She enjoyed a little vacation that still lingers in memory. Twenty-four hours in a beautiful place. She took an unprecedented afternoon off work, grabbed her most frequent travelling companion, drove five hours and pitched tents in a beautiful place. Great company. Grown children. Grandchildren. Cousins of grandchildren. In-laws and extended family out-laws. They hiked. They toasted marshmallows, they played campfire games. The young people – meaning those aged 35 to 50 – initiated a game called “There will be signs.” In this game, you imagine yourself a millionaire. You don’t tell anyone, but there are signs. Each time around the circle you share one of the signs. Her first one, of course, was getting the piano tuned four times a year. What luxury!
I tell you this story only to say her daughter – the wilderness ranger – is getting married. They are not going to tell anyone when or where. But there will be signs.
“You are in the house of Elrond. And it is ten o’clock in the morning, on October the twenty-fourth, if you want to know.”
I grew up in a conservative American household with two parents joined for life and two children – one female and one male – just perfect. So far, so good. My mother sewed my dresses, patched my brother’s blue jeans, braided my hair every day and told me what a pretty little thing I was. On Sunday mornings (and Sunday nights and Wednesday nights) we changed to our good clothes and went to church. When I was washed and combed and dressed appropriately my mother told me I looked nice. Frequently, I overheard my father tell my mother he loved her. But there were other things I overheard. I overheard my mother calling herself ugly as she stood in front of the mirror. I overheard her berate herself for looking fat, having a double chin, having short eyelashes (she was the type of conservative who does not wear makeup). She continued to affirm me and tell me I was pretty. Everywhere I went people told me how much I looked like my mother. Who was I to believe? The mother who said I was pretty? Or the mother whom I looked like who said she herself was ugly?
My grown-up life has not been perfect. I have been the wife of two husbands and am now single, solitary. I have made some mistakes over the years. Heaven knows I can see the glaring errors of my exes. But those men are the father – the other parent – of my children. Half of the genetic makeup of each of my children comes from someone other than me. Did I want to raise three children to adulthood the entire time pointing out the fault of their other parent? In that way, would they not learn to hate half of themselves? How much more conducive to character building if I pointed out the strengths and positives of the ex and encouraged the child to cultivate those positives?
My children are grown now, and all successful – each in his or her own way. And still the world around me unravels. Relationships of the younger generation fall apart. Couples who have been together for a decade or so decide to split, leaving the children they share to be shuffled from one domestic environment to another on a weekly basis. Wounded and hurting exes vie for the upper hand.
I have observed at a safe distance while unyielding and self-righteous individuals, in completely asinine fashion, intentionally undermine the influence of the other parent and sow seeds of rebellion and hate.
I have also observed wounded and hurting exes who have triumphed. Those, who in maturity and wisdom have set aside their petty grievances for the sake of the whole health of their children.
I have seen exes fight and hurl insults on social media. I have also seen exes build each other up, compliment and thank each other, in view of the children – and the whole world – on social media. Just like they did when they were in love.
Do me a favor. Do the whole world a favor. For the sake of the children and their emotional and mental health; don’t insult, teardown, or disrespect the parent of your child! Travel back, into the far reaches of your mind to the good times – or the one good time. Find one solid respectable trait for your ex and dwell on that when you talk to your mutual children. Save the other stuff for the privacy of your counselor’s office or the ear of your trusted friend. You may feel that making yourself the perfect hero in the eyes of your child will give them someone to look up to. Yet, to make the other parent – your ex – into a perfect monster is to infer the child is half bad, half detestable, half ugly. Can you not care enough about the child of two individuals; can you not respect and love your child enough to speak respectfully of the other parent? Children grow smart and wise. They will soon form their own opinion about the actions and behaviors of those who fathered and mothered them. Don’t disrespect the parent of your child.
After all, what is a road trip without music? She was the driver so she got to chose the playlist. It was a multi-generational girls trip for spring break and I was not driving. The playlist was not babyboomer – not from the 70s. The playlist was millennial and included a hearty dose of driving drumbeat intros (so far, so good), but also some raspy sounding screamo.
