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I Am an Old Woman
My version of “playing house” as a kid was being a 20-something who was independent and beautiful, and had swarms of suiters. My best friend Katie Hurd and I imagined careers and boyfriends, and even different names. I favored Krissie. We had a hip apartment and plenty of young adult drama in our make-believe world.
I was pleasantly surprised to find myself living my fantasy for a short time in my young adulthood. In my early 20’s I was indeed beautiful. I had plenty of suitors, along with a very cool duplex I shared with my best friend (not Katie Hurd). Eventually got I married, and by the time I was 25 I was pregnant with my first child. It was not until I hit my 30th birthday that it occurred to me that time did not stop at age 25. I knew it intellectually of course. But the reality did not set in until the first wrinkles did.
My 30’s were great. It was a time of self-discovery. As I learned to accept my fading youth, I felt more freedom to be myself. The more I figured out who I was, the less comfortable with me my husband became. I do not necessarily blame my self-discovery years for my divorce but they definitely played a role. All of the sudden I was too loud, too expressive, too opinionated. I did not know how else to be.
In the midst of splitting up with my husband, I listened to a podcast where a relationship counselor said anyone going through a divorce or a long-term-relationship break-up should spend a minimum of one year being single. I remember thinking “In one year I will be old enough that nobody will want me.” I was 38. In retrospect, this was great advice and I should have taken it. It would have saved me a whole lot of heartache. Outside of a few disastrous attempts at romance in the beginning, I have spent most of the last five years contently single anyway. Those attempts at romance did nothing but steal from time with my kids and interrupt my creativity.
For a brief time during these single years, I worked as an administrative manager. I was in charge of a whole lot of ladies from all walks of life. One was a heavy drinker and even heavier smoker. I am nearly certain she had none of her original teeth. She should always dress in orange and black in my opinion- the colors that signify danger. She was feisty and funny and not someone I wanted to cross unless I absolutely had to. She did her job well and I happily left her alone to do it.
Our sales manager made it his past time at work to give her grief. He would startle her any chance he got. He may have lacked the social skills to recognize how cautious he should be. He would jump at her from around corners, hide life-size dummies under her desk, anything he could think of. She was easily startled, and he got a kick out of it. She would scream “I am an old woman!” The inference being he could at some point give her a heart attack. A real possibility to be sure.
She was about my age. Maybe a couple years older but not much. Old beyond her years.
I have recently begun to avoid mirrors. In my 20’s and 30’s there were plenty of times that I would look at my reflection and think “not too bad.” In my 40’s those moments have become rare. The wrinkles are more prominent. My nose is less cute. Gravity is taking its toll. It will not get better. I just want to cover my eyes and shake my head no, much like I do while watching scenes of a movie that are too embarrassing, too scary, too uncomfortable.
I talked to a coworker about getting older recently. She is the same age as I am. Her life load is heavier than mine. Like me, she is raising four teenagers. But she is doing it without the support I have. Her parents have both passed. Her ex-husband was never much help, but he has now also passed. She told me she hates looking at pictures of herself, and also feels like she is aging prematurely. Personally I think she looks great, and told her so. She is objectively beautiful, and looks much younger than her 43 years. She said it’s not so much the aging, but rather she worries she looks pinched and burdened. This I can relate to. I find myself frowning a lot more over the last couple of years. My load not might be as heavy as hers, but it is heavier than it used to be. And it shows. I grimace a lot more than I used to. I scrunch my eyebrows in worry and frustration. You know what they say about making faces… In the midst of conflict, fun or serious, I find myself often telling my coworkers and my kids that I am an old woman.
My boyfriend is younger than me by a solid five years (go me). The age difference is something neither of us acknowledge for the most part. There is not much difference between 38 and 43… unless we are discussing 90’s pop culture. His early 90’s is my mid 80’s after all. I have never felt older than when I asked him if he remembered the Monica Lewinski scandal. In these moments, I do indeed feel like an old woman.
There is a 25-year age difference between my mom and me. The same age difference between my oldest child and myself. As I get older, I hear all the time about how much I look like her. I have distinct memories of my mother at my current age. It is unsettling. My mom at 43 shopping for prom dresses with me. My mom at 43 riding her bike to Idaho City. My mom at 43 walking in front of my friends and me as one of them tells me how good she looks for her age. My mom at 43 in a bathing suit. My mom my mom my mom… She was a grandmother twice over before she was my age. A young grandmother to be sure but still.
I am not an old woman. Not yet. I am young and vibrant and physically capable of facing a dummy at my desk without having a heart attack. Constantly telling people I am old is only going to make it so. I know this. I am trying to check myself.
Time is going fast. Before I know it, 25 years will pass and I will be 68. 25 years is nothing. A blip on the radar. A blink of an eye.
25 years, 43 years, 68 years… it is all so insignificant. I am insignificant. Time will pass whether I am on this earth or not. The time means something to me though. God willing, I will continue to get older. My looks will fade even more. The wrinkles will get deeper. Hopefully so will my wisdom, my love, my joy. Give me the ability to accept this process with grace and happiness. I am working on it. And I would like to think that time continues once this mortal life has ended. I cannot look at my four interesting, engaging, fascinating children without thinking it is so. There has to be more after this. If not for me, for them.
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Talent Shows
Starting in 5th grade, every student in my elementary school was required to try out for choir. If you made the cut, you could choose to opt out if you wanted. For the life of me I cannot remember if it was cool to be in choir. All I know it that every Friday, choir kids got out of class early to attend practice. That is all the incentive I needed.
At back to school night in fifth grade, a friend of mine congratulated me on making the choir cut. My mom turned to me and said “Why didn’t you tell me?” I just shrugged. I was nearly positive the only reason I made it was because for some arbitrary reason our music teacher, Mrs Ashenbrenner, absolutely adored me. I do not use arbitrary lightly. About my singing abilities or my likability to teachers. As long as the song being sung is in middle C I do ok, but I have never been especially musically talented. And although I was a polite student, I was nowhere near exceptional. Selectively lazy might have been the best way to describe me. My report card read “A pleasure to have in class, does not complete work on time” every single semester of my elementary school career. No exaggeration. Making the choir certainly did not feel like an accomplishment deserving of accolades. It was just favoritism.
In 6th grade, Becky Bursenio told me I sang like a flower child. To this day, I have no idea what she meant by this. At the time I took it as confirmation that I was no good at singing. I did not pursue choir after that comment. Still kind of regret giving it up.
One of the choir songs we sang was called Dixie Land. A song that was considered the unofficial anthem of the confederacy during the civil war. The lyrics are troubling in today’s climate. But it was a fun song at the time.
My church was putting on a talent show around this same time, and my mom suggested, or more insisted, I perform Dixie Land. Solo and unaccompanied. I am now and have always been a little too go with the flow. My mom thought it was a good idea for me to perform and I went with it. I am a talented person in a lot of ways. But a solo acapella singer as a 12-year-old? No.
There were several contributing factors to the disaster that followed. First- my outfit. I wore a dress that was white and lacy, and a little too small. It looked like something that could pass as a wedding dress for a grown-up, or a charming outfit for a child. Being neither woman or child, and totally unsure of my physicality, it looked off on me. Also there were tights. The whitest tights.
Second- my lack of preparation. I put nearly zero effort into making sure I had a polished act. It was an easy song to sing as a group, and I guess I figured that would be enough.
But the final nail in the coffin was the smirking face of my crush in the front row when I got on stage. With my adult eyes, I can see now that he was most likely not smirking. Just watching. But it threw me.
