my son." And despite my most diligent efforts, I hear myself crying with him, and really this intense sorrow is just debilitating. I love these people; they're suffering is unbearable. I wish I could ease their pain, but I know what lies in store for them as they make the long drive to their son's out-of-state home. I remember my own very long trek across the country to Pennsylvania, where Mom lived. It seemed it would never end, and so much of that time I felt absolutely numb. And now my friends--these dear people--must bury their firstborn.

So, I come here--to you--to write. To tell you about these things, these details that make up life: weeds, dogs, death, aging, relief, betrayal, disappointment, love, loss, letting go, comfort. Everyday life is so messy. It requires so much of us on so many levels.

But it's what we've got. And the measure of our success, really, lies in how we deal with it.

2007-05-01T14:06:00.001-06:00

What Is Faith?

I find myself thinking about faith a lot lately. I believe this is partly due to some of the books I've been reading: "If God Is Love," "Grace (Eventually)," "Eat, Pray, Love," and even a couple novels in which faith is one of the themes. Perhaps my thoughts are influenced by the blossoming trees and flowers that have so suddenly decorated my life. I literally have watched the trees and lilac bushes in my backyard (where I sit as I type this) go from bare to blooming within three days. Amazing.

What does faith mean to you?

I once thought of faith solely in terms of God and religion and spirituality. That sphere only begins to encompass what faith means to me as I live out my fifth decade of life. At 42, my thoughts on faith, my idea of what it is and what it is not, are far different than what they were at 22, even 32. The concept once seemed so abstract, and as I studied existentialism in college, it almost seemed obsolete.

But then life happened--and continues to happen--and faith moves closer to the center of my world (right there with all these kids of mine) with each event, big or small.

I suppose I think about faith more these days, too, because Mother's Day is around the corner and I don't have a mom to call or send presents to. That makes me sad. I suppose it always will. But I came to the place--quite unexpectedly and utterly without direction or determination--where I can just say, without emotion or even a sense of wanting things to be different--that she is where she is supposed to be. It is that simple if I allow it to be.

And that, at 42, is what faith means to me: It is allowing whatever is, to remain what it is, without needing to dissect or deconstruct. That sort of non-analysis is not easy for me; I am a student of philosophy. Analyzing and digging in to the core is what I do. And that's the craziest part of all: In order to realize (or recognize) that faith is really quite simple, I chose a path that was complex and elaborate, full of unexpected twists and turns. I did this passively at times. Other times, my brain moved furiously in my quest for understanding. But it really isn't about understanding; it's about acceptance.

For me, faith is really nothing more than the belief that what is at any given moment is exactly what is supposed to be, whether I like it or not. That isn't to say I shouldn't try to right a wrong, seek improvement, or work for change. I absolutely should and will continue to do those things. But it really isn't up to me. My faith assures me that my kids chose the right parents. That marrying Dean wasn't a mistake, and neither was divorcing him. That Mom was slated to leave this world abruptly and without warning, as was my son. That the inadequacy I feel so often as a parent these days will one day be replaced with satisfaction. Faith has me believing that everything--and I mean everything--in my life is there because it serves a purpose. And it's up to me to determine what that purpose is.

I don't think faith is stagnant, but rather, it is always evolving, flexing its various muscles according to the circumstances at hand. Some days, I'm pretty strong in my faith. Others, well...on those days, the best I can hope for is to catch a rerun of "Northern Exposure" and apply whatever random message it may impart to the situation at hand. It's not rocket science. But it doesn't need to be.

Faith, I think, is an art. And like any other artistic endeavor, the more you practice, the easier it comes.

2007-04-20T09:28:00.000-06:00

Of Football and Town Managers

I didn't get a column written last week. It was a deadline week for me for a couple projects, and on those weeks I usually don't have any free time at the computer. And we got another dog, so that certainly added to the chaos.

We rescued Scout (named after the narrator of my favorite book, "To Kill a Mockingbird"), an 8-month-old yellow lab female from a shelter in Greeley. It took no time--and I mean no time--for her and Oliver to become instant pals. We couldn't ask for a better companion, and if you've got one dog, getting another really isn't a big deal. Kind of like children. For me, the difference between having one and two was no biggie; the difference between two and three was huge. By the time number four appeared, there just wasn't anything left to say.

Today the kids are home from school, so things will get noisy here as soon as the boys awaken (around 11:30 or so). I've been thinking about a couple things in particular lately:

What's with the mystery surrounding the hiring of a new high school football coach? Who decided this is how the recruitment should be conducted, and does that person not realize that there is already such a high level of distrust between the school board and the community? This secrecy isn't helping matters. I get that maybe the hiring committee doesn't want to have to deal with pushy parents who want more control and say than they should have, so they're keeping dealings on the lowdown. But if that's the case, why couldn't they just say, "Hey, this is our job, not yours. This is football. Just a game. Let us do our job."

And how about that letter to the editor in the Tribune earlier this week, the one by Mary Koehler, who voiced her concerns over interim town manager Kelly Arnold? Arnold is one of three finalists in the running for our town manager, and Koehler wrote a letter about the circumstances under which he left his last job, which was city manager of Grand Junction. The Tribune published the letter, but then wasted a lot of space chiding Koehler for her "speculation."

But the facts as I read them in the Grand Junction paper were that Arnold knew the fire chief (a guy named Beaty) was using and selling narcotics. And he did nothing about it except to place him on PAID leave, and even that didn't happen until months after a formal DEA investigation of Beaty was completed. The city attorney reported that he went to Arnold with the chief's confession on tape and the suggestion to fire Beaty. Arnold claimed he never knew of any DEA investigation, nor did he listen to a confession, nor did anyone ever suggest he fire Beaty. He never even requested Beaty take a drug test.

He also claimed the scandal had nothing to do with his resignation, but the timing, then, is a bit curious. The DEA investigation was completed in September; city officials didn't ask for the results until December. Beaty announced his resignation in late March, and Arnold said that was when he was "planning" to conduct a formal review of the situation. Beaty officially left the department on May 1, but Arnold saw that he got paid until that date.

Add to that the fact that the police chief quit months before Arnold resigned, and when the manager's resignation was made public, the police chief publicly stated had he known Arnold was going to step down, he would have stayed. A reporter in GJ told me some people saw Arnold as an empire builder, unapproachable from a public standpoint. I haven't talked with Arnold personally...I have no feel for him one way or the other, but I know what I've read. I did search for other articles about him online, something that would shine a positive light on him. Couldn't find anything. So...is it speculation that he left GJ under difficult circumstances? Nope. It's fact.

And what I've read of and been told about the situation raises some questions in my mind. How can the city attorney and Arnold have directly opposing claims as to how events unfolded? Why were there so many disgruntled people in GJ under Arnold's watch, and why was his staff (according to our Tribune) "dysfunctional at best" in the end? Why, in the face of evidence beyond a shadow of a doubt, didn't Arnold get rid of Beaty? Shortly after the town board hired Arnold as our interim manager, I contacted a member to ask if they knew about the controversy leading up to his resignation, and the anwswer was "what controversy are you specifically talking about?" The member assured me that references were checked, but no one in his right mind is going to list a reference if that person isn't absolutely certain to give a positive response.

So then I did a little research on the consulting firm that Windsor's town board worked with to find a town manager. And what do you know? The same firm Windsor worked with to find a candidate also worked with Grand Junction to replace Kelly Arnold. How convenient was that? Could that be why this information about Arnold wasn't shared with our board? (And yes, this IS speculation, but I'm entitled to it.) I'd have a hard time believing the consultants were unaware of the situation in Grand Junction.

I can't speak for anyone else, but this sort of murkiness doesn't sit well with me.

For those interested, here's Koehler's letter:
Take a closer look at manager candidates
This past weekend my husband and I visited friends in Grand Junction. I mentioned to them that Windsor’s current interim city manager had formerly been the city manager of Grand Junction.
Our friends were of course familiar with the name Kelly Arnold. They also shared some information that I believe the residents of Windsor would be interested in knowing.
All of this was “public” knowledge to the residents of Grand Junction, for it was printed in the Grand Junction Sentinel in May 2006 and again in December 2006.
During Mr. Arnold’s time as town manager three key people resigned: The police chief, the community developer and the fire chief. The fire chief had been under investigation for using and distributing hallucinogenic drugs.
The terms Mr. Arnold left Grand Junction under appear to me to be questionable. Mr.
Arnold has led residents to believe he was “just reevaluating his career and future” when he himself resigned from the town manager position in Grand Junction. Maybe he was, but there may be more to it.
I am disappointed that the local papers have not done investigative reporting on this matter. Windsor residents deserve to be informed about events that affect their town and its future.
The town of Windsor has narrowed the candidates for the new town manager. Kelly Arnold is one of the final three. As a taxpayer and registered voter, I do not support the consideration of Mr. Arnold.
Concerned in Windsor, MARY KOEHLER

And here's the Trib's opinion:
TRIBUNE OPINION
Get the news, not the gossip
Stories about town manager candidate mostly speculation

One of the main jobs of a newspaper is to decide what is and what is not news.
When the Windsor Tribune first learned current Windsor interim town manager Kelly Arnold’s last year as Grand Junction city manager was a struggle, we looked into allegations that he could not manage the town of roughly 60,000.
What we found was a city manager at the end of his rope due in part to a city council that couldn’t get along with one another and a staff that had become dysfunctional — at best.
What we didn’t find was that Arnold was to blame for anything.
The police chief resigned because he didn’t like Arnold.
The community development director resigned for no real clear reason.
And the fire chief retired amid an investigation he’d been using and selling hallucinogenic drugs and Ecstasy.
It’s not uncommon for employees to quit because they don’t get along with their boss. It happens in every industry. If we reported on that every time it happened, there would be no space in the paper left for anything else.
In a June 22 column in the Grand Junction Free Press, current Grand Junction City Council member Jim Spehar said Bob Blanchard’s departure as community development director was nothing new to the city.
“His five-year tenure surpassed the total for several of his immediate predecessors,” Spehar wrote.
As for the fire chief, Arnold can’t be blamed for the criminal decisions made by others. The fact that Arnold didn’t act on it in the time frames some wanted doesn’t point to wrongdoing.
A May 21 editorial that ran in the Grand Junction Daily Sentinel said it best about where the problem really seemed to lie: “A city manger’s job is one of the most damnable occupations, period,” the editorial said. “And reporting to the seven different personalities and preening egos that made up what has appeared fairly routinely over the past two years to be a fundamentally dysfunctional Grand Junction City Council had to be beyond Arnold or any other sane person’s capacity to endure.”
The average term for a town or city manager is roughly six years. Arnold’s tenure in Grand Junction was nearing that.
The city council was accustomed to 4-3 votes on the measures that came before them. With that, Arnold quickly lost the ability to deliver any measure of predictability to his staff.
In its editorial, the Sentinel also said it believed “Arnold was being pilloried for not shepherding (Fire Chief Rick) Beaty to an exit door at least three months earlier than when Beaty announced his own departure.”
Everything that surrounded Arnold’s final year in Grand Junction was speculation.
Creating a story out of speculation is not what this newspaper is about.
We came to the conclusion after countless interviews with Arnold, people in Grand Junction closely connected to the case and the Windsor Town Board that there was no story to be written.
However, a letter to the editor in today’s paper chose to point out that speculation without basis or fact.
The facts are: Three people resigned or retired under Arnold’s watch. The City Council in Grand Junction never asked Arnold to resign. In fact, Spehar also wrote in his column that Arnold left some big shoes to fill. He pointed to Arnold’s ability to solve problems between the Chamber of Commerce, the town and developers.
“Kelly provided a fresh set of eyes and ears and a different attitude that bridged many gaps and aided in resolving that particular conflict to the extent that it could ever be fully resolved,” Spehar said.
We firmly believe Arnold has been honest with the Windsor Town Board, the consultant hired to narrow the field of applicants and himself on the matter — since long before he was hired to act as interim town manager.
We also believe Arnold has the wherewithal to lead Windsor into the next decade and further if it comes to that.
We trust that our elected officials will do what is best for the town in their selection of a candidate. And following that announcement we will support whatever decision they make.
We urge Windsor residents to do the same and not let speculation and hearsay guide you through life.

2007-04-06T08:15:00.000-06:00

Home again, home again, jiggity jig

After running into the aftermath of a snowstorm in Arizona, we made it home from our vacation to California, where we enjoyed three days of Disneyland and California Adventures and one very windy day at Newport Beach.

I never thought I'd do the Disney thing; I'm no fan of amusement parks per se. I hate crowds. But the kids have wanted to go for years, and they've been saving a portion of every allowance for as long. After conducting some preliminary research, I realized it was now or never. With Max at 14 and Bella at 6, the age spread of the kids was perfect. And the price was right. Our family of six enjoyed five days in California plus a spontaneous day trip to the Grand Canyon (which set us back a day a required an unforeseen hotel stay) for $2800. This is an amazing price when you consider the cost of gas right now and the cost of food along the road.

The Grand Canyon--words can't describe it. But I feel the same about the part of Utah (see photo above) I saw from I-70. I never imagined that state was so scenic. We watched the sun rise there, and as I wiped the sleep from my eyes, I smiled to myself to imagine that the rocks formations I was enjoying were once the hideout of late-nineteenth century outlaws, including Butch Cassidy.

You don't go on vacation with Bella without having what I call "episodes." These episodes vary in nature: perhaps it's something she says, often it's something she does. This time, it was both. Outside the entrance to Disneyland's adjacent theme park, California Adventures, the word "California" is spelled out in separate-standing letters. As we approached the entrance, Bella began yelling, "People are climbing through the A-hole! I want to go through the A-hole!"

Why is it my child is prone to pick the most inappropriate of any choice? Why didn't the hole in the letter "O" interest her, or the one in the "R"? Why did the "A" hole appeal to her so profoundly? And why oh why did she have to scream it out loud? At least she gave those park-goers around us a good chuckle. And I, of course, had to snap a photo of Bella in her beloved "A"-hole.

Not all families can take road trips...kids are too young to travel, they're at stages where they fight too much, they can't be in a vehicle together for extended periods of time. I get this. And knowing this makes my cherished family vacations all the more valuable to me. Sure, the kids argue, we threaten that the next vacation we'll take will be without them (they scoff and know it's all bluster), we wish everyone could coordinate their bathroom needs. But overall, I think the best way to travel is to drive. Make the journey as much a part of the trip as the destination. In the end, it brings the family closer together because there is no escape from conflict; you deal or you sulk. And if you sulk, you lose out.

I've spent this first week home battling (unsuccessfully) some sort of viral infection. I'm too tired to write more, so I leave you with this photo montage and the sincere hope that you, too, are able to work in family vacations here and there. You don't have to have a large disposable income. You just have to be able to tune out. And you must really, really love your kids.

Really.

Really.

Really.

2007-03-18T14:29:00.000-06:00

Ahh, the Sweet Sound of...Newspaper

One of my fondest memories from the early days of my marriage is Sunday mornings. My husband and I would make a pot of coffee and settle in to read the Sunday paper. With no distraction save a cat kneading our laps to make a bed, we could enjoy a leisurely hour or two reading and talking, debating and commisserating.

Then we had kids. Sunday mornings were no longer leisurely. Then we divorced, and Sunday mornings pretty much ceased to exist except in terms of time. Until noon on Sunday, it was Sunday morning. And I was the only adult on the scene, so sipping hot coffee and reading quickly became a thing of the past. Which was probably all for the best, because I could no longer afford a subscription to the Sunday paper. My ex took the car and closed our joint checking account; my thoughts were always focused on how to get by. Reading book reviews and the op-ed section was but a fond and (seemingly) distant memory.

Then Tavi came along and Wes joined the scene. So there was that addition of an adult, but still...we had 3 kids, ages 5, 2, and brand new. Not much changed in the way of leisure time. Add Bella to the mix and, well, you see where this is going.

This Sunday morning I was the first to awaken, which is unusual in itself. The girls are early risers and usually are up at the butt crack of dawn. They amuse themselves with books, puzzles, drawing...any quiet activity that won't result in a trip to the emergency room. But on this particular Sunday, I got up, let the dog out, made coffee, and sat down with a book. Soon Wes came downstairs, followed quickly by the girls. The boys were spending the weekend at their dad's, and they rarely get up before 10 a.m. unless I make them anyway.

But there we all sat in the family room, talking in the hushed tones people tend to use when the day is just getting started and eyes are still filled with what we in this household refer to as "eye boogers." Wes retrieved the newspaper from the porch, and we each claimed our favorite sections.

And there we sat, the silence broken only by an occasional giggle from Tavi, who had one section of comics, or from Bella, asking what a particular word was (also in the comics). At six, she has just started reading independently, and I don't know who's more excited about this milestone, she or I.

And as we sat together on that Sunday morning, I listened to the sound of turning newspaper pages and realized time had given back my beloved ritual. The husband is now an ex, and the cats have been replaced by a dog. I'm about 14 years older than I was last time I enjoyed the paper, but hey! Time is just time, right? I've lamented the loss of reading the Sunday paper many, many times over the years. Sometimes I even felt resentment that I wasn't allowed to enjoy this mundane but cherished activity.

But on this Sunday morning, there was no resentment or longing, only gratitude. And it's a gratitude made all the more intense for having lost the opportunity for all those years while my kids needed immediate and constant attention. Now they sit with me and read. And that reading leads to questions and an increased curiosity of the world around them. They drink tea and hot cider while I languish over my coffee. It is, for me, my own personal Norman Rockwell scene. Sure, it will end as soon as something else grabs their attention.

But for that brief moment in time, all is right with the world on a Sunday morning.

2007-03-15T08:37:00.000-06:00

Calling All Teachers, Retired or Otherwise

Just want to let everyone know that Borders Bookstore is giving 25% off purchases for retired, current, full-time, part-time, even only-kind-of educators from March 21-27.

Not all merchandise qualifies, but most does. I do only volunteer work in the schools, and they give me the discount. So now's the time to stock up on those books you're wanting to read but know you can't finish in the time the library lends them to you!

2007-03-09T09:50:00.000-07:00

There's Much to Learn from "Romeo & Juliet"

Max is reading "Romeo & Juliet" in his freshman English class. He's pretty tired of the story, since this is something like the fifty-sixth time he's had to read it for school. But he came home with an assignment I thought was interesting. He had to list traits he would look for in a partner (lover just sounds too creepy for ninth grade). Without looking at what he wrote, I had to do the same. Then I had to make a list of traits I would want his partner to have.

Max isn't too demanding: he wants someone who is "smart" and "funny." "Other than that," he wrote, "it doesn't really matter." I included those two traits in the list I made of what I believed was important for him to find in someone as well.

His list for what he anticipated I would choose as important included "being poor." "What does that mean?" I asked. "Well you always say that money can't buy happiness, so I figured you'd want me to find someone poor!" he explained. I thought about that for a minute and chuckled.

He's right; I do always say that. Speaking as someone who once had to sell a sizeable portion of her beloved CD collection in order to give her young boys a few presents for Christmas, I know what it's like to be poor, though certainly not destitute. I know what it's like to worry about how I'd pay the bills. I remember having to choose between feeding my kids and paying an ever-growing credit card bill on time. I've never been comfortable asking for help, so reaching out for assistance during those lean times wasn't something I'd considered.