I sat in the backseat feverishly editing the manuscript for Precious Journey. My (almost) 15-year-old granddaughter occupied the front passenger seat and my daughter of 33 years was driving. The trip was her idea. The music was her music. Suddenly, the timbre of the male voice grabbed my attention. There was something familiar about the vocal placement, even the enunciation of the lyrics. This was a clean professional recording I had not heard before. I thumped the back of the driver’s seat. “Is this Philip?” I called. “Nope,” she answered, “Project 86.”
We rode on. We heard some millennial classics. We listened to soundtracks. A solid, hard, rock drumbeat laid an extended intro to a song. “This is my favorite band,” quipped my daughter from the driver’s seat. “You really like the drummer?” I queried. “Nope. Crush on the guitar player. This is the last thing they ever recorded.” It was, without question, a professional studio recording – not a rough take. And now I knew; she was the drummer. Three different band incarnations, same three musicians. They met in high school marching band. The first rock band formed in my basement at a homecoming party. They morphed into hardcore rock, then post hardcore. They lived for a time in the same house in Ft. Collins. They have now gone separate ways.
Fire Extinguisher – the first album my oldest son ever produced, toured, recorded, merchandised, released as a cassette and CD and personally presented me a T-shirt for. SMA – good old Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego from out of the past (think 1997) came wafting into my mind as I listened to the male voice, now more mature, judiciously trained, skilled and versatile. The driver turned to her niece. “That’s your dad,” she said.
Friends, I am not musically illiterate and I am not going deaf. Yet, I could not tell the difference between the national best sellers and billboard names and my own children. When you have lived in a music house for over 60 years yourself, when you have been exposed to recording studios and stages of every genre, when you have spent a good deal of time on study and practice of vocal production, when you work daily in music, you notice things. My children have arrived. Whether the world ever recognizes them – or not – I do. These are children who grew up in a music house.
It has been a really great year full of blessings and good surprises, never mind that we are now in the deepest darkest days of winter, I am experiencing the second cold in about as many weeks, and I definitely overbooked myself when I dipped my exploratory toe back into the workforce. Yes. I worked 50 hours in seven days last week– all in the name of survival, being a responsible employee, and independent retiree. But let’s start with the good stuff.
In January, February and March I kept to the house other than my daily 3 to 8 mile jaunts into the great outdoors. I practiced music, I wrote books, I published books. Life was grand. Andrea and I and my Dad took a two week road trip to the Northwest at the end of March. We had fun staying in contactless check-in Air B&Bs and visiting cousins and their families along the route. Andrea and I had fun. Dad rather missed the opportunities to socialize and joke with motel or restaurant staff – but he was totally satisfied by getting to visit with Joyce and Rod, David and Virginia Anderson and family; David and Gayle Harris and family, Cathi and Chuck. We even got to hike and enjoy a seafaring meal with Philip, and we met Shannon and Lisa on the outskirts of Salt Lake City to share an outdoor meal.
Once home again, Andrea returned to her seasonal job as a wilderness ranger with the National Forest Service and I continued writing and set about looking for music opportunities with which to supplement my income.
On May 21, I took a trip to Grand Junction to attend the high-school graduation of oldest grandson, Drew. Although I made it before the ceremony was over, the trip included traversing Coal Bank Pass, Molas Pass and Red Mountain Pass in eight to 12 inches of snow. Andrea followed a couple hours behind in her truck and was the last driver over before they closed Red Mountain. While I awaited the go ahead at the top of Red Mountain, I changed from my graduation sandals into my hiking boots and threw a down coat over my sleeveless dress.
In late spring, Dad and I spent an adventurous night in a cabin on Grand Mesa and followed that with an outdoor luncheon at Coni and Steve’s.