This boy in the front row was not just my crush. He was my obsession. My whole 12-year-old world revolved around him, and the belief that if I tried hard enough, I could make this boy love me like I was sure I loved him. He just needed to see how cool I really was. I was going to marry him some day after all.
I got through the first verse and the chorus of my song before I completely froze. Every lyric, every ridiculous punctuating move, completely left my brain. My mom was on the side of the stage taking pictures. Recording for posterity my embarrassment. I still have the pictures. In the middle of my freeze, I yell whispered “Mom! What do I do?”
This is where the terrible memory ends. I have no idea what my mom did next. I do not remember if I finished the song. I do not remember what happened once the talent show ended. I am still mad at my brain for not blocking out the whole damn thing.
Emmy is about the same age I was when this happened. Her middle school recently put on a talent show. She decided on her own she wanted to try out. Supportive as I am, I could not help but cringe at the idea of her putting herself out there. She opted to do a gymnastics routine. Her tryout was about 45 seconds long, and she was less than prepared. She made the cut. Of course she did. Everyone makes the cut in middle school.
Over the next few weeks, I encouraged her as best I could to polish her routine. A few days before the show she had a pretty good act. The night of the talent show, she was calm but I was all nerves. I needn’t have worried. She did great.
Watching the rest of the talent show, I was tense. I said a silent prayer at the beginning of each act that it would at the very least not end in disaster. All the performances were good. Some were great. Nobody panicked and whisper yelled for their mom off-stage.
Middle school is the hardest of years. Everything you do is observed and scrutinized. One false move can follow you for the rest of your life. Or so it seems when you are young. For so many young people to get up in front of their peers, to risk ridicule if they mess up, or even if they don’t, takes a lot of confidence. Or a mother in the background pushing their kids to try.
For my 20th class reunion, there was a gathering at a park. This was an event in which we were encouraged to bring our families. I went with my four kids. No Shelby, as we had recently split up. I really wanted to impress. To show my classmates that I had it together, despite my many embarrassing teen years. Everything went well. For a bit. Towards the end of the night a group of classmates and I were standing in a circle, catching up and chatting. Emmy was in the middle of the group, showing off her gymnastics moves. She was cute. I was proud. As she twirled, something fell out of her dress. One of my classmates, a man I have known since elementary school, picked the item up and said “honey, are these yours?” It was a pair of underwear. My underwear. They had static clung to Emmy’s dress and fallen out as she did her moves. I grabbed the offending underwear and mumbled something like “nope, those are mine” as I hastily shoved them into my purse and tried to pretend it didn’t happen.
Had I been in middle school, this would have mortified me to the point of near paralysis. I would have taken a few days away from school in the hopes that the incident would be forgotten. As it was, I just felt grateful that the offending underpants were clean, and pretty cute. I went to the adult class dinner the next night not really giving it a second thought. The underwear affair just did not matter.
It will be a surprise to nobody that I did not end up marrying my 6th grade crush. As fate would have it, we are now good friends. He’s grown into a lovely adult with an equally lovely wife and family. I recently asked him if he remembered the talent show disaster. Of course he does not.
I am pretty sure no person at the church talent show more than 30 years ago remembers my blunder. Nobody is dwelling on the time I failed a science test in 8th grade and my crush (different crush.. I always had one on hand) tried to reassure me that it was ok, as I blushed and sweated pit stains through my T-shirt. I hope nobody remembers the time my maxi pad fell out during P.E. while we were running laps in 8th grade (hands down the worst day of my young teen life). Everyone was too worried about their own missteps. The errors that would keep them awake at night for years to come to give my embarrassing moments a second thought.
If I could pick a super power, it might be time travel. I would love the opportunity to re-experience the birth of my first child, my college years, my first kiss., the time my sister came out to visit my roommates and me at Ricks College.. But middle school is a time I would skip altogether. It was just so uncomfortable.
As an adult I recognize that making a fool of yourself is part of being human. I am here for it. I spend zero time thinking about the dumb things everyone else does. I am certain nobody loses sleep over the stupid things I do every single day of my life. The list is so long. I am here for it.
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Great Aunts
My nephew and his wife are days away from having a baby. I cannot wait. The prospect of becoming a great aunt doesn’t exactly make me feel young. But who cares? I will be driving down to Utah to smell that baby.
I have my own great aunts. Most of them have passed but some are still living. They have all been a part of my life to some degree, but perhaps none as much as my Great Aunt Irma Florenzen.
My dad’s Aunt Irma was quite a lady. When I knew her she was barely 5-feet tall and nearly as big around. She was fiery and often ill-tempered, but also a lot of fun. My own grandma, Irma’s older sister by three years, died when I was 12. I loved my Grammy. I would have liked more time with her. In a lot of ways, Irma was a substitute Grammy to me. Not as close, but pretty great.
When I was in high school, Irma and her husband John would regularly come to Sunday dinner. Around the dinner table, Uncle John would inevitably start to tell some inappropriate story or joke. Sensitive to my family’s conservative nature and in an attempt to shut him up, Irma would yell-whisper “Johnny!” John had as little hearing as he did tact, so he would continue on. At some point, a fed-up Irma would straight-up yell “Johnny, shut up!” John would smile, put his head down, and finish his Sunday dinner. I cannot speak for my siblings and parents, but I found this amusing. A nice break from our regular Sunday routine.
Uncle John was a great time. But by all accounts, he was not a great partner. Irma and I had lunch together most Tuesdays while I was in college. This was after John passed, and during a time she was tied to her oxygen tank and her easy chair. She could not drive, and spent her days playing solitaire and watching daytime tv. Taking her to lunch was difficult. Getting her and her oxygen into my two door Dodge Colt was challenging. Finagling her into a restaurant felt awkward. I canceled on her more than I would like to admit. What can I say? I was young. I spent our lunches trying to get to know her and her history. She was pretty tight-lipped. I once asked her if she liked the job she made her career as a bookkeeper for a department store. She scoffed her answer of “No. I worked because I had to.” That’s all I got.
Once I asked her why she married John. She said, with more than a hint of bitterness “Because my sister got married (my Grammy), and I wanted to be just like her.” Again, in very Irma fashion, that is all she had to say. There was no romanticizing. No indication of love. I do believe the love between her and John was there. I imagine it was there in the beginning, and then lost during their challenging years. Probably found again as they settled into old age.
According to family folk lore, everyone told Irma she was making a mistake by marrying John. But in typical stubborn Irma fashion, she did it anyway. She was only 17. In their early married years, John did not work. Instead he spent his time and money away from her, and their eventual six kids, doing what he loved. Gambling and playing. Like I said, John was a good time. At some point, Irma had enough. She threatened to leave unless he got a job. So he did. A job he kept until they retired. Leaving would have been the easy out for a man like John. He must have loved her. Her and their kids.
Living with Irma would not have been easy. I went to visit my dad’s cousin Faye recently in an attempt to get a better picture of the great aunt I love. Faye is Irma’s second born of six, and her only daughter. I have nothing but great memories of Faye. As a child I thought she was the warmest and most beautiful woman that could possibly be. A polar opposite from her mother. Faye was Peaceful and settled. She lacked Irma’s short fuse, her quick to anger personality. Faye and her husband Ed let us swim in their pool any time my parents were willing to take us to their house. I remember Ed as a quiet and smiling man, infinitely patient. Ed passed about a year ago, and Faye is in her 80’s now. She is still warm and beautiful. A delight to be around.
When I asked Faye about growing up with Irma as a mother, the most prominent thing she had to say was that Irma had a temper. She said she stayed as far away from her mother as she could. According to Faye, Irma yelled all the time. At John, at her brothers… She knew her mother loved them all, but the yelling was a burden.