My life today is different. Though not monetarily wealthy by any stretch, I have built a business which allows me to be comfortable. I can pay school sports fees, buy my kids necessities and even a few extras here and there. I live in a home for which I am able to pay monthly utility bills. I am satisfied with what I have and don't feel as if I'm missing out on anything, even though I can't spend money freely or without thought. I still have to budget.

But Max sees things differently. He can't understand why I'm happy being middle class. He says I shouldn't "settle" when the possibility of having more is within my reach. I get frustrated with this discussion, but recently I realized he has this point of view quite possibly because he doesn't have anything against which to measure his lifestyle. He was too young to realize I sold beloved collections of various things to assure his survival and security. Max has never known true fear. He can't imagine not living in a decent home that always welcomes him. He's never gone hungry, and he can't fathom going without so that someone he loves won't have to.

I constantly hear how every other kid he knows doesn't have to help out around the house, never loses privileges, and gets handed money whenever he needs it. I don't (can't) buy each of my kids an MP3 player (Max bought one with his own money, which he received as gifts for his birthday), and wouldn't even if I could. They don't live in a home with luxuries, but I've been hard-pressed enough to recognize that having money to pay my bills and buy enough groceries is a luxury, especially in these days of economic struggle. So while Max considers me less than successful, I am completely content with where my life has brought me. Do I ever want for something I can't have? You bet. But there is much to be said for having something to wish for. And maybe because I've known struggling to get by, I'm happy with what I have.

This is one area my teenage son and I might never agree on; certainly we won't until he's had to hoe his own row. I did suggest that if he thinks his life at home is so unfair, he ought to emancipate himself. That comment was met with an incredulous, horrified expression. "I don't WANT to emancipate myself! I just don't want to have to spend time with the family. I don't want to have to eat dinner with all of you. I want to do what I want, when I want. I've even tried to act really nasty so that you don't want me around, but then all you do is ground me!"

Again, I chuckled. "I know. It stinks to have a mom who actually cares about you and wants to know what's going on in your life, doesn't it?" I replied. "Yeah, it does," he grumbled.

And then I chuckled again. When Max handed me his assignment, he did so with the comment that he didn't know why his teacher always tries to make everything they do in class relevant to real life. " 'Romeo and Juliet' has nothing to do with my life," he insisted. And yet...consider the discussion that resulted from this homework.

We may have both ended up frustrated, but I think there's value in any discussion a parent can actually have with his/her son or daughter. If they're talking to us at all, we're doing something right.

Even if it's to hear how miserably disappointing we are.

2007-03-05T13:04:00.000-07:00

Coulter's True Colors Shine Through, and WooHoo! Are They Ugly

Ann Coulter, the conservative mouthpiece and all-around darling, called John Edwards a faggot last week. In public. In front of lots of people. Even her fellow conservatives cringed. What will it take for them to realize the old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be?

Put me in a room with that foul woman, and I can't think of any issue on earth we couldn't disagree on. She is the epitome of all that I do not stand for. And yet, in the past, I was able to admire her ability to stand up for her beliefs and rally for those commitments she embraced.

My admiration has turned to disgust. Coulter has morphed from an intelligent, loud-mouthed conservative to a vengeful, trashy media whore. That woman will say anything--hurt anyone--solely for shock value. And it's getting old.

I suppose we were warned when she labeled Joe McCarthy a hero.

That comment merely reflected her own bias and narrow thinking. Her homophobic remark has a more serious far-reaching effect, though. Yeah, she made herself look small, ignorant, nasty. But given that she has been the conservative party's sharp-witted mouthpiece for years, her slur makes the whole gang look bad. Shallow. Hateful. That stereotype was already alive and kicking, but Coulter gave it a whole new lifespan.

I remember a college semantics course I attended, and one point I never forgot: The word is not the thing. Spin doctors, media, political speechwriters...they all depend on us common folk to subconciously label and categorize. We give meaning to symbols which otherwise would have none. That's why, for instance, some people are so hinky about flag burning. To me, the act of flag burning is nothing more than the burning of the flag, because no one can destroy what the flag means to me.

But these days, the word IS the thing. Words carry power beyond belief because we have imbued them with such. So for anyone to hurl such hate-filled, despicable slurs at another--especially in a public forum--is undeniably repulsive.

I'm glad Coulter isn't on my side...thing is, she isn't on anyone else's side, either. She's just a woman who fancies herself a political pundit, and she's overstayed her welcome.

2007-03-02T10:38:00.000-07:00

I said They Were Awesome

Back in the summer of 2006, I wrote in "The Family Room," which was featured in the Windsor Trib, an editorial about Windsor Auto. I praised them for their amazing and beyond-the-norm customer service.

And boy, did I catch hell for it.

From Tom Fasano at the Trib, because some reader (who turned out to be a friend of the owner or something like that of Pike's Auto) complained that what I wrote was an "advertorial." What a joke. My column is an op-ed piece...I'm allowed to say what I think. I wrote that column to share with readers in town the fact that there is a place to go for capable and trustworthy car repair. And Fasano ran that piece without changing a word of it.

But he apparently couldn't take the heat, and that's when he demanded that I consult with him before writing my columns so that he could approve whatever topic I chose. Another joke.

Windsor Chamber of Commerce just awarded Windsor Auto the annual Outstanding Customer Service Award.

Need I say more?

Well, yeah, I need. I had my van in to Windsor Auto recently and they gave me one of those free loaner cars while the work was being done. I accidentally left my digital camera in the front seat of the car but didn't realize it until the shop was closed on a Wednesday night. That Wednesday just happened to be Tuck's birthday, and when I went to pull out the camera to photograph the event, I realized what I had done.

I called Windsor Auto and left a message that my camera was probably in car number 3 and asked them to please check before loaning it out to someone else. After hanging up, I got worried that they might not listen to the messages first thing in the morning, so I had the audacity to call Scott Crowe, one of the shop's owners, at home. I wasn't looking for anything other than to ask him to please check the car in the morning (I figured he went in early).

Instead of letting me sit at home and worry all night, Scott insisted he meet me at the shop in five minutes so that we could look for my camera together. As much as I hated imposing upon him, I took him up on his offer; I was really worried that I'd lost the camera. And equally worried that if I did leave it in the car, someone might take it.

Sure enough, the camera was in the front seat. My mind was put at ease, and I was able to take my annual birthday photo with Tucker. But I ask: How many business owners would go so far out of their way for a customer? Especially at night, especially when he's already in his pajamas? The answer is not many, and if that sort of treatment doesn't bring them business, I don't know what would.

And I'm thankful I can share this sort of thing with you and not have to answer to a pander-to-my-advertisers editor. Life is good!

2007-02-28T10:30:00.000-07:00

Did ya hear the one about the man...

While enjoying a Bloomin' Onion with Wes and the girls at the Outback Steakhouse last weekend, six-year-old Bella made an announcement. "I know a man who has a LOT of testicles coming out of his head." Nearly choking on my onion, I turned to her with what must have been a confused--or perhaps, horrified--expression. Since her birth, Bella has seen that exact expression on my face at least 436 times. And without exception, she has been the root cause of its genesis.

She didn't miss a beat. "Davy Jones," she explained. Two things you must know about this child. One, she has a loud voice. It's, well, it's just loud. So I'm sure those dining in our vicinity also had the good fortune to vividly imagine a visual of a grown male sprouting testicles from his skull. And two, she likes to play tricks on anyone gullible enough to fall for them. I'm usually that fall guy. "From 'Pirates of the Caribbean'," she further explained.

"Oh," I heaved a sigh of relief. "You mean 'tentacles'." Davy Jones is a character in the hit movie, and he is portrayed as a sort of degenerate octopus. "Tentacles, Bell. Like the arms of an octopus." She smiled sheepishly. "Oh. Yeah."

Bella's faux paux reminded me of my own very similar confusion when I was just a bit older than she. My friend Carla Pivotto had a dog who tried to clear a barbed wire fence. He didn't do so well, as I relayed the tragedy to my family at the dinner table. "His tentacles got caught on the fence. And they tore off. And he had to get an operation right away," I breathlessly and dramatically recounted the story. I was sure I had them all spellbound, because all four of them--Mom, Dad, and both my older siblings--were staring at me, forks poised midway to mouth.

Of course, it was Mom who first lost control and started laughing hysterically. "Becky honey," she managed to bleat out in between belly chortles, "you mean 'testicles'. Tentacles are what you find on an octopus." Of, for the love of god, I wanted the earth to just open up and swallow me whole, right there. Here I thought I had something very newsworthy to contribute to our dinner table conversation, and I messed it up. Testicles. Of course! How could I be so naive?

So when Bella made the same mistake only backwards, I vowed not to have that same hysterical reaction (though I've long forgiven Mom, because hey, we should all take our laughs where we can find 'em). Rather than give in to the rollicking laughter that threatened to take over my body and send it into seizure-like convulsions, I conjured up in my mind images of traffic accidents and missing appendages so as to remain as serious as humanly possible. And I was successful, for the most part. I even shared with Bella my own testicle/tentacle anecdote so she wouldn't feel alone in her confusion. It was no biggie to her; Bella suffers from no self-esteem issues.

But the experience gave me pause to remember that even the seemingly insignificant events of our lives--a dinnertime conversation, a bedtime confession, an off-the-cuff remark--can have lasting effects. When we're old and consider our lives in retrospect, will we remember it as a series of major events, with filler in between? Or will we reminisce about the journey--the dailyness of it, the traditions and rituals--and view the major events as highlights?

A dear friend whom I've had the pleasure of knowing and loving for over three decades recently remarked on how I've never had a plan as to how my life should go. So everything that has happened, good and bad, has just been the next step. I've given her observation a lot of thought, and she's absolutely right. Never having concrete plans, I never had to experience life-crippling disappointment or surprises so profound they threw me off course. Because I never had a course. So I imagine for me, at least, I will look back as an old woman and ponder my life not by its milestones, but by its many unexpected moments when epiphany crept up and bludgeoned me on the head.

In the meantime, I will continue to fight the good fight, being the best parent I know how to be. And testicles/tentacles be damned, I will find glory in the small and subtle blessings.

2007-02-23T09:59:00.000-07:00

Teens talk: Are adults listening?

A community-wide meeting was held earlier this week at the high school to discuss the teen drug/alcohol issue that has many of us concerned. The turnout was better than I expected, though less than it should have been in a town where the high school population exceeds 900 students, the middle school, 700. I don't know how many folks attended; my guess is between 60 and 75. Could've been more.

At any rate, the meeting was productive in that it gave people a chance to voice their concerns and ask questions. A high school student council rep was on hand to speak, and she cited two reasons for the higher-than-average number of kids in this town who drink and drug. One, there's nothing else to do. And two, no one's stopping them. The first reason, I think, is as old as the hills. Don't most kids feel there isn't much to do in their hometown? That doesn't give them an excuse to turn to drink and drugs. So I'm just ignoring that one for brevity's sake. I always tell my kids if they're bored, it's their own fault.

But the second reason is of grave concern to me. "No one's stopping us," they say. In a perfect world, we could expect these kids not to indulge because the long term effects are debilitating. We could reason with them, appeal to their sense of logic. But these are hormonal teens we're talking about, and logic plays no part. It would also be an assumption to say that all parents are on the same page, that we all are trying to keep our children from drinking and drugging. And that assumption would be wrong.

Windsor has its fair share of parents who buy alcohol for their kids' parties, who have no problem serving minors. Then there are those who may not condone underage drinking, but they conveniently look the other way so they can say they didn't know what was going on. Since I'm not publishing this in anyone's newspaper, I'm going to say exactly what I think: that is pure bullshit. I'm sorry if that offends you; I'm offended by adults who willingly take part in corrupting kids, and I'm oh so tired of pussyfooting around serious issues. Everyone is afraid to seem judgemental; well, if we aren't judging those who play a part in hurting our kids, what good is our ability to reason, decide, and choose? Whether we admit it or not, every single one of us uses judgement everyday. It's a useful tool, and in the case of Windsor's teenage alcohol and drug abuse, one I think we would all do well to utilize.

It's cliche but true: It takes a village to raise a child. If my kids do something they shouldn't, I want to know about it. If they're ever disrespectful to their teachers, I want to know about it. As parents, we can't be everywhere our kids are; we need to be able to rely on one another to be our eyes and ears. Ultimately, we are responsible for our own children, but that doesn't mean we have to go it alone. And if one of us is party to the corruption of minors, we are all responsible if we've let it happen. I think adult peer pressure is in order. If you know of a parent or other adult who is contributing to this issue by supplying kids with alcohol and drugs or ignoring them when they're using, call him on it. Tell these folks what they're full of (and it isn't sugar and spice). Let them know you won't stand for laissez faire parenting since the result is hurting all of our kids. What they're doing may not be illegal, but that doesn't mean we can't make it unpleasant for them.

One other issue that came up at the meeting was the fact that Windsor's student drug/alcohol policy is more strict than those of neighboring school districts. Yet we have a higher incidence of use. Why is this? What is happening, or not happening, with the policy? Is it not being enforced uniformly, across the board, at all levels? I can't think of any other reason for the higher-than-average statistics despite a strict policy. No one wants to point fingers, but at some point, there must be the acceptance of responsibility. Who is dropping the ball? There are those who will say it isn't important to determine who is responsible. But it IS important, because until that person or those people are no longer in the position to negatively impact our kids, nothing much will change. If the solution requires personnel change, then let the changes begin. We can bust our butts trying to give our young people places to hang out, activities to participate in, and alternative choices, but until we start cracking down on those who come to school drunk or high, who use during lunch, and who sell the stuff both on and off campus, we're fighting a losing battle. And we can't crack down if we don't have people in positions of authority who stand up to those lazy parents who don't care if their kids use because to demand anything else would require consistency, involvement, and a willingness to be the bad guy. Huh. Welcome to parenting.

This week's meeting was a great place to start bringing out into the open an issue that is not always easy to discuss. Emotions will run high, as they should. Our young people deserve at least that much, and until this point, they haven't been getting it.

Wake up, Windsor. We're failing our kids. They know it. And now there's no excuse for of any of us not to know it as well.

2007-02-09T16:45:00.000-07:00

Sex: Good or Bad, It's Not Just for Marriage Anymore

According to a Greeley nurse (I'm not naming names and that doesn't mean I'm relying on gossip; it just means I know when to keep my mouth shut to protect people), Shelly Donahue recently gave a presentation to a Greeley church in hopes of bringing her program to the youth group. Donahue is a national trainer for WAIT (Why Am I Tempted) Training, that disturbing abstinence-only-until-marriage program that tried to take over our schools' healthy sexuality curriculum not long ago. If ever there was a program with an agenda, it's WAIT. Its curriculum would be laughable if its developers weren't serious. But seeing as how they are, the contents pass beyond laughable to dangerous. Beyond dangerous to deadly.

Anyway, Donahue reportedly told the congregation that the new HPV vaccine for girls will leave them sterile. The vaccine, Gardisal, helps protect females from four forms of HPV, a sexually transmitted disease that can lead to sterility (maybe Donahue was just confused between the vaccine and the disease?). In the eyes of WAIT, such a vaccine puts young people on the fast track to being sexually active, if not permiscuous. It encourages them to shed their morals for physical gratification. It is evil.

This is just one example of why I was and will remain a vocal opponent of WAIT Training in its entirety. In my opinion and those of others who would be forced to teach it or whose children would be assaulted with it, WAIT is a program based on fear and rife with medical and scientific inaccuracies. It does not educate, it preaches. It does not inform, it moralizes and demoralizes. In the very students it excludes from its audience, it discriminates. My conclusion, after reading the program's training manual word for word, is that it is not a curriculum that would be of service to Windsor students.

I believe a healthy sexuality curriculum would be just one facet of a much larger, comprehensive health and wellness program that would also encompass nutrition, exercise/fitness, healthy lifestyle choices of all kinds, and body image. Peel away all the categories and labels, wade through the semantics, and I believe the basis can be simplified into one skill: the ability to say No.

No to drugs and alcohol, to sex, to overeating and indulging unhealthy habits. No to the media, who consistently get in the faces of our teens--indeed, our elementary-aged kids--and tell them they must look a certain way to be happy, successful, envied, normal. No to doing anything they do not want to do, for whatever reason, or for no reason at all.

By teaching our kids to refuse that which doesn't feel right or which threatens them in any way, we are also teaching them to say Yes to those opportunities that present positive experiences. No, yes. They go hand-in-hand.

And we would be seriously remiss if we don't at least begin to touch on mental health. Today's troubled teens don't need someone's barely disguised edict of salvation in the form of abstinence until marriage. Sex is just one component of what might be troubling these young people who drink to forget, smoke or shoot up to numb themselves, cut themselves in ways that leave more than just physical scars. They're tuning out, and we can't possibly believe that the solution lies in telling them that the best sex takes place between married couples (recent secular surveys indicate married couples have MORE sex, but who knows if it's better? If waiting for marriage to have sex is where it's at, then how would anyone know if it's better than sex between singles? Check out this 2006 survey [esp. the last bullet]: http://www.webmd.com/content/article/129/117331.htm) and that they'll be forever sterile if they take a preventive vaccine.

I filled out an application to serve on Windsor's volunteer health curriculum advisory board. Knowing full well I'm not the school board's darling by any stretch of the imagination and so might be wasting my time, I figured it was worth the few minutes it took to fill in the blanks. I want to have input into what these kids will be told. So many of them are not being engaged in dialogue at home that needs to take place; yet they so desperately need to hear what isn't being said.

Windsor is not above or beyond the reality of the twenty-first century. We can't stick our heads in the sand any longer. Do I think abstinence during the teen years is best? Absolutely. But I'm enough of a realist to acknowledge that not everyone will make that choice, no matter what they're told. The decision to have sex is not a moral one, and we can't effectively talk about it as long as we view it as such. School is for education; morality must begin in the home.

And hopefully, they'll meet somewhere in the middle.

2007-02-01T19:01:00.000-07:00

Unreasonable women may yet save the world.

~ Molly Ivins

Molly Ivins was a woman I admired. A liberal columnist who wielded the written word as mightily as a warrior brandishes his sword, Ivins was the epitome of the unreasonable woman. And when a teacher here in Windsor called me the same after I stirred up a ruckus with my column, I knew he meant it as the highest compliment. I was honored.

Molly died yesterday after a long battle with cancer. Seldom does the death of someone I've never met leave me in tears, but hers did. If you're a fan, you already understand why. If you're not, Google her name and read some of her syndicated columns. Then you'll get it.

She was the best thing to come out of Texas (though she was a transplant). And she referred to her fellow Texan, our president, as Shrub. If for no other reason than that, the woman earned a special place in my heart.

May she continue to give 'em hell, wherever she may be.

2007-01-31T11:48:00.000-07:00

This is Bella on the morning of her sixth birthday earlier in January. She's just opened a set of Avon body paints. But I don't think that's why she's so happy.

This is just how Bella is almost all the time. Utter joy. And if she can't find it, she makes it.

When I imagine Bella, this is how she looks.

2007-01-31T11:45:00.000-07:00

Memories...light the corners of my mind

I was fortunate to grow up with two very different sets of grandparents, unfortunate enough not to live nearby and see them often. Distance not withstanding, they all held--and still hold--very distinct places in my heart.