Dad traveled to Durango with me to spent four days which we repeated again in the summer. At Thanksgiving Kevin and family passed through. We enjoyed 24 hours of music and hiking before they went on to Phoenix to have Thanksgiving with Sarah’s sister. Dad stayed with me for another four days.
In June I began playing piano for Saturday and Sunday morning brunch at a local French bakery. I like it immensely. I play love songs from the early ¾of the 20th Century. I spent a few days in Lake City with my kayak paddling every evening and hiking every day with friend Linda and her kayak. I also hiked Highland Mary’s Trail outside Silverton with friend Johanna and was privileged to have other good friends drop in and hike with me throughout the warm months. I took my kayak out solo so many times I have lost count. In October, my roommate (aka Andrea) moved out which greatly increased my living expenses. No worries. I found seasonal work on the Polar Express and then an administrative music job at Stillwater Music opened up – just the job I had been hoping for. In 2020 I sang virtually with the Durangatones from Stillwater. Now I enjoy playing keyboard with Groove Casters (also a Stillwater Adult Band).
I continue to write stories. I am writing songs again. I even played electric bass at a church meeting last summer. See what I mean? Life is good!
I hiked to The Lion’s Den today, a four-mile roundtrip journey I like to take a couple times per month or maybe once a week. The trail leads across the top of a rim that is also the outer boundary to Ft. Lewis College. As I crossed the apex of a seasonal ski slope, now covered in spring green, I heard the public address system and the cheers of graduation and I turned toward the athletic field to see the dispersed crowd and the colorful balloons; the sounds and sights of celebration.
We’re at the end of a pandemic, so the college will host seven – yes seven – graduations in order to make sure everybody and every family is awarded and honored. Everyone gets to attend-and socially distance. There are seven other graduations in my memory some great and some not so good – but not all on the same day.
One of the best was when my daughter graduated from college and didn’t get to walk in the entry procession. Why? Sprained ankle? Broken foot? Knee surgery? No. She had a clarinet – and a minor in music – and she was playing Pomp and Circumstance with the college symphonic band as the solemn pairs of candidates made their way to alphabetically arranged seating.
I vaguely remember my own high school graduation. At the time, I thought I had bigger fish to fry. I was getting married in six weeks. But, I do remember being troubled that the gowns were gold (for the young women) and black (for the young men). In my mind, this was a grave error. The school colors were orange and black. I also remember that I successfully did NOT trip over the microphone cords.
I remember little of my younger brother’s high school graduation-except to confirm that the graduates actually had orange and black gowns. I was too busy keeping my toddler out of mischief. But I do remember my brother crossing the stage, head held high as the speaker announced not only my brother’s name but his list of achievements and awards – an embarrassingly long list that went on and on, causing him to blush and duck as he received his diploma and then exited – his minutes on the stage over – but not the list of honors.
I was not there for my brother’s graduation with Master’s degree or PhD – nor was my brother. Good thing he received so much adulation in high school, for the university graduating classes and departments are so large at Medical College of Virginia one doesn’t even cross the stage – or have to attend.
My children all had outdoor high school graduations in local stadiums. Not one of them tripped over the microphone cord.
The next memorable graduation was a ceremony I was not able to attend, but I will forever remember the front page newspaper photo and story of my daughter-in-law graduating from Colorado Mesa University on Mother’s Day, 2003 – crossing the stage with her newborn in a sling.
And finally I, belatedly, completed my college degree and crossed the stage at the age of 51; my three children in attendance, my brother and SIL and parents in the seats – a milestone indeed; and one of my proudest moments. As my name was read, with my major in organizational management and my minor in music, the young musicians who were gathered on stage to play the Battle Hymn of the Republic broke the rules. They cheered – just for me. And I beamed. I was part of the cast in their musical a few months earlier. It is a nice feeling to belong.
I’ll attend another graduation soon. Another first. My first grandchild to graduate. But then, he’s an old hand at this. He crossed the stage with his mom 18 years ago.
Seven graduations. And do you know what? None of us tripped over the microphone cord. Sometimes the things you worry about just don’t ever come to pass. Then again, the things you thought you wouldn’t live to see? You just might get to celebrate them.