This was not what I wanted to hear. I wanted intricacies to my great aunt’s life. Her good, her positive. I wanted redemption for my great aunt and her seemingly disappointing life. I did not get what I came for.
My dad came with me on the trip to Faye’s house. Even though he grew up with Irma in his life, he was surprised by Fayes revelation. He knew Irma had a temper. Apparently the temper was a family trait. One his mom, my Grammy also had, along with my lovely aunt Judy.. if not to the same degree. But he remembered Irma as being kind and loving towards him, if not a bit temperamental. This is how I remember her.
Even though he was surprised at Faye’s retelling of Irma’s temper, he did experience it on occasion. One of my favorite stories my dad tells was the time he and his cousins got into Grandma Meda’s (Irma and Grammy’s mom) lipstick, spreading it all over their faces, the mirrors, the wall. Irma gave them all a swat for it, including my dad. She told him “if your mom was here, I know she would spank you too!”
My favorite Irma story is the one about my dad visiting the Florenzens as a young man. His cousin Don was talking about a friend of his who just lost a finger. Irma said something like “Oh, losing a finger is no big deal.” Don took exception to this, and in moments, the argument escalated to Irma putting her hand on the counter, and daring Don (her son), to go ahead and cut a finger off. While holding a knife, Don yelled “I’ll do it! I’ll do it!” My dad, not used to quite so much turmoil, and not knowing what to do, said “I think I am going to go home now…”
I am sad for my Great Aunt Irma. She did not live the life she wanted to. In some ways it was great. She had six kids who went on to live great lives of their own. She had a career, and in the end, a husband to love. But I think she was more than a little bitter about the life she ended up with.
My life has not always been roses. I am disappointed occasionally by the hand I have been dealt. Or more accurately, by the hand I have dealt myself. I am discouraged by my failed marriage. Frequently frustrated by the burdens and challenges of running a business. I am in a constant state of worry and heartbreak over my four teenagers. Often I tell myself and anyone else who will listen “I wish I had five less things…” Five less still leaves plenty. Occasionally when I glance in the mirror, I am surprised by the pursed lips and furrowed brow that stare back at me.
I work with one of my cousins. Irma would be his great-great aunt. Even though he is an employee of mine, the family connection allows for a little more casual employer-employee relationship. Today he told me to stop complaining so much. He meant it to be funny. And it was. But you know what they say. There is always a little truth in a joke. He is right. I do complain too much.
I can find plenty of reasons to be bitter. I could light my fuse. I have inherited that trait from the strong women of my bloodline. But I don’t want that. I don’t want to look back at my beautiful life with bitterness and regret. I have it good. Challenges included.
Hopefully I get to be a significant part of my great nephew’s life. As Irma and my other great aunts were a significant part of mine. Someday he might want to write a blog post about me. And when he visits one of my kids, trying to get a better picture of my life and who I was, I hope my kids have good things to say. I want them to be able to answer honestly “my mom was happy. And she very seldom yelled”.
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The Old House
I never wanted to buy the Old House. To this day I cannot tell you why I was hesitant. We were outgrowing our first home at an alarming rate and needed a new one. The Old House was plenty big for our growing family. It was on a pleasant street with a decent yard and just the right amount of solitude. I may have been hesitant but Shelby was not. He was confident it was the right move. So we bought the house.
A couple years into our family life at the Old House, the man who owned the empty lot behind our back yard passed away. His son offered to sell us the land for cheap. This time, I had no hesitation. We purchased the land enthusiastically. With our new purchase, we were able to expand our already impressive backyard. We tried our hand at low-key hobby farming. We got chickens, tilled an absurdly large garden, planted fruit trees, grapes, raspberries. We even got bees. Summer and fall brought endless canning of tomatoes, pickles, peaches.
This was an ideal time in our family life in a lot of ways. Money was tight but our needs were few. During the day, Shelby worked hard at building his career, while I nurtured kids and home. I volunteered in classrooms, planned activities and outings, tried my best to keep the Old House tidy. My days were diapers and disaster, with a little PBS mixed in. America’s Test Kitchen for me, PBS Kids for the kids. When they were out of school, we did our Summer Fun list- library outings, craft days, swimming days, movie afternoons… In the evenings, Shelby worked on our little hobby farm. He helped bathe the kids, played with them, tucked them in. I read them endless Roald Dahl books and cuddled them to death. These at-home years were great and I miss them desperately. They were also extremely challenging. There were plenty of days I just did not want to do it. Plenty of days where I lost my temper and threw grown-up fits. I had outer body experiences in which current Katie screamed and yelled at kids, while outer body Katie said “Stop. You will regret this later.” Current Katie never listened.
Emmy, my fourth and final child, was born with a heart defect that required open-heart surgery. It was a surgery that was only done in a handful of hospitals across the country, so we spent a few weeks in Salt Lake shortly after she was born. The surgery was successful. She is perfect in every way, minus a few scars. The weeks after our return from the hospital were harrowing for me. We had a brand new baby that was in constant pain. A baby that required a feeding tube, heavy duty pain medication, constant monitoring. On top of that we had our three other children. The oldest being barely past the toddler years. I was beyond overwhelmed.
We switched cell phone services around this time. Shelby came home from work one day as I was changing what I am sure was my 10th diaper of the day and said “Mike from Sprint wants to know when you are going to switch your new phone over.” In a tense voice just below a yell, I said “I don’t even have time to shower. So you tell Mike from Sprint that if he wants me to switch my phone over he can come here and do it himself!” Shelby put his hands up and backed slowly out of the room.
Around this same time, Shelby informed me that a young couple with kids had moved in across the street. This should have been big news, since most of our neighborhood was made up of retirees. But I was up to my elbows in diapers and toddlers, so the news barely registered. One day while I was working in the front yard, a young, beautiful, and larger than life woman in a skirt, white shirt, and flip flops walked across the street in my direction. I met her half-way and she handed me a gift bag. It was a baby gift. Probably a onesie or a baby dress. I do not remember. She told me she heard I just had a baby and wanted to bring me something. I thanked her graciously. It was such a kind gesture. We spoke very few words before she walked back to her own home. I don’t think I even got her name.
A few days later, four-year-old Lilly and I walked across the street to properly introduce ourselves and invite her two kids over for a play date. Lilly brought a handful of earthworms for the occasion. The neighbor opened the door, and before I could even introduce myself, Lilly declared “I have worms!” I found out the neighbor’s name was Amber. Years later I also found out that it was Lilly’s worm declaration that made her realize we would all get along just fine. She accepted the play date and Lilly and I went back home.
On the play date day, I expected her to drop her kids off at the agreed upon time and then come back for them a couple hours later. This was the standard among my handful of other young mom friends. A play date was an excuse for the mother of the invitee to have a few blessed hours of peace. Playdate invitations were a favor we passed around equitably. I was a little taken aback when Amber came right in and sat in my easy chair with an air that she belonged there. I am nothing if not chill, so I went with it. She held my baby. The kids played. During the couple of hours she spent in my home, her and I became friends. A friendship I value to this day.
This ushered in a period of great fun for my kids and utter chaos for me. Once Amber and I became friends, once our kids felt free to go back and fourth between her house and mine, other moms in couple miles vicinity of our homes joined the fun. My beautiful friend Melissa and her four kids who were a half-mile down the road started coming around more. Chalnessa moved in around the corner. A fundamental Christian with four kids of her own.. all around my kids’ ages. Slightly different from the rest of us in her long skirts and long-sleeved shirts, but oh-so lovely. I started a backyard workout group, which brought even more moms and more kids. It was simultaneously beautiful and messy. There were many evenings in which Shelby came home to massive amounts of kids in our basement, in the front yard, in the garden. He did not always love this. To be truthful, there were times I did not love it. But it was just so good. Good for my kids, good for our quality of life, good for my soul.