My mom's parents were not formally educated beyond the middle grades. Pap worked in the brick refractory (a job that eventually killed him) and Gram raised a large family while keeping the farm going. She was a no-nonsense type of gal, but never skimped on giving out hugs to us grandchildren. Neither was she shy about disciplining us when the need arose. To me, Gram is homecooked food, warm hugs, and warnings to be careful. Spending summers at Gram and Pap's house meant days spent on the big tree swing or catching crayfish in the creek (where we spread Mom's ashes in 2004), teasing the bulls and then running for our lives and, at all times, keeping an eye out for rattlesnakes and copperheads.

Summer evenings meant chasing fireflies and fighting, at bedtime, over who's turn it was to sleep in the always-coveted "squeaky bed." As an adult, it would drive me mad to sleep in that bed that made noise with every toss and turn. But as a child, it was the all-around favorite, and with 6 of us (3 cousins, my brother, sister, and I), it was a never-ending point of consternation. I like to believe we resolved the conflict by taking turns, but that probably didn't happen. Sis and Chrissy (my older sister and same-age cousin) were rather brutal when it came to getting what they wanted, and their take-no-prisoners attitude usually got them what they desired. I know I for one lived in fear of being the focus of their attention and did whatever was required of me to stay under their radar.

My pap died when I was just six years old, so my memories of him are few, yet vivid. I never heard Pap raise his voice, but he had total control over us kids. How'd he do that? A look? A gesture? I've no idea, but I never would have dreamed of disobeying Pap. My memories of him are all good...sitting on his lap in the pantry rocking chair and trading a kiss for a generous portion of rock candy, which he'd break up with a little silver mallet. The tin which stored that candy--and some magical memories--now sits on my own kitchen shelf. And if my house ever caught fire, it would be one of the first things I'd try to save.

I remember the last summer I had with Pap. He took my hand and said "Let's go for one last swing ride, Squirrel Cheeks," and up the hill we climbed. He pushed me higher than he'd ever dared that day, and I felt like I was flying. Underneath me ran a little side creek, and above me was nothin' but tree branches and bright blue sky, the kind that just begs you to try to touch it. I closed my eyes and leaned back on that old wood swing, legs stretched straight as possible, never fearful of falling because I knew Pap would catch me. I do believe he was the first (and last) adult I ever completely trusted not to hurt me. Did he know that would be our last swing ride together, or did his "last time" comment refer only to that summer? I'll never know, but when he got tired of pushing, he told me to "let the old cat die," which meant he wanted me not to pump my legs and keep the ride going. I did what I was told, but oh, how I did not want to let that swing ride end. With my butt firmly planted on that wide wood plank and my little dimpled fists closed tightly around the ropes, my world was perfect. Nothing could get to me on that swing, with Pap nearby. Life was always good there.

But the swing ride did end, as did Pap's life that following spring. Mom and Dad packed us into the station wagon and we set out to battle the forces of nature as we tried to make the long drive from Wisconsin to Pennsylvania to see him one last time before he died. I distinctly remember sometime during that trip Mom choking back her tears to tell Dad not to hurry any more, we were too late. And she was right. By the time we crossed the metal bridge that made a singsong sound, thereby earning from us the nickname "singing bridge," and which signalled we were entering our grandparent's tiny town, Pap had already drawn his last breath. I never saw him again, but his brief presence in my life captured a piece of my heart that will never belong to another.

My dad's parents were more cultured, refined. Distant somehow. His accountant father was rather cold, not one to show affection in any form I understood as a child. He spent most of his time in his corner bedroom, listening to the radio and reading. Always with a cigarette in his hand. Even his fingertips were stained yellow from the tobacco. I liked lying on his cool bed in that damp room, listening to the bugs outside his window. Mostly I liked interrupting his solitude because it was really the only time he paid attention to me. I'd ask questions I really didn't care to know the answers to, just to make him acknowledge me. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly energetic, he'd toss the Frisbee with me. But that was the extent of our relationship. I wasn't sad when he died; I barely knew him. I don't know if anyone really knew that man.

His wife, a music teacher, was also rather reserved. I didn't come to appreciate the kind of woman she was until I was grown. To my child's mind, this gram was strict. Her home was more like a place grownups would want to hang out. I really couldn't relate to her much as a kid. I remember finding a bottle of witch hazel in our linen closet once and asked Mom what it was. When she told me, I replied with "Oh, Gram Shafer must use that." It was the word "witch" that made me connect it to her, though she wasn't mean in any sense of the word. She was just serious.

As I matured, I realized just how valuable my relationship with Gram was. She was directly responsible for developing my love of books and reading, as it was she who paid for subscription to a book club. Miraculously, hardcover books would appear in our mailbox each month, and at 42, I can still remember some of them. I believe it was Gram who bought the piano I've been playing for 38 years, and which sits in my living room, much worse for the wear. Gram was the one who informed me I was born with a gift, that perfect pitch and the ability to sing was not something one could acquire through practice. Time spent at her house nurtured in me an appreciation of symphonies and world travel...National Geographic and the nightly news. Tom Brokaw was as much a part of my childhood summers as back porch rockers, and I got something from my time at that house that I still value with my entire being: a love of solitude. Thanks to Gram and her home, I grew up loving time spent by myself, and to this day, I'm not afraid to be alone with nothing but my thoughts. In fact, I crave solitude, something I consider a luxury in a family of six.

And so I realize I had the best of both worlds when it came to grandparents. One set gave me the gift of hands-on love, hugs, nighttime baths and the joy of unsupervised adventures with cousins. The other encouraged my natural affinity for music and reading, and nurtured a love of learning for no other purpose than simply to know and be aware. I would not be who I am without all these people, and I am forever grateful.

Three of those four people are gone from me now; one lives in a hospice. Some days, she doesn't know her own daughter, who visits her daily and brings her two bite-sized York Peppermint Patties each time. "Oh, I haven't had one of these in years," Gram says, though she had two just yesterday. Gram sees her other daughter, my mom, waiting for her "across the river." I imagine they'll see one another again soon, though women in my family tend to live a long time, so perhaps not. Gram is 98; my other gram's sister is 101. Apparently, they've still got stuff they need to tend to.

Old people amaze me; I hope to be one someday. Then I can eat York Peppermint Patties everyday, too.

2007-01-19T12:28:00.000-07:00

T-t-t-talkin' 'bout Their Generation; Where Was Everybody?

Windsor parents were invited to attend an informational meeting this past Monday at the high school to learn about the drug program that is going to be implemented at the high school this April.

Windsor, the town whose parents are supposedly so supportive of and concerned about their kids...14 people including myself showed up to hear the presentation. One of us was a newspaper reporter. Another was the minutes-taker. What an impressive showing that was.

I understand that even if you have just one student in the school district, it can be difficult to attend all the meetings every month. With trying to juggle a non-traditional work schedule, Wes' weekly 4-hour class, and multiple activities of my own four kids, I rarely get to attend meetings, even those I want to. But given that Windsor High was recently singled out for its higher-than-average drug and alcohol abuse problem, I naively believed more parents would show up at this meeting that took all of one hour of my time. The turnout was disappointing, to say the least.

I don't think this program (called "Every 15 Minutes") will solve the town's teenage substance abuse problems, but I do believe it's a fantastic starting point that's going to have a strong impact on all students, not just those who perhaps need it the most. If you're interested, check it out at http://every15minutes.com/photos/index.html (copy and paste the URL into your browser). We've been asked, though, not to share details with students, as their knowledge of what will happen beforehand would definitely lessen the impact of the program.

I applaud the high school and the district for moving forward with this bold program. But I can't help feeling nagged by the staggeringly low interest shown on behalf of parents as indicated by the poor attendance at the meeting. Are there really parents out there who tell themselves that their child would never drink or drug, so they don't need to concern themselves with this issue? I struggle with the idea that anyone might be that naivé in this day and age. I pray every day that my kids steer clear of the path that will lead them in that direction, but I don't kid myself: I know not one of them is immune to curiosity. And having been a teen myself decades ago, I know that curiosity, innocent as it may be, can be the first step on the path to self-destruction. I'm fortunate to have taken the road less travelled, but I had friends and family who didn't. It can happen to anyone.

I do so hope parents of all kids will take an active role in this community's efforts to stem the tide of alcohol and drug abuse among our youth. Everyone can do something, even if it's as small as sitting down and talking with our children. Please forward this column to anyone you believe needs to read it.

I don't understand the concept of doing nothing, especially where our children are involved.

2007-01-12T08:50:00.000-07:00

Trying to Figure It All Out

I have wanted to sit down at this computer and write a column for over a week now. Yet every attempt failed. My brain simply feels overloaded, my sensory perception on cruise control. Whereas usually life feels like a road trip, with stops and adventures along the way, lately it feels like abstract art, with fragments of events and even thoughts thrown together randomly, often overlapping and eclipsing each other.

I turned 42 this past Monday. I love birthdays, even though (because?) they mean I'm older. I just don't care much about age. I woke up feeling good, checked for new wrinkles and found only the same old familiar ones. Still have all my real teeth, and my hair hasn't begun to fall out, though underneath, I've got a nice little nest of gray which I have no intention of hiding. So really, all was right with the world.

But by the end of the day, I was in tears, which is not like me. I was hit by the revelation (and yes, I should have realized this already) that as I age, so too are my kids. And one in particular is pulling away from me. And it hurts, even though I know it's necessary. Here and there since the summer, I've encountered those small but intense moments of clarity to acknowledge that Max no longer prefers his family to his friends. He practically lives in the basement and believes that a day spent down there is still a day spent with family, though he speaks to no one.

And while I know this is what is supposed to happen in a healthy family, it still sucks. I use that juvenile word because sometimes, I find myself reverting to juvenile reactions to his growth. I get mad. I pout. I feel like making him suffer. Thankfully, I haven't lived for 15,288-plus days for nothing, and my actual reaction and response are more mature. Most of the time.

I suppose the most difficult facet of this step toward independence is that Max and I have always been particularly close. And I don't really have a standard against which to measure what is usual behavior. My brother was the eldest of the three siblings, and a wild child. He hit my mom, punched holes in the walls, rebelled against parental authority in every way imaginable. And had a mouth on him that was more lethal than any weapon. That has been my experience with teen boys and their mothers. So I read a lot...books that help you understand kids at all stages of development. I talk to other moms who have grown sons and listen to their stories. And I pray each night for strength and wisdom to figure out how to be the mom my kids need me to be. But holy cow, these days of grunts-for-answers and rolling eyeballs seem endless.

On top of that, it often feels to me that I'm raising kids in a world that has lost its way. We have a serious drug problem at the high school, and that's where one of my children spends the bulk of his weekdays. That doesn't sit well with me. In one of Max's classes, an activity revealed that about half the students in class are allowed to drink alcohol. Their parents have no problem with it. They allow it. Condone it. Does it not matter to anyone that these kids are underage, that the earlier one starts drinking, the more likely s/he is to develop a drinking problem? We ask ourselves "How can we reach these kids?" But it's not the kids who need educating, it's the parents. And they simply don't care. And here I am, holding on to the hope and expectation that my kid won't lose his common sense and join the party.

But even smaller issues play a major role in influencing our kids. Max has a good friend (who, for the record, I like) who is incredibly disrespectful in the way he talks to his mom. I've even told this kid that the way he speaks to her is not only unkind, but ugly. She and I have talked about it. Her take on it? Well, if that's the worst thing he does, I consider myself lucky. I thought about this, and while I understand what she's saying, I can't say I agree. I don't believe a parent must accept a lesser evil in the hopes of warding off a greater one. If Max talked to me like this kid does on a consistent basis, there would surely be consequences. I get that shooting off one's mouth is a normal part of adolescence, and I make room for that, but it could never become a usual means of communication between my kids and me. And I hold them to that expectation at school and everywhere else as well.

So on top of being pushed aside in Max's quest for independence, I feel the daily struggle of trying to instill values in my children that seem to be losing ground in this society. Respect. Decency. Honesty. A sense of right and wrong. I sometimes recall that when I decided to become a parent, my picture of what a parent is and does was vastly different from the reality of parenting. Call it naiveté, ignorance, whatever. All I know is that when I thought about my own mom and what she filled her days with, I was sure I could do the same, no problem. Of course, that was from the perspective of a daughter, which limited my insight and understanding.

But truly, I think being a parent today is much harder than it was even three decades ago. I suppose every generation thinks that. But if Max's classroom activity is indicative of society in general, we now live in a world where a significant portion of parents have given up their right to hold their kids to higher standards. Teachers are now held accountable for students' behavior and lack of, well, anything.

As I read what I've written here, I realize that even my writing feels disjointed. My thoughts jump from one thing to another, and while I can see how everything is related, I don't know if I can explain it coherently. What I know is this: I miss my kid and he lives right here in the house with me. I hate that he spends so much time in a place that is really just a microcosm of the world at large, from which I cannot protect him but against which I hope I've given him the tools to make good decisions. And when he doesn't, I hope I've instilled in him a sense of self-worth that allows him to pick himself up and move on, bruised but not beaten.

But I don't know if I've done this. And if I survive my first child's adolescence, I've got three more to navigate down the road. And absolutely no idea what to expect, because two of those adolescents will be girls.

And one of them will be Bella.

2006-12-22T11:01:00.000-07:00

Christmas = Hare Krishnas; or, How I Spent December 24th Many Years Ago

Snow! Glorious snow! Christmas of 2006 will definitely be white one for those of us who got hit with the blizzard. I just finished reading a news article about how thousands of airline passengers are stuck at the airport in Denver. My own dad and his wife have extended their stay in Mexico because they can't get a flight into Denver. Stuck in Mexico...could be worse fates, I think.

But thinking of all those people longing to get home to their loved ones by Monday reminds me of a Christmas Eve many years ago when I was stranded in an airport due to inclement weather. I was young...was I even 20? I've traveled a lot...years blur and in the end, don't matter anyway. What I remember most is feeling depressed at the prospect of spending the holiday without my family or boyfriend, who was in the Marines (and still is, actually) and had gotten leave so we could spend a few precious days together. Sigh. He was waiting for me on the other end of my itinerary, flowers in hand. He ended up giving them to an old lady and making her day.

I, on the other hand, tried to get comfortable on the floor since it was quite clear I would be spending the night. I must have dozed off, because when I awoke, I was looking up into a sea of orange. Now, of all people I might have found myself in the company of that cold and snowy December 24th, the last I expected were Hare Krishnas. But there they were, looking at me with as much interest as I'm sure I was looking back at them with. The first thought that popped into my head was "I wish Sis was with me." My sister and I would have laughed hysterically at the absurdity of the situation. And that mere thought of her sharing my experience made me start laughing out loud. I'm sure that did wonders in terms of what these bald, orange-robed men thought of me. Yeah, this was going to be quite a Christmas Eve.

I smiled awkwardly up at them and arose to choose a seat near the giant window so that I could watch the snow. I've always been mesmerized by falling snow. As a child in Wisconsin, I saw my fair share of blizzards. And I remember Dad making fun of me because I always wanted to camp out in the living room on the night of a snowfall so that I'd be closer to the snow. You and I know that idea is silly, but to my child's brain, I was that many steps closer to my snowsuit, hat, mittens, scarf, and parka in the morning. I would leave my brother and sister in the dust.

As I sat watching those fat flakes float to the ground, I managed to forget where I was. And I began to sing. I do that a lot, too. Bored? I sing. Happy? Sing. Sad? Sing. I remember events in my life by songs that were popular at the time, or ones I just really liked. So there I sat, one young lonely girl amidst a rather large group of Hare Krishnas. The only thing we had in common was that we wanted to be somewhere else.

I don't remember what Christmas carol I was singing when I realized my voice had been joined by several others. In harmony! I thought all Hare Krishnas did was chant, but boy, was I wrong. Those guys could sing, and they weren't bashful about it. Pretty soon, other stranded travelers joined us in song, and it was truly like a scene from a movie. None of us wanted to be where we were, yet the spirit of the season would not let us down. We joined together that evening and let the music be our bond.

I can't tell you how long our singing went on, but there are a lot of Christmas carols, and between us, we knew them all. And I distinctly remember the feeling of loss and disappointment leave me. For a while, I was actually happy to be where I was: in a cold airport with bald dudes draped in orange robes and hundreds of other people I'd never see again.

Not a Christmas goes by that I don't remember that experience. However long it lasted, its feeling of fellowship and human kindness has stayed with me for decades, and I can't help but smile whenever I recall the memory. It warms my heart and reminds me that we choose our paths for reasons both obvious and unknown, but what we choose to make of our situation is up to us.

I've sung on television. I've sung in front of live audiences on stages across the country. I've sung to my children, and I sang to my mom as I scattered her ashes two years ago. But never have I been so thankful for my voice as I was that Christmas Eve so long ago.

May this holiday season bring you your own special memories.

2006-12-15T09:34:00.000-07:00

Honoring Tina
For reasons unbeknownst to me, I've been thinking a lot about a little girl I once knew back in my early childhood in Wisconsin. Tina was the youngest of four daughters, the eldest of whom had died before I ever knew them. I was friends with Sandy, the sister who was a year or two older than me. And I knew Suzy, who was already grown (at least in my eyes, she was; could be she was only in high school, but I think she was older than that). At any rate, though Sandy was technically my friend, it is little Tina who fills my memories.

Tina was several years younger than I. Mostly I played with her because she was Sandy's little sister, and our moms made us play with her. I remember feeling most days rather ambivalent toward Tina. I found her annoying (much as Tavi finds Bella, Tucker finds Tavi, and Max finds Tuck). She cried a lot. She tattled on the littlest things and didn't even have the decency to try to hide the delight our punishments provided. She tagged along when we did not want to have that third wheel. Often, she played with us when Sandy wasn't even around, and I was playing with my good pal Bridget. Tina was still there.

And yet, even during those tender elementary school years, I felt an enormous amount of compassion for Tina. As mad as I would get at her, the feeling was never as intense as my pity. Looking back with the wisdom, however slight, I've gained over the past 3 decades, I realize now that a primary reason I resented playing with Tina is that hours spent with her were sorrowful. Being with Tina made me sad, and there was enough sadness inside my own home to deal with. I didn't want more. Yet more is what I got.

Tina was dying since the day I met her.

She never made it out of childhood, but died shortly after Christmas and before her tenth birthday. Or could it be her ninth? Some of the years of my childhood are incredibly blurry; I lose track of dates and times. Doesn't matter. Tina went into the hospital on Christmas day that year, and she was buried in a red and green plaid taffeta dress her mother had bought her as a gift and let her open on Christmas Eve. I didn't go to the funeral; Mom wouldn't let me. I wish she had. How I felt about it then, I don't remember. I do remember feeling horrendously guilty for all the things I could have done to make Tina's life a bit happier but didn't. I could have been kinder even when I didn't feel like it. I could have been more willing to share my Barbie dolls and their clothes. I could have done more. Always, there is more.

But I did sing to her, and we would sometimes spend hours playing LPs and 45s on my plastic record player. She loved music and had no one to share that passion with. I loved it too, and was always happy to turn her on to new musicians. A few years before Tina's kidney disease claimed her life, I took her up into my pink bedroom to play her a song I had fallen in love with, the Carpenter's hit release "Top of the World." It's a catchy, upbeat tune. Tina immediately fell in love with it too. Whenever we played together from that point on, she asked me to sing it to her. And that much, I did.