He was the one who went straight to the car after Sunday evening church service, often taking one of the children – whichever was most sleepy or squirmy – with him while her mother chatted with friends, attended to choir business or emergency young peoples or women’s board meetings. Oh, she had heard him be noisy, coaching from the sidelines without benefit of in-ear amplification; training basketball players who were running gym laps, calling instructions from the bench as needed. But for as long as she had known him – and that was all her life – she had presumed him a quiet introvert who favored being alone.
When she planned for a long road trip to visit family, she opted for out -of- the- way solitude, quiet airbnbs that suited her need to be away from the crowd. It was near the end of COVID-19. Old people had been vaccinated. Hope was beginning to dawn. But still, out of caution and scrupulous attention to rules and suggestions, she pursued contactless check in, single family lodging, places where families could cook their own food, avoid crowded diners, stay in their own bubble and not brush shoulders with strangers.
But Dad didn’t see it that way. On a preliminary trip to Capitol Reef, just before the second wave of COVID, while bnbs were barely making a comeback, but doing it with contactless check-in, it worried him that he never saw the hosts. Once the long road trip commenced, he inquired at every stay for the names of the hosts, worried at their absence, began to suggest stops for meals at this roadside café or that diner. A high point for him was exiting the interstate somewhere in Idaho and breakfasting at a restaurant with an intriguing name and a chatty server. Violia was of late middle-age and knew how to joke in the old-fashioned way trading cliches and rolling with whatever eccentricities came from the lips of an 88-year-old man with half his hearing intact. He remembered this as one of the highlights of the trip.
On the other hand, highlights of the trip for his 66-year-old daughter and millennial granddaughter included staying at isolated mountain cabins, lighting wood stove fires, and hiking alone to rainforest beaches. He was gleeful about having met a host accidently on a gravel walkway whilst taking out the trash. He loved to see people. He loved to see faces – even if they wore masks – but especially if they didn’t. He reveled in talking with strangers though he saw and heard only half of what they did and said.
In reflecting on the trip, she realized that for many of the miles and days, she and her dad had unwittingly been at cross-purposes. While she had been industriously planning social distance and solitude, he had been deeply longing for close contact and society – not just with the family members they were carefully trying to visit, but with people, strangers, hosts, waitpersons, the vast outside world that had too long been withheld from him – most lately by a pandemic, but cruelly for the preceding years while he and his invalid wife became increasingly shut-in.
This was so clearly brought home to the daughter – she who craved solitude and independence – on the return trip. In Leavenworth Washington, in lieu of the desired secluded single-family cabin with kitchen, she booked an old motel turned Airbnb, complete with – well, it wasn’t complete at all-it boasted only a microwave and dishes were washed in the bathroom sink. Her dad inquired as to the name of the host. Jessica. She reminded him this was a contactless check-in and they would not see the host.
Whereupon Dad replied philosophically, “Well, miracles do happen.”
The rooster began before dawn at 5:19. She had not yet fallen back to sleep after the second trip to the bathhouse was completed at 4:29 am, but it didn’t really matter. Seven hours of restorative sleep had already fortified her. She was only lying awake to contemplate her blessings. Lodging in a tiny house, 288 square feet of authentic repurposed 100 -year -old farm furnishings, every square inch meticulously decorated with cotton doilies, linens and hand-sewn quilts. No sign that says, “do not touch.” Every indication that she is to wrap up in the quilt, pull out the exposed springs on the crib-sized trundle daybed and luxuriate for as long as she likes in her 650 down sleeping bag purchased for her birthday last year and brought along on this road trip for such a necessity.