I have memories of moms sitting at my bar counter while I made food. We ate together. Sometimes we laughed, but often we cried. We shared our struggles, our insecurities, our worries while our kids played at our feet.
As fun and interesting and chaotic as things were during this time in the Old House, as ideal as it all seemed, things in my marriage were not quite so great. All the boxes were checked. Loving mom and dad, clean home, plenty of friends, good quality of life. There was a lot of love. Not just with the kids, but between Shelby and I. There was also a lot of pain and damage and gaping wounds that would not heal. At a certain point it became clear that our marriage was not salvageable. We stayed married for a few years after this. Just in case. Neither of us wanting to let go of the life we had been working towards. Neither of us wanting to let go of each other.
There were a lot of false starts when Shelby and I decided to separate. Nights where the decision was made, and then taken back in the light of day. Moments of Shelby actually leaving, only to come bursting through the door a couple of days later with some kind of revelation on how to fix what was broken. Right before he moved out for good, we sat the kids down to break the news. They were pretty mute about it, as we had gone through this before. But that night, as Shelby packed, Carson lay on the floor across from our room and wept silent tears. His dad was leaving. His only ally in a group of strong-willed girls. His buddy. His “brother”. He was 9-years-old. I hate this memory.
Once we separated for good, I knew I could not stay at the the Old House. Nor did I want to. I needed a fresh start. I needed to escape the bad memories the Old House held- memories that overshadowed all the good moments we had there. We sold the Old House and I bought a new one. Not far from the Old House, but far enough that my kids were devastated. For the first couple years of living in our new home, they would often say they missed the Old House. The three older ones have said at least once that when they get older they are going to buy it. Most of them have gotten over it. They have new friends, new experiences, a new life. But Carson often tells me he still misses it.
That Old House held some great memories. Objectively it was not a great house. It was poorly built and hard to maintain. The yard was fabulous, but had to be watered manually. The Old House was almost a full-time job. And while there were a lot of good memories, there were plenty of bad ones. A lot of door-slamming and yelling. A lot of discontent and discord. A lot of moments my kids have conveniently blocked out. Thank God.
Carson does not miss the Old House. He misses what the Old House represents. He misses his old life. One in which he had two loving parents. One where he isn’t the only boy half the time. One where I greet him at the bus stop and ask him about his day. One in which kids run in and out of neighbors’ kitchens and yards. He misses the ideal.
A friend recently asked me if I am happier having made the decision to get divorced. Shelby and I have been separated for going on 6 years. Officially divorced for five of those years. It feels more recent. The wounds, the pain, the sadness are less prominent. But still there.
Divorce has come with a huge sacrifice to me and to Shelby. And most of all to our kids. I feel the loss that they feel. The time I spent with them in the Old House is no longer a possibility. Now I have to work. My time with them is limited to after work hours. I have to sacrifice half of my remaining time so they can be with their dad. This is fair and necessary, but I still hate it. They are mostly teenagers now, running around doing teenage things. So the time I have with them is even more limited. My effectiveness as a parent is not what it once was. I often feel like I am floating in space, with four humans tethered to me. I can pull one of them in for a moment, before they once again float off into darkness.
There is no more running between neighborhood houses. There is no Summer Fun list. I cannot tell you the name of a single teacher my kids have right now (Besides Mr. Neiderberger, who I call Berger-Mister Mister-Berger. If you get it you get it). What a sacrifice we have made.
Shelby and I could not have reasonably stayed married. Both of us agree on that point. But I certainly do not want to celebrate our separation. I do not miss the Old House, but I do miss the period of time it represented for me and my family. I miss being able to be there for them all the time. I miss having the freedom to develop relationships with other moms. I miss the camaraderie. I miss having a partner. I mourn the loss of those days. It could have been any house. It just so happens we ended up with the Old House. I am grateful for the time we had there.
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All the Little Things
Craig’s eyes flutter when he tells me stories. He also rubs his fingers along his impressive mustache when he has something to say, but needs a minute to get the words right. Before any adventure we embark on, it takes him a minute to get ready and out the door. He’s not high-maintenance. He is particular though. And methodical. I enjoy watching him take his time. Ours is a long-distance relationship, so I only physically have the opportunity to observe his quirks, his little things, in small doses. The distance probably gives our idiosyncrasies a longer shelf life.
During a short recent visit together, he asked me when I thought I would start to be annoyed with him. The unsaid second question being, at what point will he begin to be annoyed with me?
I told an employee recently that my mind was a steel trap. She responded with “Yep, a steel trap full of holes.” I laughed. She laughed. What can you do but laugh when it is true? I am forgetful and selectively observant. I often float around in oblivion.
When filling out the hotel registration during my last trip with Craig, I could for the life of me not remember the make and model of my car. I got there in the end but it took a hot second. Craig thought it was cute. I forget what stories I have told him, what questions I have asked. So I repeat myself a lot. All little things that could drive someone crazy. He takes it in stride, and does not seem bothered. On the next trip together maybe.
In answer to his question, I told Craig, “I hope I am never annoyed with you. At least that is my goal.” I am experienced enough in relationships to know that loving the little things sometimes takes effort. An effort not limited to romantic love.
I spent the first sixteen-and-a-half years of my life thinking my mom hung the moon. In my eyes she was the wisest, coolest, most wonderful woman that ever existed. Many of my conversations with friends started with “well my mom always says….” Half-way through my senior year I started snipping apron strings pretty hard. I wanted to be my own person with my own ideas. I wanted independence. My mom was getting in the way. The woman who once could do no wrong was nothing but annoying and oppressive to me. The harder she pushed to maintain our lost close relationship, the more I pulled away. Her little things became more than annoying. They filled me with rage. I hurt her pretty bad I think. On some Sunday morning part-way through my senior year, She sent my sister Merry in to wake me up. At an unreasonably early hour. Like 9:30 or 10. She wanted me to help make food for my dad’s birthday, or Father’s Day, or maybe Christmas Eve… I forget. There was Jello Cheesecake. That I remember. I was tasked with making it. I made no attempt to hide my annoyance.
She tried to connect. To make conversation. I was having none of it. My mom: “How was your night?” Me: “Fine” My mom: “What did you do?” Me: “Nothing.” On and on my intentional indifference went until my cool-as-steel mother lost her temper. She threw a glass in the sink. It shattered. She screamed at me. Something she is usually far too self-contained to do. “You would treat a stranger on the street better than you treat me!” she yelled. She was right. I hugged her as hard as my teenage angst would allow and said “I’m sorry” over and over. Later that night my dad came in my room. My dad, who through my young teenage years was just a person in my life. A person whose little things were categorically annoying. A person who could not say the word “bra” or “period” without me running to my room in hysterics. About the time I decided my mom could do no right, I believed with all my heart my dad could do no wrong. I had to have someone to idealize, after all. He suddenly became the man every other boy would need to aspire to, should they ever want to date or marry me.
He sat on my bed and folded his hands, still in his Sunday suit. “I told your mom she needs to give you your space. I told her she needs to leave you alone. But… she is my wife. And if you ever treat her this way again, you will have me to answer to.” I half smiled and said ok. I respected my dad for taking my mom’s side. But it would still be a few months before I willingly came back to her arms.