One day we were playing, and after singing her that much-requested song, she put her warm little hand (TIna was always, always warm) on my arm, paused her play, and said, "Make sure they play that at my funeral." All those years ago, and the memory of this moment still makes me cry. Perhaps she knew hers would not be a long life. I like to think she didn't, but really, she probably did.

I gave Tina that 45 record that day. She knew I loved it; I knew she loved it more. I told her to put it in a safe place so that when the time came, I would know where to find it. And after she died, I talked with her mom. I didn't really like the woman. She yelled a lot, seemed indifferent to Tina and her fate. I remember once that she and her husband ate lobster for dinner but gave Tina and Sandy bologna sandwiches. All the years I knew them, and that is what I remember most clearly. It made me so sad. It still does.

I realize now that Tina's mom was probably doing the best she could. She had already buried one daughter and knew that the early death of her baby was imminent. She didn't really live, I don't think. She coped. And since anger is the easiest emotion to resort to, that's what she lived with, what they all lived with.

Anyway, I told Tina's mom that Tina wanted "Top of the World" to be played at her funeral. "Sing it to me," she said. So I did:

Such a feelin's comin' over me
There is wonder in most everything I see
Not a cloud in the sky, got the sun in my eyes
And I won't be surprised if it's a dream

Everything I want the world to be
Is now comin' true, especially for me
And the reason is clear, it's because you are near
You're the nearest thing to heaven that I've seen

I'm on the top of the world
lookin' down on creation
and the only explanation I can find
Is the love that I've found
ever since you've been around
Your love's put me at the top of the world

Tina's mom cried. I did too. Tina got her wish. They played that song, along with "Seasons In the Sun," at her service. It was the perfect ending to a less-than-perfect life.

When I look back on Tina and my reluctant friendship with her, I see now that we served a purpose for one another. Though loving her brought sadness, our friendship was a gift to me because it gave me someone to take care of, to think of and take my mind off my own tribulations, of which there were plenty. And by showing her love, even if I did so grudgingly at times, I gave Tina a place of security and happiness that she could not find in her own family, who suffered alongside her day after day.

So it is nearly Christmas, and Tina lives on in my heart. Writing this helped me remember, honor her. My tears, well, they'll always be there. But as an adult, thoughts of Tina conjure up the final verse to her favorite song:

There is only one wish on my mind
When this day is through I hope that I will find
That tomorrow will be just the same for you and me
All I need will be mine if you are near

Spend some time remembering...the Front Porch will return the first week of January. Thanks so much for sticking with me through a year of change and evolution.

2006-12-08T09:33:00.000-07:00

Keeping It Real

As I sit here at the kitchen table, steaming mug of coffee to my left, glorious Christmas tree to my right, I hear a rattling sound. I turn in the direction from which it's coming, and all I can figure is that my Deep Rock water supply is thawing and making wierd noises. Sometimes the cooler "talks" and startles me. It always happens at night, when the kids are in bed and all is quiet. From the dark recesses of the kitchen, buzzing.

But that's not what I'm hearing right now. It's as if someone is knocking on the walls of my house. And then I realize--someone is! I had poured birdseed into a wall-mounted feeder earlier this week, and if I turn my head and glance out to the back patio, I see birds everywhere. They've found my treat for them. Some are fluttering their wings madly, attempting to get every last morsel from the feeder.

There's nothing unusual about birds feeding in people's backyards. Nothing at all. But at this particular moment, hearing and seeing them is a gift, a reminder. Just last night, I sat in my big purple chair, feeling overwhelmed. Amidst the hustle and bustle of buying gifts, wrapping boxes to mail, writing and mailing holiday cards, caring for sick kids, listening (grudgingly) to their complaints about whatever, planning and fixing dinner, talking with Max for the umpteenth time about why settling for less when doing more with minimal effort is not an admirable quality, and trying to find enough hours in the day to work at my job so that I can feed my family, a sort of gentle melancholy overcame me. A few moments of solace, just me and my art supply catalog (when I die, someone is going to inherit an amazing collection of art supplies and pens), and I was able to get up and face the world again, which at that time, translated into giving Bella a bath.

But when I awoke this morning, I still felt somehow less than. Than what, I can't say. I got the kids ready for school, and here I sit. And then came the birds. And I realized what I was missing were those moments that present themselves on any given day, those where I notice the world around me. I like getting glimpses into lives that don't include me, but which surround me. Like when I notice the light of a winter's day. I love light on snow, the way it makes me feel, as if all is right with the world. It's a different light than the one in summer, and one I infinitely prefer for its softness, its glow. Or when I get to witness one of those rare moments when Bella is still, as she is when she's drawing a masterpiece to put into my Christmas stocking. Her face is one of intense concentration, and when her task is completed, the sparkle in her eyes is brighter than the Hope Diamond. Or when I'm in the car, listening to NPR, and a song is playing that I don't know but absolutely must hear through to the end. Unless I'm on a schedule, I'll pull over somewhere just to listen.

Those quiet moments are what I treasure, and lately, life's just been moving so fast that those moments are passing me by, unnoticed. Until the birds. In the short time it's taken me to write this, they've emptied the feeder and moved on. But I'll fill it up again, make some suet as my little holiday gift to them. And tonight as I sit in the darkened family room, enjoying our beautiful Christmas tree, I'm going to squint my eyes as I admire the lights. I did that as a little girl, and the way the lights became extra-twinkly is one of my favorite memories. Crossing my eyes also distorts the little lights, but I don't like to do that because even though I know better, I still hear Mom warning, "They'll stay like that!" So I just squint.

I hope you find some of your own squinty moments during this busy holiday season.

2006-12-01T08:35:00.000-07:00

Discipline Policy Too Strict? Seems Not

Last July, I wrote a column that hit a nerve with our illustrious school board and certain members of our community whose teenage boys vandalized the high school but then managed to dodge the punishment of expulsion. That punishment was in keeping with school district policy and was supported by the high school principal as well as the interim superintendent and others. In that column, I voiced my opinion of what went down in that situation: The parent of one of those boys is an influential and wealthy developer here in Windsor, and he used his clout and power to see to it that his son did not have to (fairly) pay for his crime. And of course, he generously used that same clout to give the other boys the same treatment because otherwise, what would that look like? It was ugly. It was unjust. It was corrupt. And I still maintain that this is what happened.

School board member Cathy Norris wrote a letter to the Windsor Beacon in response to my column (glad to know she's reading!), singing the praises of our present school board, upon which sits no member I can remember actually being elected. After my column was published, my editor called, telling me he was "really taking some heat" for my column, which he read and edited before publishing. He made it clear that he did not agree with my stance (big shocker), that I had to understand that the district discipline policies were written post-9/11, and so were considered too strict and reactionary by some. I heard this argument from one other person, someone near and dear to the situation. I didn't buy it then, and I don't buy it now. And a recent Beacon article seems to reinforce my doubts.

The 11/25 article, titled "Severity of Discipline Policy Questioned" and written by Megs Burd, indicated that a task force met with community members, educators, and parents, and "found many positive things in the district's policies as well as some that needed some strengthening." What "strengthening" means, I can't say. Burd didn't elaborate. Superintendent Karen Trusler was quoted as saying, "They do affirm our present policies. We have policies in place that are good for our kids."

Burd's article goes on to state that the task force felt "certain policies or disciplinary measures could be firmed up." Again, who knows what "firmed up" means. Members also support the superintendent's discretion in dealing with individual cases. Our interim superintendent did just that with the vandalism case, and she supported the original sentence of expulsion. Odd then, don't you think, that those boys are back in school? What's the point of case-by-case consideration if the superintendent doesn't have the final say?

What I noticed completely lacking in the article is any reference to our discipline policies being too strict or reactionary. Since the last board meeting, three expulsion cases have occurred. Did any of those kids' parents manage (or even try?) to get their students' punishment revoked? Or did they comprehend that when their kid breaks a rule for which there is a clear and formally stated consequence, said consequence is meted out, regardless of who they are? I like to think that in this age of permissiveness, lazy parenting, and privileged kids who have an overblown sense of entitlement that comes directly from their own folks, there are still adults in positions of authority who believe that rules are rules and should be followed. Period. No excuses, no exceptions.

Alas, I don't see any of those adults on this school board. Members are concerned, rather, about insuring those expelled students get some form of education. For crying out loud, where the hell does this end? Isn't there already a school in Greeley for expelled students to attend? Why is our district spending time and money on researching alternatives? This is like sending a child to her room but going to great pains to be sure that rooms has cable TV, a stocked fridge, and all the toys she could want. Perhaps knowledgeable professionals could be on hand to act as educational consultants, but give the responsibility of the legwork to the parents of these students who gave up their right to attend our schools when they made bad choices.

But since our district can't seem to manage enforcing the policies as they are clearly stated in the handbook, I guess it's too much to expect them to take a hardline approach to anything else. Discipline among students at the middle and high school levels is a serious problem in Windsor. But what do teachers and educators have to rely on when they can't even have the security of knowing their administration backs them up? How can they discipline rowdy, disrespectful, rule-breaking, foul-mouthed, apathetic, violent students when their superiors don't have their backs? That kind of support should be a given, yet such is not the case in Windsor RE-4. And until we get some people sitting on that board who aren't afraid to incur the wrath of certain parents or community members in the name of justice and fair play, it ain't ever gonna be how things work around here.

I don't think the problem lies in the severity of our discipline policies, and given that the task force affirms them, I'd say I'm not alone in my assessment. The problem lies in having a school board that refuses to consistently enforce those policies for everyone, but chooses instead to let someone outside the realm of school authority dictate what will happen. The problem lies in not realizing the limits of an entity's responsibility. Expel a kid and then give him his own special classroom? Come on.

This district needs some real leadership, the kind that lays down the law and then abides by it. What are policies for if not enforcement? The Beacon hails the school board for scrutinizing its discipline policies; I'd join in the accolades if I believed any real change would come of such an effort. But I think we're going to see more of the same. And down the road, lame excuses will be made, policies won't be followed, and we'll still hear unending (and justified) complaints of discipline issues from our teachers.

I called it right back in July.

2006-11-16T20:31:00.000-07:00

Table talk

This family is not fun to be with.

The pilgrims didn't have many chairs, and if there was one, the dad sat in it because he was the head of the house.

We're an abnormal family because you are so involved in your kids' lives.

The pilgrims signed a peace treaty with the Native Americans. That means their team wouldn't fight with the other team.

There are too many people in our family.

The pilgrims were cold and hungry. Half of them died. Half of them didn't.

Can I just live in the basement?

Thus went dinner conversation around the Valentine/Godfrey table for the past couple nights. In less time than it took to prepare the meals, eat them, and clean up afterwards, my kids have pushed me to the brink of insanity with all this talk of pilgrims and teen angst. I can't take any more.

Bella came out of her kindergarten class with a gaggle of other girls, all of them resembling the Flying Nun (remember her?). It took her pathetically slow mother a moment to realize she wasn't wearing one of those nun hats, but a female pilgrim's bonnet. Why didn't I know that? She and Tavi both have obviously been learning about the first Thanksgiving (no turkey served), and they remember every detail of the lesson. Every. single. freakin'. detail. I tuned out when Bella explained that the pilgrims brought over only a little food, some horsetooth (what the????), and some other completely made-up concoction. She lost me at that juncture, and from then on, I heard only bits and pieces. But that was okay, because she REPEATED EVERYTHING at tonight's dinner, for my listening pleasure.

Max cannot stand being around us anymore these days. I figured the day was coming, and I have basically been relegated to the role of cook (his loss), chauffeur, and maid. I don't like this one bit. According to him, I ruined his life by giving him siblings whose sole purpose is to mess with his serenity. What was I thinking? And do I really expect him to take time away from listening to his iPod, playing guitar, and sending text messages to actually talk with me? Didn't he do that long enough...14 years, to be exact? Sigh.

I want to slap him, or at least push him into the wall. I don't do either. And I know as a mom, I'm not supposed to even admit I have thoughts like that. But I do. Fleeting visualizations of minor violence purported against my children don't negate the overwhelming love I have for them. It's just a coping mechanism, and one I've come to rely on when times are, well, challenging.

But for all the frustration I've had lately as a parent, as Thanksgiving approaches and I give serious thought to all that I am thankful for, my kids top the list. They always have; I imagine they always will. In the past almost-11 months, I've made some major strides in my life. I managed to get to a place of comfort and peace regarding the death of my mom and my son. It came when I least expected it, and my life was forever changed. I wrote a 3-volume reference set on American history. It was a major assignment, and one that I was pleased to get, proud to finish. It will be published next month...a major milestone for me. I've written several books, but this was the first with my name on it. I can't wait to hold those books in my hands.

And there were several smaller ah-ha moments for me in 2006. It's been a good year. But when the day is done and I'm lying in bed, reflecting on what the past 24 hours have put in my path, I always return to my family. My kids. They are my motivation, my pride. Sometimes my shame and sadness. They amuse me, confuse me, bring me to my knees in wonder. They are the reason I yell, laugh, cry, worry, celebrate, breathe. They are what makes this life bountiful and breathtaking.

So when Wes and I sit at that chaotic dinner table and wish we were in Mexico, lying on the beach, just the two of us, I feel a glimmer of guilt because I really don't want the kids there in my fantasy. I want an umbrella drink that is so cold it burns my chest when I swallow. Something with an exotic name, that smells like suntan lotion and makes me smile even as the glass freezes itself to the palm of my hand.

But that fantasy is as much a blessing as anything else; it has great value. Maybe one day we'll get back to our beloved Isla Mujeres. In the meantime, we take deep breaths, eat as fast as possible, and try to escape the pilgrims and the angst.

Happy Thanksgiving to you. May you find yourself many ways in which to feel thankful.

2006-11-01T13:07:00.000-07:00

What Do You Believe?

I love the public library. Not just the one in Windsor, but every public library I've ever walked into. Some are admittedly nicer than others. But it isn't the building or the layout I enjoy; it's the smell, the atmosphere, the hordes of books and CDs and audio books and movies and magazines that surround me. When the world ends, I want to be in a public library.

I usually go to the library armed with a list of books I want to read. My "Books to Read Before I Die" list is a pipe dream, really. I know I'll never have the time to read every book on my list, or the ones that will one day appear there. Still, I like my list. It's long. It's comforting. And I can add and delete book titles for any reason I like, or no reason at all. My book list is my little effort at rebellion.

On my way to the checkout line at a library recently, I spotted a book I'd never heard of. "This I Believe" was published this year in association with National Public Radio (NPR). The subtitle is "The Personal Philosophies of Remarkable Men and Women." The intriguing title, along with NPR's endorsement, led me to do what I tell my kids not to do: check out the book without even opening the cover to see if I'll like it. I knew I'd like it.

I don't like this book. I cannot get through it because every brief essay gives me reason to pause and think. No, that's not the right word. I ruminate. Perhaps contemplate. Evaluate. Brood. Cogitate. Mull over. Ponder. Reflect. Consider. Examine. But most of all, I appreciate. This book I keep reading and yet don't seem to progress through is an amazing compendium of thoughts belonging to people both famous and non. It speaks to me in a quiet way that demands my attention. And long after I've read one of the short entries, I find myself thinking about it. No, I don't like this book. I love it.

What I most enjoy about this book is that its subjects range from important topics such as God, compassion, and attitude to the seemingly more insignificant subjects, including happiness, Barbie dolls, and indecisiveness. People--most of them not writers--were given the prompt "This I Believe," and they had as much freedom of expression as could fit into a few hundred words. What they've done with those words astonishes me.

In my recent years as a weekly columnist, I have been both criticized and praised for writing about everything and nothing. What one person considers inconsequential and not worth writing about, another deems life-altering. What a reader might disregard as too personal to put into print, another finds permission, allowance to feel for herself, and there is a resulting communion. Writing is an intensely personal pursuit, regardless of subject. And that's what I find invaluable in this book. These people had something to say, and they said it, condemnation be damned.

I may have my own opinions and personal philosophies, and you know I've never hesitated to share them. But they're not all etched in stone; they are, as am I, constantly shifting and evolving, and my philosophies reflect that growth. "This I Believe" is written by "remarkable" people, according to the title. We tend to think of that adjective as one meaning "outstanding" or "unusual." But really, it just means "worth remarking upon." One need not be larger than life, exceptional, or amazing to be remarkable. Despite the resolute title, not all the essayists know what they believe. They reserve the right to be "wobbly," as one man puts it. And while I'm not a middle-of-the-road type of gal (you get hit by traffic from both directions if you stand there too long), I can understand not always having a firm belief in something one way or the other.

At any rate, this book is a keeper. I think the personal value of any literature can be directly linked to the time in which it is written as well as to the circumstances under which it is read. In these days of endless war, political gaffes up the wazoo, economic hardships and a general lack of (what I believe is) intelligent leadership on multiple levels, I find the simplicity and direct honesty of the messages that lie between the two covers of this book to be uplifting and inspirational. They feed my soul as surely as food nourishes my body, and I hope you'll pick up a copy and give it a try. Prepare to have your own beliefs challenged as well as echoed, and perhaps allow yourself to be nudged outside your comfort zone if the opportunity presents itself.

We are, after all, each of us remarkable, if imperfect, in our own way. And if nothing else, we each have something to offer, even (especially?) to those who may not realize it.

2006-10-28T06:31:00.000-06:00

How Can Anyone Not Vote?

This is my least favorite time of year, for several reasons. I'm no fan of Halloween, but not for reasons that stem from religious beliefs or anything like that. Halloween conjurs up childhood memories of the holiday, and they almost always ended in tears as my brother and his evil henchmen friends took joy in smashing my jack-o-lanterns. Sounds silly now, I know. But I never understood why he found delight in destruction, especially of something I made. I feign enthusiasm each year, though, because my kids love this holiday and the creepiness of it. We decorate, dress up, gorge. In the end, it's all good.

This is also the beginning of the season of loss for me, and I'd know it was upon me even without the convenience of a calendar. I lost my son and my mother in the month of November and well, there's really nothing more to say about it. Words are powerful, sometimes as much for what they cannot say as for what they express.

And ads. Politically oriented ads, automated phone calls, and commercials have me insane with disgust. These mudslinging campaigns are tiresome; they bring out the worst in all candidates, regardless of platform. By the time Election Day rolls around, I don't like any of my options. That ugly nature of politics today makes it nearly impossible for anyone to run a clean campaign that focuses on a candidate's positive aspects. To do so is certain death. Instead, they spend hundreds of thousands of dollars exaggerating and flat-out lying about their opponents' past while simultaneously trying to defend their own. It's up to us voters to do our own research and sort the truth from the garbage. It requires time most of us don't have and effort we don't feel like putting forth.

And yet the option is unthinkable: Believe what each candidate has to say about the other and take their remarks at face value. Yeah, I don't think so. And as fed up as I get every year (and admittedly, have remained throughout the entire Bush administration), I wouldn't even so much as entertain the idea of not voting. To vote is to express hope for something better, brighter, more representative of our interests and needs. It is a simple gesture that holds great meaning, a ritual that, in and of itself, is motivated by a desire for something much greater than ourselves. To vote is to believe.

And yet, not everyone who can, votes. Voting has never been easier or more convenient. Do it early. Do it while you're away. Do it on Election Day. Doesn't matter how or when you do it, just that you do it. When someone tells me s/he doesn't vote, it's all I can do not to slap the mouth that uttered those dirty words. I can't understand why anyone would give away one of the few powers we as individual Americans have left to wield. Especially women. In 1776, Abigail Adams reminded her esteemed husband to "Remember the Ladies" as he and his cronies worked on developing the Declaration of Independence. He blew her off by telling her the Declaration specifically stated that all "men" are created equal.

Throughout most of the following century, woman was forced to conform to a society that inducted her into the Cult of Domesticity. Her role was that of nurturer, housewife, upholder of family morality. Forget her own ambitions and desires, and God forbid she use that brain of hers. I surely would have been in prison on First Degree Murder had I lived in the 1800s. Lizzie Borden and her ax would have had nothin' on me.

The struggle for women's suffrage continued into the twentieth century, and it wasn't until 1920 that the Nineteenth Amendment was added to the Constitution. It took more than one hundred years of struggle, sacrifice, sweat, marginalization, ostracism, and sheer determination for women to enjoy the right to be heard. And yet there are those today who do not vote for one reason or another. To me, that is the epitome of hopelessness and defeat.

As long as there is breath running through me, I won't give up hope. As much as I abhor the negativity and ugliness of American political campaigns, I won't let that deter me from exercising my right (while I still have it) to have a say in who represents me. To neglect my duty as a voter would be to dishonor the struggle of the hundreds of thousands of women--and enlightened men--who allowed me this voice. If I don't vote, I have no right to complain or dissent or engage in civil disobedience. Where would that leave me?

I tried the Cult of Domesticity; doesn't work for me. And with all its flaws and foibles, the voting system we have in place beats the bunzolas off not having one at all. Miscounts, hanging chads, mysteriously misplaced ballots...there's definitely evil at work here, no doubt. Still. Hope is where it's at for me.

How about you?

2006-10-18T09:26:00.000-06:00

Playground games: The Latest Casualty

An elementary school in Massachusetts has banned tag, dodgeball, and touch football on the recess playground. According to the principal, this drastic measure was taken in an effort to keep children safe (and thereby, avoid lawsuits) and avoid "inappropriate touching."

I want to say something about this, but the sheer absurdity of the situation leaves my fingers paralyzed. (It took me 3 minutes to type that sentence, and I'm not kidding.) My mind reels at the idea that society has sunk to such an all-time low that school administration is willing--and feels the need--to revoke one of the few carefree childhood activities our kids are still allowed to enjoy: chase games.

While a first-grader, I participated in a version of tag called Boys Chase the Girls at nearly every recess. We all played together...kids from my neighborhood, kids from across the highway, kids from other classes. These were kids whose families I knew, whose faults I was well aware of and loved anyway. They were my friends. One sunshine-filled winter day, the kind where ice covers the tree branches and ground and the air is so cold it burns to breathe, we were running wild around the playground. It was how we got our wigglies out, expended that excess energy that drove our teachers mad in the classroom. We were Wisconsin children; freezing temperatures and icy conditions didn't slow us down. That playground was our domain, and we took advantage of it.

In the midst of our game of tag, the bell rang, signaling it was time to channel our chi, calm down, and get in line to retreat to the confines of the school building. I abruptly stopped running, unaware that my little pal, Joey Messenger, was hot on my trail and had not heard the bell. Upon seeing me stop, Joey seized the chance to tag me. Only what would have normally been a gentle shove morphed into a serious body slam, and I hit the ground, face first.

The pain blinded me, and when I was able to sit up, Joey began screaming at the sight of blood gushing from somewhere on my face. It turned my new, white mittens scarlet, and in that innocent way kids do, I was more concerned with ruining my pretty Christmas gift mittens than I was with the sensation that I was chewing on gravel.

Turns out I was chewing gravel. That collision tore my mouth up and caused my right eye tooth to slice completely through my upper lip. That tooth was literally sticking out through my top lip. And if you've ever seen or experienced a mouth injury, you know how profusely they bleed. Poor Joey stood by, sobbing and apologizing. I didn't want to hug my friend and get him bloody. But I remember telling him through my dazed tears that it was okay, I'd be fine.

I managed to hang on until my mom arrived to whisk me to the doctor's office. Clearly, I was a mess, because when she saw me, her eyes grew wild and her mouth fell open. But what really signalled the seriousness of the situation was her hair. Mom was in pink foam curlers, the kind you can sleep on. I can't stress enough how shocking this was. My mom never went anywhere without doing her hair, makeup, nails, and dressing nicely. I was always immensely proud of how she looked, despite the Marge Simpson hairstyle she favored. Mom was not a sloppy woman, so for her to show up in public looking like that, I knew I was in dire straits.

The injury required 3 stitches in my lip, but only after the doctor peeled it off my tooth, dug the gravel out of my gums and cheeks, and gave me anesthesia via a large needle through my lip. It was by far the worst accident of my childhood. I still bear the scar. Mom was pretty shook up, too. But I don't think it ever entered her mind to sue the school or Joey's folks. She understood what so many today seem to have forgotten: Sometimes things just happen.

But the point is, I survived the trauma, perhaps better than Joey did. Kids have accidents. They play hard, they sometimes suffer. I don't think this is a fact that translates into a problem needing a solution. If we want to keep our kids safe, how about keeping pedophiles locked up, revamping child protective services so that children don't die or suffer at the hands of their parents, or even simply having communities policed by local government employees for trash? I found last week, just outside our privacy fence, a used hypodermic needle as the kids and I were walking home from school. I've already told you how I often find used condoms, broken glass bottles, etc. on the journey to and from school. All of these pose serious health risks to our little people, and yet the problem remains.

I understand we live in litigous times. I get that some parents are off their rockers and punch each other out over grade-school sports, threaten teachers not to give their children failing grades (though they may be well deserved), and make spectacles of themselves in various and sundry ways. But haven't we taken enough away from our children already? Some of us allow them to sit in front of a TV screen for hours on end because at least that way they're not in our hair. We have no problem subjecting them to unceasing violence through the media. There are parents who willingly serve their minors alcohol while others choose to ignore the fact that their kids are sexually active. We are raising a generation of kids who have no sense of responsibility or accountability or even human decency. Shame has become taboo and a conscience is becoming nearly extinct. Seems to me we've forced our children to grow up way too fast as it is.

Do we really have the right to steal from them one more childhood activity? In a society that's increasingly lenient and unsupervised in ways it shouldn't be, and more strict and rule-oriented than it should be, what impact can such a limitation have on a population for whom days of innocence and simple fun grow shorter with each passing day?

Go to your local park, sit on a swing, and pump your legs until you're really high in the air. Then lean back and close your eyes and remember what it was like to be a kid. Let your stomach be tickled, your laughter escape as the wind blows your hair and brushes your face.

What you've got is simple joy. That is what will keep our kids safe.

2006-10-13T20:45:00.000-06:00

Let's Give God a Break

A twenty-year-old mother in North Carolina suffocated her 9-month-old twin boys on Wednesday because they were crying and she didn't feel well. Those babies were on the bed next to her when she murdered them. Then she rolled over and took a nap. Authorities found the body of one boy on the bed, the other on the floor. The mother has been arrested on two counts of homicide by child abuse.

So here we have the ruined lives of three people, not to mention other family members. Obviously (to me, anyway), this woman never should have become a mother. She was not equipped to deal with the harsher moments that go along with parenthood. I don't know a mom alive who hasn't had to deal with needy children when she herself did not feel well. I don't know one of them who killed her kids over it.

I don't know any further details of this story. But based on the few I've mentioned and some other pieces of information I've gleaned from news reports, I can imagine she was a single mother, low-income. Uneducated, unskilled, perhaps unemployed. No one ever explained to her the resources available to her and her children. No one paid any attention to her, at least not when she needed it most. And now two innocent lives have been snuffed out.

This is just one of hundreds of similar stories that unravel throughout this great nation every day. Maybe they don't all end the same. Instead of death, children suffer sexual and physical abuse, emotional neglect...to such an intense and irrevocable degree that they would rather die. But they don't die. So then they seek escape by turning to gangs, drugs, prostitution, self-mutilation...you get the picture.

I can't imagine a life like that. I hope my kids can't, either, though I would sometimes like them to understand that the life they have isn't unfair simply because I expect them to help with chores around the house and do what I ask the first time I make the request. I'd like them to have at least an inkling of what it's like not to be them because being them seems (to them) to be a rip-off when I don't just hand them money for no reason, or when I hold them accountable for their actions. Sometimes, being a parent really blows. It means being the bad guy, the nag, the one who says No when saying Yes would be so much easier.

But although we require training and licensing for driving motor vehicles, obtaining certain jobs, and constructing buildings, we don't provide mandatory training for parents-to-be. Oddly enough, some counties require a course for parents who are divorcing, to help them smooth the transition for the kids and remember that they are the adults, regardless of the circumstances. So we are, according to law, trained to handle divorce, but not parenting.

I wonder how that North Carolina mother might have better handled her frustration had she received some assistance (and I'm not talking welfare) before her babies arrived. Or, perhaps even better, before she got pregnant. Instead, we have folks who want to ban sex education in favor of abstinence-only rhetoric AND outlaw abortion. Where is the logic in this?

The idea of having an abortion fills me with unutterable sadness. Really, I can't put together words to express how devastating the thought is to me. But in a world filled with thousands of unwanted children who endure unbearable suffering at the hands of those who are supposed to love and cherish them most, I can't find the logic in revoking one of few options available. To the young girl who is repeatedly raped by her dad or brother, or the woman who is abused in every manner by her psychotic husband, abortion is, perhaps, the only ray of hope. I don't know; I've never been in such a situation. But I can't for one moment pretend that I know what is best for someone who has had this experience.

I want a presidential administration that values everyone, not just the rich or religious (but it has to be the "right" religion), the white or powerful. Everyone. If that were the case, there would be little need to ever discuss the rights of the unborn vs. the born. We would all get what we need, those basic necessities such as education, food, shelter, health insurance. If life weren't a dire struggle for so many hundreds of thousands of people just to survive, maybe there would be more time to devote to bettering ourselves so that we might just be able to give our kids what they need.

Instead, we have mothers barely out of their teens, suffocating their babies and facing life in prison. And we have young boys and grown men storming our schools and terrorizing our children, murdering some and traumatizing the rest for life. We have young girls and grown women dying from self-induced abortions and those performed by back-alley pseudo doctors because men are passing laws telling us what we can and cannot do with and to our own bodies. Everyone in these scenarios is a victim, from the dead babies to the suicidal, gun-wielding maniacs.

I'm an idealist. At various times in my life, it's been the only thing between me and a very bad choice. I believe in the overall goodness of the human race, that there still exists the possibility that things can change for the better. I need to believe that something new and improved lies just beyond the horizon, because the news I read yesterday and today, the headlines I will surely read tomorrow, are soul-crushing. They could easily rob me of my hope and determination if I hadn't already spent more than forty years learning how to detect that sliver of potential in the mountain of disappointment.

The family of the slain boys say they're giving the situation up to God, that it's in his hands. Maybe if more people here on earth would take responsibility for what happens not only to themselves but to their neighbors, we wouldn't need to keep giving God so much to do.

In the meantime, our simple leader has made us the police of the world, and we're spending billions of dollars we don't have fighting a war we can't seem to bring to an end for a reason we can't seem to remember (oh, that's right; there wasn't [a real] one) while our own people suffer needlessly and endlessly due to poverty, ignorance, and destitution. Then, that same simple leader and his henchmen pass laws that are rapidly making second-class citizens out of anyone who isn't white, straight, wealthy, and male. Despite my idealism, I can only predict that this will end badly.

Abortion. War. Poverty. Murder. Foreign policy. Parenting. Ignorance. Politics. You may think these concepts aren't related, but they are. In its simplest form, everything is related in one way or another.

And it isn't God who provides the common thread. It's you. And it's me. And until we truly understand this, every effort we make is destined to fail.

2006-10-08T10:20:00.000-06:00

The Spilling of Innocent Blood

The murders of young Amish school girls in Pennsylvania earlier in the week hit me hard. It's not as if we don't have our own school shootings in this state; we seem to lead the troops in that sad scenario. Every time I read or hear of yet another shooting, a small part of me is shamed. These are our children, and we're failing them miserably in so many ways.

But the shootings in Pennsylvania ripped through me on several levels. My sister and brother were born in Lancaster, PA, home to thousands of Amish folk. My extended family lived (and a few still remain) near that region, and I spent many childhood summers there. From the time I was small, the Amish and their horse-drawn buggies were a familiar sight as I enjoyed carefree summer days with my cousins and grandparents, aunts and uncles. I remember feeling sorry for the little girls whose dresses were so drab, whose dolls had no faces. And always, always, I pitied them having to spend those humid days in full clothing while I cavorted in shorts, tank tops, and flip flops. In my eyes, the Amish children seemed so serious and sullen. I wanted for them the same fun and laziness I had the luxury to enjoy during those summer months.

In my teens, I looked at the Amish more with disbelief than anything. My lifestyle was so far removed from theirs; I had little understanding of how a life so simple and removed from my reality could be fulfilling. No phones, no lights, no motor cars, not a single luxury...it was Gilligan's Island without Gilligan or the Island. I just didn't get it. Why would anyone voluntarily adopt that way of life?

It was not until adulthood that I came to admire the Amish and what being Amish actually meant. Because they are a throwback to centuries long gone, society has tended to mystify and revere them. I never fell into that trap; I'm sure they have their bad seeds just as we English do. I find it hypocritical that some sects are not allowed to own cars or phones or any modern conveniences that might make them slaves to their trappings, but that they can use them if need be. I absolutely hate driving behind them on long stretches of highway, moving, as Max would say, at the speed of smell. But.

To the extent of my understanding of and familiarity with the Amish, I consider them the one population truly closest to God. In a world that is a political jungle, they take no side. They live in a war-waging country, yet are unapologetic pacifists to the core. They have no need to impose their beliefs on anyone, whether from the pulpit, the classroom, or the White House. And as their reaction to this recent horrific tragedy demonstrates, they embody the essence of forgiveness. Their daughters' simple pine coffins not underground yet, they spoke of the need to forgive the deranged murderer. And despite their own grief and immeasurable loss, they crowded his funeral so that they might offer solace and comfort to his tormented family.

These people live their beliefs not only publicly, but in private. They shun those temptations that might lure them further from their God, yet they offer their teenage children a respite from the strict limitations of their lives to give them a chance to see what life outside the Amish community is like. During this time, their children can engage in any activity they choose: drinking, drugs, sex...you name it. The purpose of this milestone is to allow young people to make a choice to remain Amish or to choose a life in mainstream America. I know of no other Christian denomination as a whole that gives its young the room--not to mention the trust--to make a faith choice based on experience. Perhaps that's why there's such a rebellion from the church among young people today. To me, the Amish don't talk the talk; they walk the walk.

And now their gentle community has been desecrated. I can't help but wonder what went through the minds of those innocent girls as they experienced those last moments of life. Surely they had nothing against which to compare what they were going through. They had no reference to the outside world and its evil. Did this ignorance of their fate deepen their fear, or lessen it? According to newspaper reports, even in their terror, they were seeking meaning, asking their captor why he wanted to harm them. And one 13-year-old volunteered her own life for the safety of her younger peers. Even in the face of death, she rose above the sheer wickedness of the situation to offer herself as a sacrifice. That is an example of the love of God, and it was manifested in the selflessness of a young girl.

There is no ending to this story. I fear this is but a beginning.

2006-09-29T09:26:00.000-06:00

Nothin' to Do and All Night to Do It

I attended a PTAC meeting earlier this week at Skyview. Due to schedule constraints, I was never able to attend the PTAC meetings last year, so I was thrilled to realize that, at least for now, I can make it to these Monday-night affairs.

At one point in the meeting, we were brainstorming ideas for events the schools could hold to help bring parents and students together, maybe raise some money, show school spirit...that sort of thing. And while I consider myself a creative person, my mind was a complete blank. I couldn't think of one activity or idea. On top of that, I didn't like any of the ideas others came up with.

After the meeting, while I was getting ready at home to let the day come to a close, I thought about my inability to contribute to or even support what went on at the meeting. After putting Max and Tuck to bed (the girls were already there), clearing off the kitchen table, folding that last load of laundry, getting lunches ready for the next day, and checking the calendar so that there would be no unwelcome surprises come Tuesday morning, I flopped into my recliner, exhausted. And that's when it hit me: I had no good ideas, nor could I support anyone else's, because I don't want one more thing added to my schedule. I don't want another school event I feel obligated to attend, no matter how fun it might be.

What would truly be great is if the school district could get together and give its families one night a month--one night--free of sports practices and games, extracurricular activities, meetings, events, and homework. One night a month to just be together as a family, with nothing to do, nowhere we have to go, and all night to enjoy that nothingness. No responsibilities to school...just empty hours for us to fill --or not--as we choose.

We've never been a family that schedules every waking moment with some sort of organized activity. I have the good fortune to work from home, so I have even more flexibility than many parents, and I don't need to rely on daycare schedules. I usually walk with my elementary-aged kids to and from school; Max rides in with Wes at 6:40 a.m. each weekday so that he can be on the marching (band) field by 7:00 sharp (and I do mean sharp, or the entire band has to run laps if one kid is late), and then I pick him up from cross country practice between 5 and 5:30 p.m. most days. Evenings are spent with the kids doing homework, us parents helping when appropriate. Add to that bath time, story time, and the getting-ready-for-bed process, and we're until well into the night. And then there are those nights when Max has an out-of-town cross country meet, or a band competition, and I have to stay up waiting for the phone call to pick him up. Last weekend, he called at 12:10 a.m. on Sunday, having just arrived back at the school from a band competition that was supposed to get the kids home by 11 p.m. Saturday night.

All that (and I didn't even mention the community playhouse, which requires the younger kids to be at 2 practices a week, 2 hours each practice, efforts which will culminate in more than ten performances and will require them to miss 2 full days and 2 half days of school), and I have just one kid at the high school level, where extra-curricular activities really seem to kick into high gear. There are families who have more than one there, and who still have children in the middle and/or elementary schools as well. It's a logistical nightmare.

So the thought of yet another event or activity does not appeal to me. I see how hard students are pushed in school, and while I understand that we're just trying to keep up with the pace of the world, I want there to be some sort of boundary where these kids come home and have a chance to just be kids again. Not students. Not athletes. Not thespians. Just kids. Kids with time on their hands to do whatever...even nothing, if they choose. I remember doing nothing; it's a sweet memory.

I don't think my fantasy is unrealistic. I was an involved student myself. I played tennis and basketball, helped manage the track team, wrote and edited the yearbook, participated in two choirs, competed each year in state vocal competitions, took piano lessons, was a member of several school clubs and organizations, and eventually was a peer mentor for kids from families where substance abuse was an issue. Add to that youth group at church and, by the age of sixteen, a part-time job at the public library, and I was busy.

But I fondly remember, despite my crowded schedule, having down time when I could read, play piano, play with friends (an activity we later called "hanging out" because it sounded cooler), or just stay in my bedroom with the door shut, thinking...dreaming...imagining. I don't see Max getting much time for that sort of thing, even though I monitor and limit how many activities he's involved in simultaneously so that he doesn't spread himself too thin. He's currently in marching band and cross country. That's it. And he's a strong student, academically. He should be able to handle 2 activities and school. And he does, but not without paying the price of having some freedom.