Through the first part of my married years my, mom still drove me crazy at times. The snipping of the apron strings was long past, but the annoyance at her little things held on a little bit. I spent my young adult years being as close to my family, and her especially, as I possibly could. Sunday dinners, mother-daughter Costco trips, lunches with her and my growing brood of children. Through all of this I still rolled my eyes at times. I am not sure what the turning point was, but eventually I recognized that my mom was fine just as she was. I was the problem. I have loved her and all her little things ever since. Most of the time.
Growing up, there was nobody I loved more than my oldest sister, Summer. She was six years my senior, and as far as I was concerned she was perfect. As I have a tendency to do, I idealized her. She let me tag along with her and her friends pretty much anytime I asked. She made me feel important and loved. I adored her for it. As I approached adulthood, I began to see the cracks, the flaws. I began to see my sister as what she had always been… human. We have had more than one conflict in our adult years. Ugly conflicts I thought we would never come back from. But with effort, we did come back. While I now recognize her humanness, I maintain she is a nearly perfect one. One of my favorite of all time. The painful arguments seem pretty stupid now. I brought this up to her recently.. our devastating conflicts, and our ability to move on and be close friends. I barely got the words out of my mouth before she said “It takes time with a person. You have to spend time with them to get past the hurt”. Isn’t that the truth?
There are a lot of people in my world that I love. All kinds of people with all kinds of little things. But there are no humans on the face of the planet I love more than my four children. Carson fake-punches me as a place-holder for hugging. Constantly. Complete with sound effects. He flicks my light switch on and off a dozen times when he says good-night to me. Rachel uses very descriptive and un-lady like language when talking about needing to use the bathroom. Oh, and I cannot get her to stop piercing her face. I will be in the middle of a very important or intense conversation with Lilly, when she altogether forgets the thread and tells me about the squirrel, the goose, the Vista Ave washing woman she randomly just saw, before returning to the conversation. She is my daughter, no doubt about it. Thanks to Emmy, my least favorite two words of all time are “Hey mom?” How many times a day can one person reasonably hear those two words? She absolutely refuses to share her feelings on any emotional topic. Unless it is animal abuse. Then I get an earful. I spend way too much time with these children not to see their little things. And they spend too much time with me not to see mine. I see them. I love them. Little things and all.
Can you have true and lasting love with any one person without effort, pain, and conflict? I don’t think so. I am not talking toxic or dysfunctional relationships. That is a topic for a different blog post. Important, rich, meaningful relationships will always be the hardest ones. The ones that take patience, work, understanding. I cannot think of a darn close relationship in my world that has not taken serious effort. An effort to not just look past their little things, but also love people for those little things. I am not perfect at it. My kids are a fall-back. A way to tout my ability to love people and all their flaws. They are an easy out. It is in our job description to love them unconditionally. But what about the people we choose to love? The spouses, friends, siblings, lovers. Those take a little more, don’t they? So to all the people I love (and there are a lot of you), I sure will try to always love your little things.
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What is Love
Giving birth to my oldest child is one of the most profound experiences I have ever had. I had a clear vision of how I wanted the birth to go. I had a birth plan. Just like all my pregnancy books told me I should. I decided I did not want an epidural. Not out of any sense of morality, or desire to have a natural birth. I just did not want to have a giant needle inserted into my spine. I also did not want an episiotomy. No thank you to that. My doctor listened patiently and nodded his head as I communicated my feelings to him. In retrospect I am sure he was rolling his eyes internally. On the day of Rachel’s birth, he gave me the option of having a mild drug pumped through my IV that was meant to “take the edge off” the labor pains. It did not take the edge off as far as I can tell. After a few terrible contractions and a couple of weird druggy thoughts, I told them to bring on the epidural. I am no martyr. Labor and delivery was a breeze from there on out. I did not even mind the episiotomy that I ended up needing. Once they placed Rachel in my arms nothing else mattered. I knew I could never love something so much as I did that child.
Then Lilly came along. A mere 19 months later. The second she was born I loved her every bit as much as I loved Rachel. And I still loved Rachel every bit as much as I did the day she was born. This trend continued through each of my four children. My love never diminished. It just grew.
That is the nature of love. It is limitless. It holds no boundaries.
In my closest circle, I have my kids. They are a lot. I always wanted four kids, and my husband at the time felt the same. We wanted four, and we wanted them close together. So, close together is what we did. By the time my youngest was born, my oldest was five. Which means I had at least one kid in diapers, without a break, for something like 8 years. I was a host to parasites, via nursing and pregnancy, for a very long time. Keeping these four children alive and fed was a task I would not wish on my worst enemy. They were great, but they were hard. Life was chaos. Looking back I do not know how I survived it. I definitely did not do it perfectly. But I loved them passionately. And I hoped this would make up for all the parts I was lacking. I still love them. Would give my life for them. I would eat them if it did not mean I could not have them anymore. And I still hope and pray that my love for them makes up for my many shortcomings.
Now they are teenagers. They are self-involved, messy, infuriating. I still want to eat them. Most of them won’t even hug me. Still, they are and will always be my favorite people. I love them an unreasonable amount.
Outside of my kids I have my extended family. And what an extended family it is. I love them to pieces. Not to the extent that I want to eat them. But I would definitely commit a heinous crime to benefit or avenge any one of them. My love for them is deep, and unwavering. I feel confident that they feel the same.
My mom recently wrote a book. Objectively, it is really great. One person on Goodreads gave the book a bad review. My sister texted me about it. After much discussion we came to the conclusion that it was probably a troll who had never even read the book. I want to write a book someday. I told her that if I do, I am ok with a bad review from people here and there. Sarah said “I think I would handle my own 1 star review okay, but I won’t handle your 1 star review very well.” If that is not love, I do not know what is.
Most of my siblings have children. A lot of children. I have something close to 20 nieces and nephews. I would commit crimes for them as well, even though my time with them is more limited than I would like. In my early days of having children, my sisters and my brother were having small children as well. My kids were consistently with my sisters and sister-in-law. When they were not there, all the littles were with me. It was chaotic and stressful and wonderful. I miss it. I love them.
My sister Sarah had a late-in-life baby. She did not enjoy the prospect, and seemed less than enthused when she announced her pregnancy to all of us. She told me a few years after Zack was born that she was devastated when she found out she was pregnant, but now feels sad about anyone who doesn’t have a Zack in their lives. He is 7 now I think. I wish I knew for sure. I wish I was still in a stage of my life that Zack was at my house while his mom does her grocery shopping… like his siblings were. I love that child like I love all of my nieces and nephews. I want more of him. I also feel sad for anyone who does not have a Zack in their lives.
My youngest was born with a significant heart defect. Something that we were not aware of until she was 10 days old. Once we discovered the issue, things moved quick. I flew to Children’s Primary Hospital in Salt Lake with our newborn baby girl in an ambulance plane. My husband at the time drove down and met us there. Leaving my other three small children in the capable and loving arms of my family members. At two weeks, Emilia had a successful open-heart surgery to correct the problem. During this time I felt in my bones the love that my family, friends, church members and acquaintances were sending us. It was a profound and lovely experience. I did not know you could feel a collective love like that.
Saying the words “I love you” is not hard for me. I take the ease with which I say these words for granted. It is not so for everyone. My dad had a relatively normal upbringing for the generation he was in. His mom took care of the day-to-day kid issues, and his dad worked as a postman. My grandpa made a good living for his family. He did what he needed to do to better the lives of his four children, and probably to a lesser degree his wife. But he did it all silently, and without emotion. I think my Papa Howard loved his kids and his family the best he knew how. But he was entirely incapable of saying the words. My dad tells me he loves me pretty much every time we speak. But he had to learn the art of telling his children he loved them. Saying “I love you” did not come naturally to him. My Papa Howard died a good decade back. As far as I know, my dad and his dad never exchanged those precious words. But he uses those words freely with me, and with my siblings. And with his wife. My mom.