Free time, time with family...these shouldn't be luxuries. Kids should be able to participate in extra-curricular activities (from which, I believe, they learn important skills) and still have a life. I don't see that happening. Those kids who choose to engage in sports and other organizations are now expected to give early mornings, after school, precious summer weeks, and part of their weekends away, too. It isn't enough that these sports and clubs get five days a week; they want more. I have a hard time with that demand, especially when the schools stress parental involvement in their students' lives. How can we be involved when many, if not most, of us are just trying to keep up as maid, chauffeur, and time management consultant? I suppose if a family consists of just one child, the schedule isn't so rigorous. But for those of us who have kiddos across the spectrum, everyday life gets so crowded that there isn't room for connection of any real quality. When I have to stay up until nearly 1:00 a.m. to pick up my kid from a weekend school function and then have to get up six hours later to start the day with my younger kids, how can I be the parent I want to be?

Life is undeniably rushed on every level any more. Society as a whole has forgotten how to be still, and I think the schools play into that. I know: Kids don't have to sign up for sports, band, or anything else outside of academic classes. But for those of us who want to raise a whole child, those activities that mirror our children's personal interests aren't "extra." And they shouldn't require so much of the kids who participate or their families. I don't see why this has to be an all-or-nothing scenario, but that's pretty much what it is.

Family dinners, family movie night, game night, whatever...these are just as important as anything the kids are getting from school. Yet homework and extra-curricular activities and the stupifying number of hours they require prevent family time from happening.

It's a shame, really, because the very people who are working so hard at all these activities are the ones who are paying the price by having nothing but one goal after another that they must achieve and no time to enjoy just being kids.

No more activities or events. Please. Give us one night a month to ourselves. Surely, that's not too much to ask.

2006-09-21T10:12:00.000-06:00

Fourteen and Counting

School pictures have arrived for high school students, and as I was switching out the old for the new in a frame I keep on the piano, a very old photo of Max fell out. Staring up at me was a blond, brown-eyed boy of 13 months. Next to that fallen photo was Max's most recent, taken just one month ago. Brown hair, green eyes covered by glasses, a retainer soon to be followed by braces...so many changes, yet the smile--the expression--was the same. He knows oh so much more than he's letting on.

Seeing these two versions of my eldest child side-by-side gave me pause. I sat down and studied the face I once felt I'd waited several lifetimes to see. And I remembered the very strong sense of familiarity I'd experienced the first time I laid eyes on Max. Although I had spent that pregnancy in great anticipation of meeting this baby, once I saw him, I realized it wasn't meeting him that excited me. It was seeing him again. I'd been missing that child and wasn't even aware of it until he was there, studying my face with wide-open eyes.

This knowing him is what allows the two of us to communicate without talking. I'll be in the middle of a thought, and Max will come into the room and finish it for me, out loud. In my head, I'll be singing a tune, and he'll start to sing it aloud. We often say the exact same thing at the same time, and sometimes, he answers a question I haven't yet given voice to. This is weird stuff, I know. Believe me, I know. We're both used to this sort of thing now, but it still gets kind of freaky sometimes when we see something on TV or in a movie and have the same response, word for word. More than any of my other kids, I have a connection with Max in terms of how we think and process information. We are two sides of the same coin. It is creepy and cool at the same time.

Some kids--most, I suppose--are born brand new. Or at least they seem that way. That wasn't the case with Max. He was a complete package the moment he arrived, and everyone who met him knew it. They expressed it differently, of course. "He seems like such an old soul," some would say. Others commented on the depth of his facial expression, or the feeling they'd get that this was no baby. I had those same gut feelings, but because he was my first, I had no other children against which to compare him. He wasn't unusual in any way at first. He was just Max.

As he grew, however, he began to share with me vivid memories of events and people from what he called "my life before." In hushed tones, he would speak to me, late at night as we watched the stars, of the future, and how he would die before I would. He instructed me not to be sad, because that was just the way God wanted it to be. Imagine hearing this from a two-year-old as he holds your hand and gently pats it, much as an adult pats a child's hand as a gesture of comfort.

Max turned 14 this past Monday. His memories of his "life before" have faded, but not entirely. And still he believes he will come to an early demise. It is not something he frets over or laments; he simply accepts this knowledge and expects me to do the same. Outwardly, I accept; I will not disrespect him by doing otherwise. Inwardly, I scream and rant, curse and weep. This is no stranger we're talking about; this is my son. My firstborn. Everything he has ever told me...every event he has ever predicted, has happened. It's another thing we share. Not that we're able to tell the future, per se...but we have both had quick blasts of images and scenes, and those images have always come to pass. I have seen events from the past--long before I was born--in much the same way. Again, creepy but cool.

So it is with unfathomable relief and gratitude that I celebrate each anniversary of Max's birth. In some ways, he is a typical teen: operates with finely honed selective hearing skills, talks back when he feels he's being made to do something totally outrageous (such as taking out the recycling), forgets what he's told 5 seconds after you've finished speaking to him. But in other ways, he's atypical: How many teens would be okay with having their moms write about them in a public forum? He's uncommonly secure in who he is; peer pressure and teen angst claim no space in this kid's life. He is very much marching to his own beat, with little regard and absolutely no need for the approval of others.

Often, children of a family "belong" to one parent or the other. Bella, for instance, is very much her daddy's girl. She is like him in most ways, both physical and behavioral. Max is mine. He's been mine from the moment he "found me again," as he was fond of saying as a little boy. What I have with that kid is valuable beyond any treasure. It is a love that we both know has superceded time, a devotion that needs no explanation or expression.

That Max is my son is a gift. That I am his mother, an honor. He's not perfect, but he's mine. And I'll take mine over perfect any day.

2006-09-11T11:22:00.000-06:00

Where Were You When the Towers Fell?

Today is the five-year anniversary of the tragedy known simply as 9/11. Say "nine-eleven" out loud to anyone in the country, and no further explanation is needed. Today, every news channel on TV and news site online is filled with survivor stories, photo collages, lists of the dead. We must relive that horrific event whether we want to or not.

The only other event that has occurred in my lifetime that shook the nation to its core was the death of Elvis Presley in 1977 (and arguably, the explosion of the Challenger space shuttle, though someone had to remind me of that one). I mean no disrespect in comparing the two events; they both often enter into conversations with the question "Where were you when..." I can answer that question for both events. I was twelve years old, bouncing my Super Pinky ball off the concrete wall of our garage in small-town Wisconsin when a radio announcer interrupted whatever tune was playing to inform us listeners that the King had been found dead in his bathroom. Never a devoted Elvis fan, I still knew enough to know at that very moment that this was news that would leave America as a nation in shock. And it did.

As for 9/11, I recall that morning just as clearly. Bella was only 8 months old, and I was nursing her in my recliner in the family room. I clicked on the TV in hopes of getting a weather forecast for the day so I could dress the kids appropriately for school. Max and Tuck were eating breakfast in the kitchen; Tavi was still in bed. It was just around 7 a.m. The horrifying images that assaulted me from the television left me speechless. I set Bella down on a blanket on the floor and ran upstairs to wake up Wes. "Get up," I said as I shook him. "Get up. Terrorists have attacked New York." And then I started to sob. Heaving, stuttering sobs. A bleary-eyed Wes just looked at me. "What?" he asked in a disoriented tone. "The Twin Towers. Planes crashed into them. They're gone," was all I could manage.

We went back downstairs and I tried to compose myself so as not to scare the boys. As I packed their lunches and filled their water bottles, I thought how absurd it was for me to be going about my daily routine while, on the other side of the country, human limbs and pieces of scalp were raining from a bloody sky. How could I do this? Before the details, before learning of who orchestrated the attack, before knowing much of anything, I still knew America would never be the same. Life as I had known it for over three decades was irrevocably changed in those minutes between the attack on the North Tower and the downing of United Airlines Flight 93.

And changed, it is. In those immediate months following the attack, we seemed to reach a level of human kindness never before achieved, at least not in my lifetime. We were Americans. Not whites or blacks, upper- or lower-class, believers or non-. We were simply Americans, all of us mourning for losses that couldn't possibly be measured. We accepted the heartfelt condolences so graciously offered us from around the world, and we wept. For days, months. We wept tears of sorrow, fear, anger. We wept for those we knew and those we'd never know. For the loved ones left behind, the babies yet to be born, the lives so viciously stolen.

But as the years passed, so too have those days of grace and kindness. We waged a war on false pretenses, and we're still there. Fighting. Fighting. Fighting. Thousands of innocents are dying, and we don't want to hear about it. On the homefront, we're divided. It's not a blurry, dotted line, but a solid chasm that pits us one against the other. Those of us who speak out against our leader, this war, are labeled unpatriotic. Fervent nationalism has taken hold of this country, and like racism and sexism, it is a prejudice. While so much of the rest of the world looks upon America as an arrogant imperialist, we raise our flag high and continue to insist we are in the right, even as our soldiers are imprisoned for their brutality and conduct unbecoming.

For all their bluster and alleged efforts, our government has not made America a safer place to live since 9/11. On the contrary, terrorist attacks are on the rise. And though we look back on the unfathomable tragedy of 9/11 with the hindsight of five years, I ask: Where is the humanity? What happened to that nation of folks who tirelessly gave of themselves, past the point where they had anything left to give? Where went that kinder, gentler nation?
We waged war in Iraq, to be sure. But we waged it right here at home, too. And for all our tears and empathy, we will never return to the charitable, selfless nation we were for those few months following 9/11.

It's us against them, only we're the us. And we're the them.

2006-09-08T16:04:00.000-06:00

Sitting at the Big Folks' Table

The other evening, Tucker was sweeping the kitchen floor, Max was in the living room allegedly doing homework, and I was in the family room folding laundry. Our home is a split-level, so even though the three of us were in different rooms, it was easy to communicate with one another.

Tuck seems to do some of his best thinking when he's sweeping and mopping the kitchen floor. I can't tell you why; but that job takes him approximately three times longer than it has to simply because he continuously stops to chat. That evening, he had explorers on his mind. He's in fifth grade, and his class is knee-deep in a unit on global exploration. Whenever I hear the names Magellan, de Gama, and Ponce de Leon, I am instantly transported back to my own fifth-grade classroom at Lincoln Elementary School in Wisconsin. Explorers and fifth grade go hand-in-hand.

Tuck began talking about what he was learning, and Max chimed in with his two cents (which is always more like five hundred sixty-two dollars), and then I got involved in the conversation. For ten minutes, the three of us discussed the pros and cons of each explorer in terms of how interesting each was. It was a lively conversation.

And when it was over, I realized that for the first time ever, Tuck was able to participate in an intellectual conversation with his older brother. Those two talk about music, guitars, bands, and playing techniques all the time. But dinner time is often taken up with a discussion begun by Max regarding some current news topic. This stuff often goes right over the heads of the younger kids, and then boredom sets in and Bella breaks the serious atmosphere by burping (or worse) like a truck driver.

But this time, Tuck got in on the dialogue, and it was really fun for me to listen to those two go back and forth. At bedtime, I asked Tuck if he realized what had come to pass in the kitchen with that conversation, and he grinned and said "Yeah. I actually had something to say that Max felt was worth listening to." As most younger siblings do, Tuck has always compared himself to his big brother, and in his estimation, has often come up short. Not this time. I could see how empowering those few minutes were for him, and I silently celebrated the milestone. And for the rest of the evening, Max treated Tuck more like a friend and less like a nuisance; he recognized what happened, too. For those few minutes, Tuck was a peer.

Anyone who has more than one child realizes that scenes like the one I just described are blessings. The kids put aside their differences and get caught up in whatever it is that's brought them together, even if only for a short time. I'll take that sort of thing anywhere I can get it. I imagine teachers experience this now and then, too. It's got to be one of the definite perks of the job.

His whole life, Tuck has been the child of mine who never seems to age. In my mind's eye, he's still a small child with a bowl haircut and a face that wrinkles up with glee. That perception was shattered Tuesday night, as I listened to him confidently debate with his big brother which explorer would be more interesting to research for a social studies project.

It's hard, in a way, to let go of the visual of Tuck as a toddler. But it's nothing short of divine to embrace the preadolescent he's become. And that he recognizes his own progress and claims ownership of it...it just doesn't get any better than that.

2006-09-01T08:44:00.000-06:00

Johnny Mathis, Stick Pins, and Felix

The last few years of her life, my mom lived in a side-by-side duplex in a small rural town in Pennsylvania. Had that house been situated anywhere else in the continental United States (with the possible exception of backwoods Kentucky), it would have been condemned. The electrical wiring alone was enough to bring on the wrecking ball, and it wasn't worth fixing. From the outside, it was a residence like many others on that street: old, ugly, falling apart.

But once inside the door, you found yourself embraced by a welcoming environment carefully crafted by someone who very obviously loved her home and made the best of what she had. If a piece of furniture was ugly, Mom painted or reupholstered it. Hole in the wall? A framed Victorian Era postcard covered that up nicely, and no one was the wiser (except that Mom was always so proud of her abilities, she made sure she showed you the hole). And as my sister was fond of saying, everything else that didn't move got decoupaged.

Little children and adults alike took comfort in Mom's house. No matter the time of day or night, a pot of coffee was brewing, its aroma wafting from the back kitchen to the front of the living room. Mom drank way too much coffee. In fact, we found no fewer than seven coffee pots in her home after she died. And yet she wondered why she could never sleep.

Add to the smell of coffee any one of the glorious aromas emanating from Mom's oven, and it was almost easy not to notice the pitch-perfect voice of Johnny Mathis singing softly in the background. I grew up listening to his mesmerizing pipes, and to this day I cannot hear the song "Arianne" without my eyes tearing to overflowing:

Arianne is Mama's crystal
bread that's nearly finished baking
She's a rainbow in a puddle
and the happiest of birthdays
She's the going off on Friday
and the coming back on Monday
with a tan

That song, to me, is my mom. That and Dobie Gray's "Drift Away." Mom couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, but that never stopped her from singing. And dance...the woman could dance. People would clear the dance floor to watch her; I've seen it happen.

In the other half of the duplex lived a woman named Phyllis. Tavi endearingly called her Felix, something that never failed to make both Phyllis and Mom double over with cigarette-hacking laughter, the kind that threatened to make them pee their pants. Phyllis was one of those neighbors found in small towns across America. She was loud, talked incessantly, and Mom often complained that she was nosy. But when they were together, I could tell how much Mom loved her pal Felix. There wasn't a thing in the world that woman would not do for my mom, and I know Mom appreciated that. And when Mom died, Phyllis was devastated. Two peas in a pod, and now the pod was feeling too roomy.

Phyllis died last Saturday. She was 77 years old. I don't know the cause of death. I only know she wasn't feeling well, so she went into the hospital and never came back. When I went to Pennsylvania this summer, I thought about visiting Felix. But the thought of doing so felt awkward; the one thing we had in common was Mom, and she wasn't there. I just didn't know how I could go back to that house, revisit those memories. So I didn't. And I didn't call. And I'll never have an opportunity to do that again.

There was a time when a less forgiving version of myself would have grabbed hold of that weakness and berated myself with it for weeks, maybe months. I've learned the futility of that sort of behavior, realized that my energy could be spent in more productive ways. But it will always be a regret. More than that, though, I'm feeling a melancholy rooted in the fact that I've lost yet another link to my past. It happens everyday, to everyone, in some little way. I know this. Knowing it doesn't make it easier to handle.

Felix was like the pot roast in the oven, the coffee in the pot, the overkill of decoupage. As sure as I knew I'd sit on one of the 863 straight pins Mom kept stuck in her sofa (she was a seamstress, after all, and pin pricks in my butt, arms, back, and legs were just a fact of life), I could always count on seeing Felix when I visited Mom. She was a fixture in Mom's life, and now she's gone.

I sigh. Cry a bit for reasons both selfish and benevolent. Wish for her grown children a sense of peace, knowing full well they've got some powerfully dark days ahead of them. And I say goodbye.

If only Johnny Mathis had a song for this.

2006-08-25T08:56:00.000-06:00

Is Formal Schooling Mere Crowd Control?

I was talking with a mom of young children recently, and she informed me she had decided to homeschool her kids. I told her I admire that decision because it takes serious commitment and dedication.

At any rate, this parent told me that formal schooling is really nothing more than crowd control. I immediately filed that statement away in the "to do" list of my mind so that I could give it further thought at a later date. At the time, I was standing in the produce section of King Soopers, not the ideal setting for deep contemplation.

I've had a couple weeks to think about what she said. And while I agree that there are areas of concern regarding formal (I can't say public, because this mom lumped all schooling together: public and private) education, I think it's an undeserved simplification to say that it's nothing more than crowd control.

I have wondered at times how much of the formal school day is spent actually learning. Figure in the time it takes to get to and from classes as well as the time spent having the teachers deal with "problem" students and other crises, and I imagine that percentage might be somewhat disappointing. And given that there are more than a handful of learning (and teaching) styles, it's inevitable that some students are not being taught in the way that would benefit them most. A kid in Tuck's fifth-grade class was highly disruptive from the first day. I heard about this kid from other kids in class, too. How can a teacher effectively teach--or a student effectively learn--when a student's negative behavior demands so much attention (fortunately, Tuck has one of the most capable teachers in his school, and he's reported improvement of the situation)?

Formal schooling also does us no favors in terms of learning social skills. After just a few days in kindergarten, Bella has already been introduced to negative behaviors she's never had to deal with at home. For instance, at our house, no means no. No exceptions. No, don't touch me. No, don't tickle me. No, don't take my shoes and throw them around the playground. Other children in her class don't seem to understand the meaning of the word no, and she's frustrated by this lack of respect. As a parent, I am too.

And yet. Formal schooling as a journey isn't just about what kids learn from the books, lectures, and handouts. It isn't all about memorizing dates and names, or the details of wars and presidential administrations. Formal education, lacking as it may be in some areas, prepares our kids to live in the real world. It presents children with situations and scenarios they will eventually confront in life, and because they will have already traveled that road, they'll have the knowledge and experience to deal with them effectively. Granted, sometimes kids are forced to face situations much earlier than is healthy; the subject of last week's column (parents serving their young kids alcohol) is a prime example of this. But if parents are involved in their kids' lives, they can guide them through these difficult situations by sharing wisdom and insight to help shine a light on the path. I'd rather my children go through some of life's hardships while I'm still directly involved in their everyday lives than have them be bludgeoned with them as adults.

Formal schooling has other advantages. If they have dynamic and effective teachers, young people learn that what's good enough for one person is not acceptable for another. Throughout the years, Max has often complained that his teachers required more of him than he felt they did other, less capable students. I explained to him that that's how it is in the real world, too. I taught him that along with natural gifts comes a responsibility to use them to their potential. What needs to be looked at isn't the final result of an assignment or project so much as the effort put into it. One kid's best effort might mirror a half-hearted attempt by another kid. Despite Max's numerous "that's not fair" complaints, he realizes that fair doesn't always mean equal. He couldn't have learned that on a consistent basis by the age of 13 anywhere else.