I am lucky enough to have a wide range of friends that seems to grow wider every day. There are some I would commit crimes for, and others that I would listen to tell me about the crimes they would commit. I would never tell the police. But I might not be complicit. Unless there was a very good reason. I love them.
Shiela is neat. And strong. And amazing person to have in your corner. I would walk through fire for her. I think she would walk through fire for me. I also have a childhood friend called Jennie. I do not remember a time when she was not in my life. She is the only friend I make a point of seeing regularly. Every other Friday we have a couple of drinks, and eat some cheap good food while talking about life and books and movies. It takes a lot for me to cancel this standing appointment with her. I love these friends. I have many more friends I love, but not the space to write about them all.
Customers who come into my store do so because they really want to be there. Most of them have a story to tell about the candy store, or their own life, or whatever. Not that long ago, a lady came in and ordered a couple hundred dollars worth of chocolate. She was kind, but in a rush. I asked her who the candy was for and she burst into tears. She said her daughter had cancer and the chocolate was a thank you to all of her doctors. We shared a moment, and in that moment, I truly felt love for her. And her daughter. And her daughter’s doctors. Would I commit a crime for any of them? Maybe.
I have spent the better part of the last five years intentionally single. Happily single. I have a lot of kids, a house, a business to run. That seemed like enough. I had gotten to the point that I felt a single life was the best fit for me and for my kids. The idea of not having romantic love wasn’t particularly upsetting to me. There was enough other kinds of love in my life to keep me fed.
Then of course, I met someone. A lovely man that I adored pretty instantly. His kindness, humor, intelligence is just what I needed. I have enjoyed every moment I have had with him. But romantic love is a whole different animal. Where does infatuation and exhilaration end and love begin?
We do not do a lot of communicating during the day. He has a demanding job, and I am pretty busy too. We talk most nights, and that works for both of us. I look forward to hearing his voice in the evening hours. I think he feels the same. I had a bad morning today. I texted him about it, fully expecting it to be a topic we would discuss when we talked after work. He called me pretty quick after I sent the text and said something like “I’m sorry you are going through this. You don’t deserve it. I wish I was better at this. But I adore you and I just wanted you to know that.”
He is clearly better at “this” than he thinks. Am I in love with him? It’s early days. Do I love him? Of course. He is part of the tapestry of my life. Along with my kids, my siblings, my nieces and nephews, and every person that comes into my candy store.
Love is not limited. The more love you feel the more you have to give. Love your kids, your family members, your mailman (I love mine!), all the strays and the broken people. Especially the kids who don’t get it anywhere else. Anyone who needs or wants it. And definitely those who don’t. Just love them. The ability to love is a privilege. Embrace it.
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The Prettiest Girl in the Room
The mall may be one of the most soul-sucking places on the face of the planet. It’s a combination of excessive consumerism and almost zero natural light that gets to me. There is nearly nothing at a mall that anyone needs. It’s just expensive clutter, bought in the darkness of daytime. It all feels so shallow. So unnecessary. I avoid it where possible, but I do have four teenagers. So sometimes the mall is a necessary part of my life.
Emmy is twelve. And as a typical twelve-year-old, she has become mildly obsessed with clothes, hair, makeup. All the things I also cared about at her age. She wants to be grown-up. She wants to be “pretty”. The child spends countless hours and way too much money on face peels, fancy shampoos, moisturizers, in order to improve an already perfect face. Sometimes I have a disturbing desire to peel the skin from her face and wear it as my own. It’s a bazaar form of love aggression, I know. But that is how perfect this woman child is in my eyes. I wish she knew it as innately as I do.
For her twelfth birthday, Emmy’s burning desire was to shop at the mall with her sisters and me. At H&M, Emmy and Lilly explored the racks of clothes while Rachel and I sat on a bench and chatted. She told me how much she hates trying on clothes, because it just makes her feel bad about her body. This sentiment brought me acutely back to my own teenage years. At this point in my life I have accepted my physical appearance. I even appreciate it. A lot because I am just so tired of worrying about my size, my beauty, and how it compares to others. It is years of wasted energy and time that I want back. A little because I recognize that my body is pretty amazing, and it does amazing things, despite my abuse of it. Also, I have come to realize that striving for physical perfection is a losing battle. I will never be the prettiest girl in the room. None of us will be. I also now understand that not being the prettiest does not diminish my innate value in the slightest. But it took me decades to get there. I still backslide every so often.
I have three daughters currently navigating a near-adult world. They are doing it in a way that is devastating familiar to me. I also have a teenage son. And while I know he is dealing with his own insecurities, it is hard to get a feel for what exactly his experience has been. My girls tend to be generous with their words and feelings, so I generally know a lot about what they are going through. Sometimes I think I know too much. Carson is a bit more of a one-word answer kind of guy. I ask how his day was and I get “good.” I ask how he likes high school and he says “I don’t know”. I ask, “are you happy?” and he just shrugs. There is a lot going on beneath the surface with that kid. But he doesn’t let it rise up very often.
I never grew up as a boy. And I was too involved in my own insecurities to recognize what my brothers were going through in their young years. I would like to surmise what Carson is going through. But instead of reflecting inaccurately on his life experience for this blog post, I did what I always do when I don’t know the answer to something. I called my parents. Well, my dad.
I asked my dad if he struggled with the insecurities that come with adolescence. He enthusiastically told me he did. He said he hated his ears, his nose, his face. All of which he admits were pretty normal features. But he dealt with it in a very boy way. He made fun of his friends’ ears, noses, faces. He describes his approach to his insecurities as “I know you are but what am I?”
Interestingly, he says he still finds himself defaulting to this approach out of habit at times. My dad is a success in every definable way. He is financially secure. He has a happy marriage, and a family that he adores. He is nearing 70, but has the physical health of someone much younger. Yet he says he still has an occasional urge to jokingly put other people down. He says it is a throwback from his younger years. Those rivers run deep.
None of us leave our teen years unscathed. The most emotionally healthy of us leave our adolescence with diminished confidence. And we carry our insecurities with us throughout our adult lives. I wish it wasn’t this way, but for most of us it is.
Most days, I walk from Lee’s to the Dollar Store next door to buy a Diet Coke for my lunch. I usually bring a few chocolates for the clerks. They deserve it. They work very hard and make very little. One of my favorite clerks is an older woman called Joanie. Last time I saw her she told me she gives the chocolate I bring to the other clerks because she is on an all-meat diet. She said “I don’t know what is wrong with me, but I just keep gaining weight.” Joanie has to be at least 70, and is perfectly normal sized. She is well past the age where she should be worrying about the numbers on the scale. I made the most eye-contact I could and said, “Joanie, you are absolutely perfect just the way you are.” And I meant it. Joanie is kind and beautiful, and she makes my days better. And my goodness, if you can’t stop obsessively worrying about your appearance in your 70’s, when can you?
Rachel is adorable. And in my eyes, physically perfect in every way. She does not see herself the way I do. And no amount of adoration from me will change how she feels about her own person. During our bench chat, I told her I relate to her insecurities. I told her I went through the same thing at her age. Then I went into advice mode. I told her she should just embrace who she is. I told her to stand confident and proud. She came back with “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” Fair enough. I am backing off for now. It still breaks my heart that she doesn’t see herself the way I do, as the wonderful, strong, beautiful person she is. I want that for all of my kids. I kind of want that for everyone. I just hope she does not take decades to figure it out like I did.
I can always tell when Rachel feels less confident by the way she carries herself. She shrinks inward and keeps her head down. At her age, when I felt insecure I got loud. I tried on a variety of personalities that I hoped would make up for my lack of confidence, my feeling of falling short of all the people that were around me. Where I strove for the spotlight as a teen, Rachel tries to be small. While I sought attention, she tries to disappear. My other kids deal with their insecurities in a variety of ways. I wish I could take the insecurities away with my intense love for them. I wish I could do that for everyone. Including myself.
My advice is hypocritical, as I still deal with my own insecurities every single day. But here it is. You may never be the most beautiful person in the room. But you might be the wisest, the kindest, the most insightful or interesting. Either way, you are you. And that is pretty great.
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The King of Idaho City
I took the kids camping this last week. It is the second year in a row I have taken them by myself. When I was married, we used to camp frequently. My husband always handled the logistics, I always handled the food. Doing it alone is outside of my comfort zone, but it is within my budget. And I absolutely love camping. The combination of fresh air and zero cell service is a great one. We did three nights. By the last day the kids were ready to come home. Not me. As long as I have my air mattress and my Xanax, I could camp until the day I die.
The camp site we have frequented for the last two years is about 10 miles outside of an old mining town called Idaho City. In the 1860’s, Idaho City was the place to be. With a population of 7,000, it was the biggest city in the entire northwest, including Portland. It was full of Americans trying to make it big. It was equal parts full of Chinese immigrants trying to do the same. It was quite the party town. There was gambling, sex workers, and of course all the alcohol. Idaho City was entirely constructed of wood at the time. That, and the copious amounts of alcohol would probably account for the fact that it burned down FOUR TIMES within the space of seven years in the 1860’s-70’s. Between consistently rebuilding the city, and the gold boom bust, Idaho City went from flourishing to floundering within the space of a few years. The population of Idaho City now holds tight at just under 500.
It is a quaint little town that has the feel of something desperate to be more. There is a lot to see. Between the cute shops, the ice cream parlor, and the really cool and creepy old cemetery, it is a pleasant place to spend an afternoon. Which is what we did on one of our camping days. My kids insisted that we go to this really great restaurant they know called The Gold Mine Grill. It is right off the highway, and it is exactly what you would expect from a restaurant right off the highway of a town that used to be great and is trying to be great again. The food is surprisingly good. The atmosphere is something else. What my kids didn’t know going in is that I know the Gold Mine Grill very well.
50 odd years ago, my grandpa discovered the little town of Idaho City, and moved his family there. I won’t go into the details of why this was great for him, and less good for his wife and kids. This old mining town was right up his alley. It was a place for him to be important and influential. And also, to be a cowboy. He spent a good portion of his life trying to revitalize the town.
You need to know about Bill Stirling, my grandpa. He was larger than life. He was everyone’s best friend, often at the expense of his own family. He was a cowboy, a maverick, a real character. My most poignant memory of my grandpa was of the time he let me use is cellphone. This was back in the day when nobody had cellphones. And the ones that did exist were as big as a loaf of bread. He handed his phone to me and said “call your mom.” I did. My brother answered, and said he would go grab her. My grandpa snatched the phone from my hands and said something like “no, no, no, it’s too expensive to wait!” I thought I had done something wrong. But that was just Bill. My grandpa always had the latest thing, the coolest thing, the oddest thing. He was a salvage broker, which I assume means he found crap nobody else wanted, and made money off of it. He often brought me “gifts” from his finds. My favorite was a pair of flip up sunglasses when I was around 10. I was so cool in those glasses.
I cannot say my grandpa and I were particularly close, as Bill never got close to anyone. He could not even bring himself to use anyone’s first name. No matter how related they were. My mom was always Pooh. I was always Katie Did. You would have to ask my aunts, uncle, and various cousins what he called them. But he did love me. All of us. I knew that as a kid. I know it now. Despite his inability to show it in any satisfying or significant way.
I have memory upon memory of my lovely grandfather, or “Papa the Great” as my kids know him. But I won’t bore you with them.
The second I walked into the amazing Idaho City restaurant my kids wanted me to try, memories came flooding in. This restaurant was Papa’s place. He would regularly drive from his house to the grill (maybe half a mile), and drink past the point he should before he drove back across the street. Later in his life I spent a very upsetting afternoon driving around in the back cab of his pickup truck.. full of dog hair and absent of seatbelts. Before we ended up at the restaurant across the street, he drove us around all the Idaho City sites. This was a time in his life that he was starting to lose his faculties. The driving was not great. There was an unsettling amount of off-roading. I was scared in the back seat of his truck. But I held on to me and the little dog next to me and smiled through the excursion. We ended up at the Gold Mine Grill eventually. Bill knew everyone. And they all knew him. He told story after story abut this waitress and that. Although frightening at times, it was a good day.
When I walked into the restaurant with my kids, I was flooded with nostalgia. I asked our very young waiter how long he had been working there. He said “only a couple of months”. I said, “Oh, too bad. I thought you might have known my grandpa.” He asked me papa’s name, and when I told him, his whole face lit up. “Oh, I knew Bill! He was a great guy.” We reminisced for a minute, and then placed our orders. A few minutes later the cook/maybe the owner came out and said “Are you the Bill Stirling group? I loved Bill. He was a cantankerous old man. He always asked for “Bill Water” when he came in.” I asked him “was it whiskey?” As he walked away from our table he said “Yep! Whiskey and water. That was Bill’s drink.”
My kids all got a kick from this, but nobody more than Carson. As we continued our day, he asked every shop owner we came across if they knew Bill Stirling. Most had either known him or heard of him. After all, he was the King of Idaho City.
My grandpa died almost four years ago. He spent his final days in the hospital confused, and a shell of the mighty cowboy I knew him as.
In his confusion, all he wanted was to go home to Idaho City. But second to that, he wanted a whiskey. Towards the end, my aunt brought him some. Why not give a dying cowboy what he wants? He took one sip and told her she did it wrong. She responded with “It’s whiskey dad, there isn’t a way to do it wrong!” It was probably the medication, and being close to death that made the whiskey less sweet.
Because we were not particularly close, I did not think I would be sad when Papa Bill passed. But I was. Watching the man who used to drive me around in his pickup, call me Katie Did, give me outrageous gifts, turn into a shell of a person who had to have mittens taped to his hands to keep from pulling out tubes was heart-wrenching. Four years later I still want to cry about it. Makes me wonder how I will do when my own dear parents pass.
Papa, Bill, Handsome Bill, Papa the Great was not a perfect man. He was nowhere near a perfect father, and he was not a perfect husband in any way. But he was good. He had a moral code that he followed, again sometimes at the expense of his own family. He was a true cowboy. And I am proud to be part of his heritage.
Idaho City is part of my heritage, too. Carson spent a whole two hours in the Idaho City museum. He could not get enough. When we finally left, he told me “I would love to live here someday.” That small great town wilderness cowboy living is in his veins. My papa, Papa the Great, Handsome Bill, King of Idaho City is in my veins, too.
I miss my papa. But until I can see him again, I will keep camping, eating, and existing near the great town of Idaho City.
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Front Porch Sitting
I have always wanted a house with a front porch. I love the idea of sitting out front with a cold drink, waiving at neighbors as they pass by, or even as they stop to chat. I have never had a front porch. I do have a back patio, where I spend a lot of time alone. It is my favorite place on earth. The doorbell rarely rings during my back patio sitting. When it does, I tend to be a bit annoyed at the interruption. I do not like unexpected company, with the exception of my next-door neighbor who I will chat with endlessly any day of the week. Outside of her, when people randomly stop by, my thought is always “why didn’t you text first?” Clearly I like the idea of front porch sitting more than the actuality.