Formal schooling, by its very nature, requires children to learn to deal with ignorant, loud, obnoxious, mean, lazy, arrogant, apathetic people--a skill necessary to get through life without blowing someone's head off. School is where kids will learn what works best for any given encounter: confrontation? ignoring and walking away? conflict resolution? I've seen this countless times with all 3 of my older kids. One of the kindest things anyone ever said about Max was that he gets along with everyone; yet if you talk to Max, you'd realize he's not one to suffer fools gladly. But he's already learned how to coexist in a healthy way with people he does not like or respect, and that will serve him well for the rest of his life.

But perhaps the most important thing formal education gives our children is the regular opportunity for learning self-control and taking responsibility. While there are a lot of kids who don't seem to grasp the concept that they are responsible for their own actions and choices, our schools are filled with children who obviously do. In school, students are immersed in situations that allow them the chance to participate or not, excel or not, do their best or not. And they learn that their choices directly affect the outcome of any given situation. Mom and Dad aren't there, supervising their behavior or learning, and teachers don't have time (nor should they take the responsibility) to babysit students by making sure they're doing what they should in the form of taking notes, listening, etc. Our students are making their own choices and living with the consequences; I think that's fantastic. If the results are disappointing, then parents and caregivers have a responsibility to step in. Ideally, they're already involved in their child's education anyway.

Choosing a child's educational direction is a personal decision; a parent has to do what s/he thinks is truly best for the individual child. Many people I've talked to believe homeschooling is just wrong; I disagree. I think homeschooling, given the right parents and the right circumstances, is a terrific option. I feel the same way about Montessori and Waldorf schools. No option, however, is perfect. And not all options are right for all students.

As in everything else involving kids, I think it comes back to the parent or primary caregiver. Know your kids, their strengths and weaknesses, and their abilities. Keep in touch with every aspect of their lives, even when doing so makes you feel like Sisyphus.

I believe we're luckier than the hopeless Sisyphus. Sooner or later, our labor will pay off. And our kids will reap the rewards.

2006-08-18T08:43:00.000-06:00

Kindergarten and Underage Drinking

About 30 minutes ago, I dropped Bella off for her first day of school. Not accustomed to needing to be at the school for the first bell (which is when the kindergarten students go into the classroom), I was, of course, late. Tavia had a shoe crisis at the last moment, and although the kids had been up since the butt crack of dawn, we still managed to be in "rush" mode once we hit school grounds.

Anyway, Bella never had time to stand in line with the other munchkins. Instead, I walked her to her classroom door, hugged and kissed her, and sent her on her way into the warm smiles of her very courageous teacher. No time for tears. And yet...as I walked home, I couldn't help but think that here we pass another milestone. I will never have another first day of kindergarten as a parent.

And as I experienced that bittersweet feeling a parent experiences over cutting another notch in the apron strings, I thought about Max, who is a 13-year-old freshman this year. His initial reaction to high school is that it is a vortex of evil, but he'll manage. I, on the other hand, felt the sting of parental angst recently, and I'm not sure I'll manage at all.

My family attended a party last weekend, and to my shock and amazement, the 14-year-old son of the host family was allowed to drink alcohol. His mom explained her philosophy: If he is served at home, he won't sneak and hide it, like she did at his age. At home, his underage drinking can be supervised. Holy crap-ola. I could not believe my ears.

We left the party shortly after this discovery; I simply could not wrap my brain around the idea that this kid was served alcohol by his parents. Disappointment and fear threw me in a tailspin. But mostly, I was just really sad. There's no other word for it. Earlier in the evening, the mom was voicing her concern over the lyrics of some heavy metal music her son listens to; within hours, she was trying to legitimize giving beer to a kid, a concept I can't make sense of no matter how I look at it. Truly, I spent the rest of that weekend in a funk, reassessing my values and beliefs in an effort to determine if I had become a constipated prude. Am I so out of touch with reality that I'm making a big thing out of nothing?

No. I came to the conclusion that it is not out of touch or prudish to abstain from serving a 14-year-old alcohol. What is unrealistic is to encourage destructive behavior by giving it approval and then expecting that such allowance on the part of a parent will curtail more of the same behavior. I find it appalling that any parent would willingly start his child down a path that is not healthy either physically or mentally. This is a kid we're talking about, not a young adult. A kid. Someone not even 6,000 days old.

I know...we all parent as we see fit. And I know the kids in this family are very loved. I simply can't follow the logic of allowing a kid to drink as a solution to a problem that might never occur. To everything a time, right? Well, the time to drink is not as a kid. The brain is still developing. Impulse control is at a lifetime low. There are all sorts of things physiologically going on in a teen's body that should not be influenced by alcohol. Given the loopy logic of the argument, how would a parent handle teen sex? Escort the young couple to a candlelit bedroom, with John Coltrane playing softly in the background, rose petals strewn about the bed? Come on. Some activities should not be pursued by hormonal kids...boozing it up and sex are two of them, at least where 14-year-olds are concerned.

I know teen alcohol and drug abuse are serious issues facing families today. That's nothing new. But encouraging your kid to take part in harmful activities in an effort to keep him from hiding such behavior is just, well, lacking. In everything. By the same token, being too strict or overprotective...fear-based parenting...that doesn't work either. Isn't there a middle ground here? Tell our kids we expect them to obey the law, but if they should choose to make a poor choice, avoid further trouble by calling home and extricating themselves from the situation. The night of the party in mention, I had given Max permission to spend the night. After learning that his friend was drinking, I changed my mind. Once home, I explained to Max that while I trust him, I also know that when a group of kids gathers and there is drinking involved, really stupid ideas can start to seem glorious, and it's easy to get caught up in the moment. Thankfully, Max assured me he understood, and told me he thinks drinking is about the stupidest thing a kid can do. (I hope he can hold on to that belief, but if not, I hope I react out of love and the memories of being a teenager.)

As a parent whose job it is to love and guide him, there's no way I'm going to put him in the situation of having to choose between doing something I think is wrong (and illegal) and harmful, or having to resist and be the odd man out. He'll find himself in situations like that his whole life; do I need to push him into one at the age of thirteen? I don't think so. And though Max is comfortable with who he is more than most kids his age, I just can't see the point of placing him in a precarious situation if I don't have to.

I'd be interested in hearing from others who've had experience with similar situations. How did you approach it? And those of you who have raised your kids...did you ever have to deal with this sort of thing? What works? What doesn't?

2006-08-11T10:10:00.000-06:00

Is Summer Over Already?

Until this past weekend, I was lamenting the onset of another school year. I like lazy summer mornings when we stay in our jammies much longer than we should. I enjoy letting the kids stay up later because, after all, there's nothing they have to do in the morning. And almost always, I enjoy the company of my kids.

That all changed within the last week, beginning right around the time this little gem occurred:

Tavia: I found Bell's Silly Putty! It was behind the TV.
(understand that the elusive glob of Silly Putty had been AWOL for some time, to Bella's great consternation.)

Me: Where is it now?
(understand that while I vividly remember my own great love of the stuff, I detest Silly Putty as an adult, for reasons which are about to make themselves obvious)

Bella (with great glee): I put it in the banana chips!

At this point, I pull the bag of banana chips off the counter, and sure enough--therein resides a disgusting ball of Silly Putty, complete with carpet fibers so plentiful that it resembles a Picasso-like rendering of a cat.

It was at that moment that I silently thanked the Powers That Be for the return of the school year. And as the week has worn on, I've been just a touch more thankful with each passing day.

This has been quite a summer for Bella, who earlier in the season informed us her soul had left for Mexico in a red convertible, and that was the reason for her naughtiness. Turns out her soul had quite a vacation planned, because she's remained this summer's biggest challenge. Just last night, when I asked what happened to that wonderful little girl I used to know, Bella matter-of-factly informed me--without hesitation or obvious contemplation--that "Good Bella" was stuck behind the bookcase and no matter how hard she's tried to free her from her jail, she's had no success.

Of course, I do my best not to laugh when my white-haired imp feeds me these lines, but in the back of my mind, I'm looking ahead and realizing that, in the matter of one week, she's going to be under the care of another adult for 2 1/2 days a week. Bella starts kindergarten this fall, and I don't know any of those teachers. And--may the Force be with them--they don't know Bella. Boy, are they in for a treat.

I have no worries about the quality of care or teaching Bella will get; I don't think there's a bad teacher at Skyview. No, my concern is FOR the teacher, who will not realize that under that cherubic exterior dwells a charming maniacal midget. And while Bella is not malicious by any stretch of the imagination, she is prone to reacting first, thinking later. That tendency doesn't always give the best results.

So it will be with mixed emotions that I walk my youngest (and final) child to her first day of school next week. She has been warning me that she's shy (what the ???) and has changed her mind; she no longer wants to attend school. So there may be tears--hers and mine. But I'll follow the advice I always give my kids and try not to let my fear get in the way of my progress.

And then I'll walk the 2 blocks to our home and say a prayer that Bella's teacher survives that first day.

2006-08-03T22:22:00.000-06:00

Trouble at...the Library?

The latest on an ever-growing list of "issues" facing our ever-growing town is that of teachers tutoring students in the public library. Apparently, there have been some complaints of the noise level and the lack of table seating/space available during the day. So now that complaints have been made, the library has chosen to enforce a policy it already had in place, one that states patrons cannot use the public library as a way to make a monetary profit.

This situation immediately brings to mind two questions: Is this an issue of noise and space, or one of individuals conducting business in a public place? And, if there is a policy already in place, why has it been overlooked and ignored, but now becomes worth enforcing?

If this is an issue of noise and space, it could be easily remedied by something as simple as restricting tutoring time to certain hours. Perhaps even limit the space made available to the tutors and students. Of course there would be details of how to figure out who gets time and when, but that sort of thing could be negotiated after putting such a policy in place.

If this is an issue about individuals making a profit in a public building, then it really isn't about the noise and space at all, and let's just call it what it is. I mean, if these tutors provided their services for free, would that change the noise levels and amount of space they take up? Nope. So suddenly enforcing a policy that prohibits individuals from profiting from work in a public building doesn't make sense in this case, unless the problem is the money-making aspect.

If it is, then I ask--what the hell's wrong with people? Sure, these tutors are making money. But I'll bet no one's getting rich off of it, nor is that their goal. Despite having serious doubts about the intentions and integrity of some people who sit on boards in this town, I hold onto the belief that the teachers who choose to tutor in the summer do so because they know there are a lot of children who need the extra attention and help. There's no crime in being paid for their time; don't we all believe our time is valuable? It isn't as if we've got insurance salesmen lurking about the stacks, just waiting to pounce on the next unsuspecting patron as she browses for a romance novel. I can't recall ever having seen a hooker, ambulance chaser--or anyone else who makes his living preying on people--at the library, at least, not while they were on the clock. These are teachers, teaching kids who need taught, in the most logical location for their purpose.

Libraries across America allow tutoring to take place on the premises. Yes, I know these libraries probably have more money, more space, more everything necessary to make the tutoring as least invasive of other patrons' visits as possible. But this is Windsor. We are no longer a small town, and we need to stop acting like we are. Looking the other way when a policy is broken is not a good idea, no matter what the policy is, no matter if we know the people who are in violation of it. If an organization is going to take time to develop rules, it ought to adhere to them or get rid of them.

But let's stop confusing the issues here. A patron (possibly more...I don't know) complained about noise and lack of table space. The policy that was suddenly enforced was one based on the aspect of making money, not on how noisy certain patrons were. Had the tutors and students kept the noise level down, the library would still be allowing them to violate the policy. That wouldn't be right. On the other hand, if the teachers were giving their services away instead of demanding monetary compensation, they wouldn't be breaking any private business policy. So would they still be allowed to tutor in the library, perhaps with a warning that they need to be more quiet? That wouldn't be right either; these professionals deserve to be paid for their services.

And while it's easy to say "let them teach in their homes," that's just not the ideal situation. Aside from any personal reasons that might interfere with tutoring at home, the fact remains that teachers aren't paid a salary that allows them to build a home reference library that includes the resources readily available in a public library.

My first job as a teen was in a public library just slightly bigger than the one in Windsor. Even then, in the early 1980s, the library was not a place of silence. When I was working, I'd see various groups of kids from school who'd come there to study and complete homework. And they were loud. When I needed to research, I headed to the library. We didn't have computers and the Internet then; all our research came from books, magazines, and microfilm. Sigh... I'm old. Anyway, even then, the library was a lively place. That it still is, is not something to complain about. And yet I understand that some patrons want (need?) a modicum of tranquility to get from their library what they need.

The library board says it wants to work with these teachers, and I believe them. By "work" I hope they mean listen to the tutors and take into consideration who they are what they're trying to do. I hope they deal with the issue head-on, looking at it for what it is, and not try to force a solution from a one-size-is-supposed-to-fit-all policy that probably was never a great idea to begin with. Kids have always needed libraries, and libraries have always put out the clarion call to kids. That much hasn't changed.

And I hope it never does.

2006-07-31T08:04:00.000-06:00

Are You a Toxic Parent?

I read a great article in the Washington Post this weekend. Should be required reading for every parent. I tried to provide you with the link, but it's too long. Just go to www.washingtonpost.com and check out the front page; it's probably still there. If not, do a keyword search of "toxic parent."

The article is long, but worth the time spent reading it.

2006-07-28T08:48:00.000-06:00

This blog's policy on anonymous comments

Someone's been leaving me anonymous comments that I have rejected. My doing this is driving him crazy, because he keeps leaving more, almost daily. I say "he" because I'm 99.9% sure I know who's leaving them. Based on the context of his comments, he knows journalism and he knows about my 3 years at the Trib...information only an insider would know (unless he's writing on hearsay, which he wouldn't dare, since he accused me of doing that). He also wants to know if I know what editors do (he helped me out there, just in case: They edit.), and in fact, I do! When I'm not writing for a living, I'm editing. Or indexing. Or doing taxonomy (not to be confused with taxidermy, which is just, well, yuck). See the pattern...words. I work with words.

This particular reader so very obviously doesn't like me, yet he's taking time out of his life to read my blog. Often. Only he doesn't seem to read anything except the very first column, waaaaaaaaaaay at the bottom of the blog...the one about why I left the Trib and the Beacon. And he's getting madder because I won't give him a voice here in my own personal space. So I figure it's time to let ya know where I stand on anonymous comments:

I've got no problem with them (there are many here on the blog already, and not all are positive) as long as they discuss issues and related topics and are not personal attacks. The guy who's leaving these snarky comments needs to get over whatever it is he's so angry about and stop visiting The Front Porch because it obviously raises his blood pressure. Life's too short to focus on all that negative energy.

Intelligent discussion of a topic is one thing; I welcome that with open arms or I'd never have started writing my column in 2003. I'd be an idiot to think everyone agrees with all the things I say...that's not the point (and where's the value in that?). The point is to find a maturity level where we can disagree, discuss, and agree to disagree if we must. When that happens, everyone, including myself, walks away having looked at something from a different perspective.

If you're not capable of doing that, don't leave a comment. I won't publish it. On the other hand, if what you're really after is just to be sure I know you don't like me without telling me who you are, then leave the comment with the understanding that I'll read it, but no one else will. However, keep this in mind:

In this lifetime, I've been married and divorced; made the horrible, unintended mistake of leaving my baby in a vehicle unattended (wrote about that one long ago); cremated my mother and a son; have been cheated on, lied to, beaten up, and sexually assaulted (haven't written about that one). I'm a liberal living in a religious-right society that cares more about keeping gays from marrying than it does starving children and underfunded schools. My president almost choked himself to death on a pretzel while his right-hand man so adeptly shot his hunting partner in the face, and these are the representatives of my country. There's a war in Iraq; the disastrous effects of Katrina; our CIA leaks information, and the federal deficit is bigger than ever. Global warming is a serious, threatening issue despite what our administration wants us to believe, and people actually want us to replace sex ed with abstinence-only misinformation, science with Intelligent Design. If I want to worry about something, it won't be whether or not someone likes me.

My life has graciously brought me enough experience to know that what truly matters in this world isn't so much what others may think of me, but what I know to be true of myself.

So anonymous comments? Keep 'em comin'...but if you're going to act hateful, go sit on your own Front Porch.

2006-07-27T10:21:00.000-06:00

A shameless plug for a fantastic weekend getaway and an invitation for you

Wes, the kids, and I spent last weekend at a terrific place near Red Feather Lakes. We rented a beautiful cabin (it's quite a bit bigger than what I think of when I think of a "cabin") called Mountain Rose, and it exceeded our expectations in every way. Check it out by visiting www.themountainrose.com. Between the spectacular views from our location nestled among the mountains, the relaxing hours in the private hot tub, and the warm welcome we received from owners Maggie and Marge, we couldn't have asked for anything more. I highly recommend giving this place a try if you're in need of some R&R. Staying there gives you fishing and boating access to several private lakes as well as public lakes. We spent some time on Crystal Lake...breathtaking.

That said, I'd also like to invite anyone who's interested to join us in a fundraising BBQ for Democratic Congressional candidate Angie Paccione. The BBQ begins at 2:00 p.m. on Saturday, August 19th, and will be held on the private, 5-acre lot on which Mountain Rose is situated. Guests will enjoy excellent food and drink as well as live music. Financial contributions to Angie's campaign are, of course, voluntary...maybe you'd just like to meet her or get to know her stance on the issues (that's the main reason I'm going--I know what I've read about her, but I want to meet her in person). This is a perfect opportunity to do so, and at the same time, you'll get a firsthand look at the property. If anyone wants to ride up with Wes, the girls, and me (the boys will be with their dad that weekend), we've got room in the van for 3 people. Or, if you want to travel there on your own, email me for directions. If you plan on going, please RSVP to the hosts at mmatmtrose@centurytel.net or by calling 1-800-477-7673.

If you've read my columns over the years, even only a couple, you can imagine how much I dislike Marilyn Musgrave. I respect that not everyone shares my opinion of her, and that's cool. But if you think it's time for a change, it would be great to see you at the BBQ. And I would love for you to get to see Mountain Rose.

2006-07-25T17:01:00.000-06:00

There's Peace In the Letting-Go
My grandma is 97 years old. She spent her life in a rural region of Pennsylvania, toiling on the farm and raising five children. Thanks to decades of hard physical labor, her body is tough. Her mind, on the other hand, is not. In fact, her mind has already left her behind, and I think she's on the brink of catching up to it.

Gram broke her hip a couple weeks ago. Surgery has repaired the bone, but the after-effects on her mind are troubling. I last saw her in June. She had no idea who I was, but she sure thought my kids were nice. She expressed a special appreciation of my daughter's beautiful hair. I didn't have the heart to tell her that hair was situated on the head of my youngest son, Tucker (and, to her credit, even people with full mental capacity often mistake Tuck for a girl; he could care less). All her life, Gram's wanted a head of thick, luxurious hair. The two strands remaining on her head are not exactly what she had in mind. I vividly remember her affinity for the country band Oak Ridge Boys, not because of their music, but because of their long, curly tresses.

Gram is just a little wee woman, never having been exactly Amazonian to begin with. She lies in her nursing home bed, refusing to eat. She chews on her bottom dentures like they're candy, and she keeps removing her own catheter tube, not without damaging her already-frail body. At night she calls out to her husband and son, both of whom left this world many years ago. And she reaches up for them in her sleep. Maybe she's seeing them. Maybe they're calling to her. She has missed them so profoundly these last decades. Imagine how angry and frustrated she must be when she awakes only to realize she's not only with them, but connected to machines via tubes and tape. The situation seems almost criminal to me.