I have been raising my four kids all on my own for a little over five years. It has been tough. Making and keeping appointments, getting them to various sporting and social events, keeping them clothed and fed. Parenting them from work is not ideal, but I have to work. And they have to live. In a very candid conversation, Rachel recently told me she wishes I was still a stay-at-home mom. This broke my heart. She understands I have to work, but even at 17 she knows she is missing out by not having me more available. They all are. Doing it on my own is not easy. It feels like I am never quite meeting their needs.
Owning and operating my own business is also a tough gig. I run into problems every single day. Most of which I barely feel equipped to deal with. But I do it. All on my own.
The dishwasher, my sprinklers, my front door, the washer AND the dryer all need attention right now. There is a giant, front door handle shaped hole in my wall that I don’t know what to do with. To fix it, I have to patch it. And then buy paint to match the current wall color. The project feels too overwhelming to tackle. So for now, I let it sit. What’s a couple more years with a hole in your wall? I care for my house the best I can. I take care of the urgent problems and let some go. And I am doing it all alone.
Look at me go. I get praise from friends and strangers all the time about how great I am handling everything. I love the accolades.
There is a secret to my success though. There is a reason I am able to balance four kids, a home, a job. And here it is. I am not doing any of it alone. Not one single bit.
I am raising kids on my own 50% of the time. The other 50%, their dad is raising them on his own. And I sit on the back porch with my thoughts and my laptop. Even when I have them, I do not do it without help. I have supportive parents and siblings… a LOT of siblings. Not to mention a handful of friends who are totally invested in the well-being of my children. If friends are not available, I have aunts and cousins who would help me no questions asked. I have a whole mountain of people to call on if I need kid rides, or just a bit of emotional support. Raising my kids has been a joint effort, and I am so grateful.
I had a great job before Lee’s Candies. It was secure and well-paying. My boss was supportive and kind. It offered little in the way of flexibility, which is something I absolutely needed in order to be present with my kids. I brought my problems to my dad, and he decided the two of us should go into business together. Lee’s Candies was looking for a buyer, and I was looking for an opportunity. But without the financial and emotional backing of my business partner and father, purchasing the candy store would not have been possible. He is hands-off with the day to day operations, but if I need him he is there. I could not have ventured on this journey without him. I also have a group of about ten employees, who are not just employees. Every last one of them are invested in the success of my small business. They care about the candy store, and they care about me. What an amazing gift I have in these employees.
My washing machine is off-kilter. Every time the agitator spins, the washer takes on a life of its own and travels across my laundry room floor as though it is possessed. I have just been dealing with it, as it still gets the clothes clean, and I am not interested in spending money on a new one. My dryer is no better. No matter how clean I keep the dryer vent, it takes two full cycles to get my clothes dry. The other day the washer shook a tube loose. I am still unclear on the purpose of this tube. All I know is it was spewing water all over my floor, and I did not have a clue how to fix it. I did what any capable woman would do in this situation. I called my dad. He talked me through it and we temporarily fixed the problem. He is coming over next week to help me troubleshoot this and a variety of other household issues I do not feel equipped to handle.
Even with the endless support I am lucky enough to benefit from, my life feels very difficult. Which makes me wonder and worry about the many people in my world who are truly navigating their difficult lives alone. There are a lot of them.
There is a line from an Eddie Vedder song that I love. “I’m a lucky man, to count on both hands the ones I love. Yeah some folks they just have one, and others they got none.” I feel this in my soul. Because I can count on all hands and feet the people I have in my word. And then some.
So about that front porch. We have air conditioning, DoorDash, cars, practices, financial and familial obligations. All of which takes us off of our front porch and into our own homes. Out of our community. I have my own group of front porch people without even trying. But not everyone does.
I never got to meet Lee Nockleby, the founder of my candy store. But I get to hear a lot of stories from my amazing customers. He would regularly let neighborhood kids come into the store and take home whatever they could carry. He loved them. His love made a difference. I try to channel my inner Lee when kids come to the store. I try to be generous, to make them feel important. To treat them like the precious people they are. To step on my front porch.
Maybe it will make a difference to these small and precious children. And to their parents, who maybe for a half a minute won’t feel like they are doing it alone.
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A Promotion for Marriage
There are a lot of things in my world that I do not understand. Things I am ok with not understanding. Ghosts, for example. Do they exist or don’t they? There is compelling evidence in both directions. Fine by me. God is another one. Does He, She, They exist? I am really not sure. I am ok with that. Girls who identify as boys, boys who identify as girls. I was born a girl, I feel like a girl. I grasp that others have a different life experience that I cannot fully comprehend. I am ok with that, too. You be you, and I will call you whatever you want. I do not need to understand.
Marriage is on the list of things I do not fully comprehend. Finding and marrying a partner is the ultimate goal for most of us in our current society. I can count on one hand the marriages I consider successful. They are out there, but they are rare. So why are we so obsessed with the idea of getting married and settling down when most marriages are either unhappy, or they end in divorce. Or both.
I grew up in an LDS household (Mormon). In the LDS community, marriage and a family is the end game. It is what we all strive for. On top of that, I had the rare opportunity of witnessing an exceptionally healthy marriage. My parents loved and supported each other. If my mom wanted to ride her bike up to Idaho City, my dad would say “Be careful and wear your helmet”. When she wanted to start her own picture framing business, he said “go get ’em”. When my dad decided to start his own concrete supply company, my mom threw his arms around him and said “I know you can do it”. And he did.
When I was in high school, my mom decided to teach an early morning religion class to a bunch of teenagers. Which meant my dad had to get us up and out the door in the morning before he went to work. He packed my lunch every single day. Something my mom rarely did. It wasn’t always great. There were many days that my lunch consisted of animal crackers and baby carrots. And there were the great days he just handed me a $5 bill and told me to fend for myself (which was my favorite). But he did it without complaint. He did it to support my mom. My family was a happy family. I assumed it was the norm.
I know now that my upbringing was abnormally normal. I have very few friends and acquaintances who have enjoyed the experience of growing up with parents who loved, respected, and supported their spouse. And I have very few friends and acquaintances who felt loved, respected, and supported by their parents. The two go hand in hand.
I got married at 22, which in the LDS community felt old. My husband was 24, which felt REALLY old. Throughout our 16-year marriage, we had some really great moments. Some of the best parts of my life happened in those 16 years. The birth of my oldest child, our first house, being poor and scrounging for money. Our simple times together were really beautiful.
But there were problems. Serious problems. I feel like it is important to note that my husband was a hard worker, and a great supporter of our family. We were his world. We still are. But our marriage was not healthy. It was not the marriage I expected.
Here is a thing they don’t tell you when it comes to marriage. You marry the person. But you also marry their past, all their trauma, their flaws. This is a thing I wish I had known.
My marriage did not succeed. We were not able to weather the storm. It breaks my heart every day. Being married was so hard. Being divorced is even harder. It was the right choice for us but I mourn the loss of my marriage every day.
Mike Brubiglia tells a beautiful story about his now wife. He didn’t want to be married, as he saw very few successful marriages in his world. His then-girlfriend definitely did want to be married. After a traumatic event in his life she said something like “I don’t know what to tell you. I am just glad you are here and you are ok”. He proposed to her on the spot. He says “I still don’t believe in marriage, but I believe in her”.
I think that is very beautiful. Because even though outside of my parents I have seen very few good marriages, I am open to it. There is a person out there who will cheer us on if we decide to ride our bike up a giant mountain. They will say “go get em’. Just make sure to wear your helmet.”
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Observations of a Human Person 