Gram is my mom's mom. In the recent past, in her more lucid moments, she understood that her oldest daughter had died. Two minutes later, she'd ask again why Mom wasn't coming to see her, but clarity was hers, even if only fleetingly. Now...well, she doesn't remember anyone but Pap and Uncle Bob, and it's plain she wants to see them. She spends her days with a nasty disposition, being feisty with my aunt, her daughter, who spends hours with her everyday, trying to get her to eat and making sure she's bathed. Gram's never been big on the sponge bath thing, and it annoys her now more than ever. Yet my aunt continues to care for her mom in ways I mercifully never had to care for mine.

I know this is an instance when others in my position might drop to their knees in prayer, calling on God to help Gram recover. I'm not a prayerful person in the traditional sense of the word. I don't have daily conversations with God; I don't ask for much of anything except wisdom to guide my children so that they can learn to blossom in a world that sometimes seems hell-bent on kicking kids in the ass. Even when my own mom died, I didn't ask God "why?"; I didn't wonder what the bigger purpose of her death was. That grief, which many of you shared with me through this column, was so mind-numbing, I had trouble stringing together three-word sentences. No, I didn't pray in the way one thinks of prayer.

For me, every act of kindness is a prayer. A kissed owie, a door held open, a tearful farewell...each act is an appeal to the hopeful side of human nature. Turning on the bathroom nightlight each evening, I am aware of how thankful I am to have made it through another day, to have had yet one more chance to be a good mom, a supportive partner, a friend. Likewise, turning that same light off each morning gives me pause to take a deep breath, look in the mirror, and hope that I end the day having done something worthwhile. Awareness itself is prayer; acting in accordance with that awareness is nothing short of evangelizing.

So I can only hope my intent is understood when I say that I do not wish my gram's life to be prolonged. Her life is over; all that's left is her failing body. As my aunt struggles to see her mom like that each day and still keep her spirits uplifted, I have to admit to my belief that death is not the worst fate one can experience. Gram has had a full life. She gave birth six times and buried three of her children. With nothing more than an elementary-school education, she raised a family and kept a farm during some of the most trying times our country has ever known. She was active in her church and extended her loving kindness to anyone who needed it. This existence she's experiencing now is not life. She breathes, but she does not live.

If this is all she has to look forward to here on earth, I want Gram's body to let her go. I know it's not up to me, and I appreciate that. But a body without a mind that can recognize loved ones and familiar places is nothing but a shell. Just one month ago, Gram could smile. It was a vacant smile, backed up with empty eyes that could no longer see the world they loved. I knew then that she was on the final glidepath, as Mom used to call it. And her descent sure picked up speed.

We aren't supposed to wish death on people, I know that. Our society is messed up when it comes to death and dying. We're so afraid of it. I don't think Gram is afraid; I think it will bring her peace. And though I won't pretend to know what's going on in that head of hers, I definitely know what's not going on. And that's all I need to know.

I love my grandma fiercely. And I want her to go home.

2006-07-20T12:35:00.000-06:00

I had no idea...

Since leaving the Beacon, I have received an astonishing amount of support from this community. Some of you I already knew; a great many of you I didn't. You've taken the time to write letters to the editor of the paper on my behalf (knowing full well they'll never see print). You've found a few moments to pick up the phone and call to give me moral support and encouragement. How many calls have I gotten that begin with, "Hi. You don't know me, but..." The emails I've received could fill a book. Truly, I'm overwhelmed (why is that a word? is anyone ever just "whelmed"?) with how this has all turned out.

That I've claimed one small space in your busy lives...what a terrific honor. Without a print publication, I've lost a great deal of my readership, I know. So it's up to us to spread the word that I'm still here. Please...let people know. I feel like I've disappointed those who can only read me because I was delivered to their doorstep, and that saddens me. So much of life is hard; I'm glad we can still meet here for a laugh or two...a "right on"...a brief oasis from this desert heat we've been living with.

I wouldn't be here without you, and I just can't tell you how touched (in a good way, not one of those creepy, old-man-brush-up-against-you ways) I am that the change in venues hasn't meant a cessation of publication.

So...keep on dropping by. Leave me a comment. And tell your friends I haven't disappeared.

2006-07-19T15:41:00.000-06:00

Can we please let go of Wal-Mart??

Am I the only person in this town who is ready to drown myself in Windsor Lake just to escape the whining and moaning about Wal-Mart's decision to build in Timnath rather than here? Dear god, get over it!

I was not against Wal-Mart coming here; neither was I in favor of it. Had the store been built here, I would have shopped at it. It's not here, so I'll continue driving the very short distance to any one of four other Wal-Marts should the urge overcome me. It's not a big deal.

Building a big-box store near a school is stupid. It's an idea lacking in all important areas: logic, safety, reason. Champions of the idea of becoming home to a Wal-Mart Supercenter are grieving the loss of revenue. But you can't lose what you never had, and we never had that money. The possibility was there, but if it was meant to happen, it would have happened. It didn't.

It would be easy to say that Windsor is divided into two camps: those who want development and those who don't. But that would be an unfair simplification. Smart growth is one thing; jumping at an opportunity that presents itself at the wrong time and in the wrong place is another. It's not as if Windsor is the only community ever to fight back against Wal-Mart. Consider that in 2002, Wal-Mart planned to build 40 new Supercenters in California. Inglewood was one town that did not welcome the retailer. Its citizens lobbied city council, claiming it would be a net-loss for the community (and there are many studies that back up this claim). Two years later, Inglewood residents went to the polls and opposed Wal-Mart's initiative with a resounding 60.6% to 39.3%. Wal-Mart, undeterred, moved on. More importantly, so did Inglewood.

This is exactly what happened here in Windsor. Wal-Mart wanted in, clearly Windsor was not united in its views on the pros and cons of such an endeavor, and Wal-Mart went elsewhere. It's time to move on.

Yes, we need new schools (and here, I would argue that, given just the information that is available on the Internet, a K-8 makes much more sense for this district's needs in every way than does renovating a fossilized middle school and building other schools, but the task force has decided it would be too hard to convince us simpletons of the benefits of a K-8 configuration. But this is fodder for another column.). But Wal-Mart was not going to be the answer to all our prayers. Study after study shows that in the long run, Wal-Marts reduce overall wages of a town's employees, cost taxpayers billions of dollars each year because many of its workers can't afford the company's health insurance, and seriously drain smaller local businesses, including supermarkets. And...there's a reason Wal-Mart is so anti-union.

So let's get past this ridiculous mourning of a retailer that, in the long run, was not going to do us any favors. Let's focus our energies instead on figuring out other ways to build new schools and get the other things this community needs.

[For some interesting reading on Walmart, cut and paste this URL into your browser: http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/walmart/]

On another note: The school board is in the process of selecting candidates for a task force to revamp the student discipline policy in the district. Think they'll give me a call?

2006-07-17T13:05:00.000-06:00

Here's the Column that caused such a fuss

Several folks have asked me to post a copy of the column that ran in the Beacon and raised such a ruckus. Here is that column, which ran on 7/1. A few things to know in case you're not familiar with the situation:

- On 5/12, five teenage boys (some of whom had prior records of illegal activity) vandalized the high school by supergluing all the locks. Initial estimate of damage was $4000. All 5 boys were suspended for the rest of the school year, and 4 were expelled for this upcoming year. This sentence was in line with school district policy, as stated in the handbook.

- One of the boys involved comes from a prominent family in town. The father practically owns Windsor...he's donated some $$ to the school district, and it seems to me (and a whole lot of other Windsor residents) that he called in a favor when his appeal failed to give him the outcome he was looking for and...

- He took it a step further and held a special meeting with the school board. The result of that meeting was a revocation of the expulsion. Instead, the 4 boys must pay restitution (which dropped from $4000 to $1600), must provide 40 hours of community service each, and will return to school here in Windsor. Supposedly, if they step out of line again, they will be expelled. Except that only a fool would believe that this ruling will be upheld, since it seems obvious who's calling the shots. This revocation of the ruling went against the wishes of the high school admin AND the interim superintendent (who was set to retire and doesn't live in Windsor anyway, so she really had nothing to lose by speaking her mind).

- The school board president claimed that this was a matter of wanting to see these kids in school. But I think that's just spin. These kids could have gone to school, they just wouldn't have gone back to a Windsor school.

- A school board official wrote a letter to the editor refuting my claim that the board is spineless. She listed all sorts of initiatives that show that the board has the students' best interests in mind, but I don't know what that has to do with any of this. I'm pretty sure most of those initiatives were started by a superintendent that this board ran out of town (yet his initiatives were good enough to continue). A Windsor resident also wrote a letter to the editor, singing the praises of the father who I believe used his clout to strongarm the authorities into doing what he wanted. I've been told this woman received the parcel of land she built her daycare facility on for free--from the father! In the development community his money built (she neglected to mention this in her letter)! Her sister tells me this isn't so, that she's leasing the land legitimately. Either way, the woman was not upfront about her ties to the father.

- I stand by what I wrote, no regrets. I absolutely believe that, had the crime not included the son of a wealthy, powerful man, the original sentence would have been upheld. The fact that this simple op-ed piece raised such a furor says more about the situation than anything I wrote. And based on the onslaught of emails and phone calls I received in support of this column, I only said out loud what many people in town are thinking.

Parents and school board failed Windsor

Three years ago, I began writing a weekly column called The Family Room. As my column relocates from the Windsor Tribune to the new-and-improved Windsor Beacon, I thought it appropriate to change its name to reflect its gradual evolution from a families-only to a community column. And so I welcome you to The Front Porch, where no topic is off limits and discussion runs the gamut from personal anecdotes to politics and current events. To readers who have enjoyed this column in the past, I thank you for following me to The Front Porch. To those of you who are just joining us, I encourage you to kick back and relax as you read about yourselves, your neighbors, and your community here each week. You may not always agree with my point of view, but I'll always give you something to think about.

What I've been thinking about are those five teenage vandals who were recently expelled from school for destroying high school property, only to have their sentence seriously modified. This wishy-washiness in dealing with these young criminals is a perfect example of what I've said before: Windsor doesn't seem to know what it wants to be.

I don't know with absolute certainty the identities of the boys. But my initial reaction upon learning of the sentence revocation was that someone's daddy has money, and that money gave him the power and influence to challenge and rise above the rules. And a reliable source has since confirmed my suspicion. On the one hand, I understand parents not wanting their kids' permanent record marred by a school expulsion. On the other hand, the district handbook clearly states that the willful destruction of school property is grounds for expulsion, and a neutral arbitrator upheld the original sentence. I hope the parents of all five boys take a good, hard look at the role they played in their children's choices. The kids aren't the only ones who are guilty here; their behavior is a cry for help.

That plea seems to have fallen on deaf ears. I think the parents who could afford to do so bought these kids a warped sense of justice. Their rescue attempt is not going to give these teens what they need most, which is a wake-up call and a dose of reality. Instead, all they've done is make a feeble attempt to save face, and give the not-so-subtle message to their children—and ours—that money can do for them what their own moral compasses cannot. And the authorities who could have stood firm, they wavered and collapsed. Who, then, can we depend on in this town to hold our youth accountable when they do wrong? And what will be done when future vandals do their dirty work? Will authorities consistently give them this second chance? If not, then this sentence modification is problematic on several levels.

At 14 and 15 years of age, these kids were old enough to know right from wrong. But seeing as how their parents don't have that degree of discernment, what can we expect? The school board doesn't shine in times of controversy, either. I thought they were still trying to rebuild our trust in them in the wake of the Karbula debacle. If so, they've failed.

This isn't about keeping students in school; it's about the corruption of wealth and school officials who seem to have misplaced their spines.

2006-07-14T12:53:00.000-06:00

Good at Sports? You Must Be Black.
I had an interesting chat with a self-proclaimed fundamentalist Christian at the local pool this morning. She confessed to reading my columns and liking them, though she was quick to point out that she didn't always agree with them (ummm...no doubt).

During our talk, she mentioned to me that she was a single mother of 8 (!) kids; four are grown and out of the house, 2 are hers, and the other 2 at home are actually her grandchildren of whom she has legal custody. She started talking about one of her grandkids, a 5-year-old boy who shows great athletic promise. Then, she looked me in the eye and with all seriousness said, "His mother says it's because he's half black."

Holy mother of god, I didn't see that coming. There, under the crowded shelter of the public pool, I snorted. Loud. Ear-popping loud, so much so that people jumped. Do people really still attribute natural ability in sports to one's skin color? I couldn't believe my ears, and after snorting, I just stared at her, dumbfounded. When I could trust my voice to speak without laughing, I told her that I highly doubted his blackness, regardless of total percentage of ethnicity, had anything to do with it. She shrugged her shoulders. "You never know," she said. "No," I replied. "Some of us know."

"All I know," she continued, "is that he can't sit still and is always on the go. My other 5-year-old granchild (a white girl) is content to sit and color." In my mind, I was still trying to come to grips with the fact that this woman was serious. Out loud, I suggested, "Perhaps they just have completely different personalities. It does happen." She agreed that could actually be the case.

Cuz I guess black kids don't like to color, and white kids can't kick goals on the soccer field.

We are so doomed.

2006-07-14T10:19:00.000-06:00

Former Coal-Mining Town More Progressive Than Windsor?
I just read a news article announcing that the town of Hazleton, PA (a place I know cuz I've been there), recently found a way to restrict immigration by requiring all legal documents to be written in English.

Aside from being impressed that this relatively small town could get its poop in a group to pass this law (4-1), I immediately thought of Windsor, and how we're not even able to develop ordinances to deal with the cats-at-large situation we've got going on.

Both papers in town have run articles about residents who are upset with all the cats that just roam through neighborhoods. One woman even found a cat corpse in her window well! Imagine how that animal suffered, especially in this searing heat we've been experiencing. That cat probably cooked from the inside. Other residents complain of finding cat poop in their sandboxes (been there) and on their lawns (been there, too). And what does our amazingly unenlightened police chief have to say? "What do you want, cats on leashes?"

Yes! Cats on leashes would be one option. A quick search on the Internet brings up cat ordinances from towns all across America. How is it those towns can devise guidelines and plans, but ours can't? Some towns require cats over the age of six months to be spayed and neutered. Others require leashes, nearly all require registration and collars. Cats that are allowed to roam freely are picked up by animal control, and owners are required to pay an impound fee if they want their pet back.

All of these laws make sense; surely Windsor can come up with something. Free-roaming cats are more than a nuisance. They can become dangerous because they carry and spread numerous diseases. With all the children this town is home to, do you want diseased cats running around? And let's look at it from the cat's perspective for a moment: The life of a free-roaming cat is shorter and harder than the life of one who is treated as a real pet (meaning, kept safe at home; well-fed; generally taken care of).

When people acquire pets, they assume an inherent responsibility for their well-being and safety. Let's hold them up to that responsibility. We wouldn't allow parents to let their babies and toddlers run through the streets, poop in neighbors' yards, or climb up someone's screen door. Why is it we allow pets to do that?

2006-07-13T09:53:00.000-06:00

How I Got Here...What Really Happened
So I write a local newspaper column for three years here in Windsor, Colorado. It's popularity grows and my kids get frustrated because we can't go anywhere in town without some reader stopping me to tell me I made her cry or he liked the way I said what everyone in town was thinking but didn't dare say out loud. That column, published in The Windsor Tribune, was called The Family Room.

But then my very excellent editor had a baby and had the audacity to decide to stay home and raise her daughter with her own two hands (imagine!). So I was left with a reporter promoted to editor who I think is a control freak and who wanted to approve the topics I wrote about ahead of time. I got a healthy chuckle out of that idea, said "I don't think so," and wrote my last column for that paper.

Then I walk across the street to Windsor's other local paper, The Beacon, and I ask the editor there if he'd like to publish my column. He enthusiastically says yes, he would. So I rename the column The Front Porch, and I write my first one, published on Saturday, July 1. The column never made it to the online edition of the paper because, well, who knows why. What it did do is make the school board mad because I think they were spineless in how they handled a situation and I said that. Well, I actually said they "seemed to have misplaced their spines," but the meaning remains the same. I also said I believed another party involved in the situation used the influence and power of wealth to get the school board to roll over and play dead, and so I imagine that party was also pretty mad.

My esteemed editor calls me 2 days after my column was published to tell me he's "taking a lot of heat" on my column. Although he proofread the column before sending it to press, he managed somehow not to notice that I did not name a source who shared with me information, but who I instead called "a reliable source." During that phone conversation, the editor informed me that the paper's policy is to name all sources. Well, thanks for telling me that ahead of time, and for doing such a good proof job, I'm thinking. There's a reason sources don't want to be named, and it's because they're sources!

At any rate, my editor explains to me that he feels he must write a disclaimer saying my opinion is not necessarily that of the paper (and in this case, our opinions were completely opposite). I had no problem with that at all. But in reality, that's not what he did. Instead of doing as he said he would, he apologized to readers if they found my column offensive, and said the paper has a policy of not using unnamed sources. He then says, and I quote, "Valentine might not have been aware of that policy." Hmmm...ya think? Since he never told me about it, did not proofread carefully enough to catch it before going to print, and only told me about it 2 days after my column is published? Maybe I didn't know about it? Ironically enough, the morning of the day he published that smashing, butt-covering editorial, he sent me an email that said, and again, I quote, As for your first column, I think we’re clear about unnamed sources now. I apologize for not making that point clear before. I also should have spent more time looking at your column last week. I was swamped with the launch and didn’t give it the close read I should have. If I had, we could have resolved that matter quickly.

So imagine my surprise when I realize he pinned his failure on me and hung me out to dry. My pseudo-editor at the Trib got on my case because I wrote a column praising a local auto repair shop (Windsor Auto) and actually named it. How the hell am I supposed to share the news of great companies if I can't name them? He got a letter from a reader (affiliated, I suppose, with one of the other local auto shops that suck) who was miffed that I didn't talk about every other shop in town. But my column wasn't about every other shop, I don't like the other shops, I've had crappy service at the other shops. And now, at the Beacon, I'm being blamed because I did not provide a name.

My editor sends me an email, telling me he doesn't want my opinion columns, which floors me because The Front Porch is an op-ed column. He wants the feel-good stuff, the funny stuff. Reading between the lines, what he seems to not want is trouble, so I'm wondering why he hired me in the first place, especially when I made it a point to remind him that sometimes, my column is controversial, and he was okay with that.

So I give up. I had high hopes for the Beacon, but when your editor so obviously doesn't have your back and caves under pressure from the powers that be, then tells me I'm relegated to writing fluff, what's the point of trying? So I'm starting this blog. I'll miss having print editions of my columns, but I think the tradeoff is worth it. Here I can say what I have to say, you can say stuff back to me, and we don't have to worry about editors who worry about pissing people off.

I hope you'll visit The Front Porch frequently. I'll try to write at least weekly; more often if my kids are driving me insane (see my profile for pertinent info) or I'm feeling frustrated by the seeming abundance of people who can't commit to anything in this town. I welcome your comments and feedback. If you like what you read here, please tell your friends and invite them to join us. If you don't like what you read here, please tell your friends, too. Usually if someone gets mad at something I say, it's because there's some truth to it.

Thanks for stoppin' by...I'll leave the light on.