Any moment now her daughter will pop in from the farmhand bunk and make use of the hand-crank coffee grinder and organic coffee beans. Once the coffee is perking, they will gather eggs from the hens and have a fine omelette. Rain gently taps on the roof intermittently. Dad still snores softly from the quilted queen-sized bed nestled under an eastern stained glass quatrefoil window and concealed by an antique secretary bookcase now commissioned as china hutch. The bookcase is identical to a pair from her father’s childhood home, one of which graces her brother’s well – appointed professorial study while the other has use at the home of a cousin. It is 7:14 am and still Dad sleeps – an amazing feat for a man used to rising early on a farm, used to getting up before dawn to feed the horses and break the ice in the watering trough. But then, he has been up twice in the night for trips to the bathhouse. Trips on which she accompanied him because the path is unfamiliar and very uneven. Trips on which she, at the age of 66 and allegedly in her prime, reaches out to him and steadies him like she would a toddling child. When your parents age, it helps to have been a mother. The bathhouse has every luxury from clawfoot tub to heated toilet seat. The only thing resembling the old farm outhouse is the aged barnwood paneling the walls and floor. It takes time to enjoy these amenities when you are 88. It also takes time to wash your hands and get back into your coat. While he washes his hands and gets back into his coat, she slips behind the partition and makes use of the heated toilet seat for herself. A wise woman goes at every opportunity. She, too, might want to sleep until the sun is up!
Last night when Silvergirl pulled into the driveway about 7:00 pm the three travelers were greeted by a cacophony of bleating goats, honking white geese and clucking hens. By the time she and her daughter enjoyed a pit campfire and headed for bed the hens were cozily perched in their custom aviary and the frogs and toads in the pond were loudly singing an evening serenade. The amphibians were at it again briefly this morning once the rooster alarmed them.
What a beautiful morning! Such is the life in Christopher Robin’s Writer’s Cabin, next to the 100-acre-wood, on Whidbey Island, on a working farm – when she is not the one working!
He was a guard on the varsity basketball team, one of five starters on the first ever Warrior, the first senior class, the first Central High School – at that time housed in the WPA building on 29 Road. At 5’6” he weighed 125 pounds. He was sharp and attentive and rightfully earned the nickname “Live Wire.” They were a scrappy team, they exercised sportsmanship. That was 71 years ago.
He was the coach at Olathe Junior High and then Clifton and later Bookcliff Junior High He was well-loved. He coached a winning church basketball team. That was in the decade known as the 60s. As a player or as a coach of multiple sports he understood two important principles: Keep your eye on the ball. Tuck that football into you so you don’t fumble.
We’re taking a stupendous road trip, this 88-year-old erstwhile athlete and I. We’re enjoying the vast farmland and calculating the worth of cattle herds and mammoth irrigation systems in Wyoming and Idaho and Montana and eastern Washington. When I was young, and yes, this is a trip of memories, we always counted the cattle on a thousand hills and claimed them for Dad’s ranch. After all, he was raised on farms and ranches and he understands the value of each haystack and each cow.
When we reach Montana, I am smitten by the mountains and conifers and lakes and rivers. Though I like to think of myself as finally in my prime and I also pride myself on averaging three miles of hiking or walking each day, we are not traveling alone. My 88-year-old father and I are accompanied by our own private wilderness guide and martial arts devotee in the person of my 32-year-old daughter. She drives, and does our cooking for us, and is there to pick us up if we fall. I am the planner and navigator – a baton I have inherited from my father – although he still figures the gas mileage and total cost and suggests routes.
Night three of our road trip, we stayed in a beautiful alpine-like cabin. I packed and unpacked. Andrea chopped wood, lit the fireplace, and cooked. Dad sat in the recliner and did the books and composed an email to my brother on his laptop. Yes, we are all internet savvy and each hauled along our essential Macbook Pro for various uses.
Next morning I readied myself for a morning exploration of the exquisite mountain property; the pond, the spring, the evergreen trees, the creek-sized river running through the lower regions. Dad announced that he would go out and walk around the cabin while I was out. The ground and steps from car to cabin were uneven and slick with an overnight skiff of snow. Dad has limited vision with his coke-bottle glasses and macular degeneration. I pondered for one quick moment and determined to accompany him on a walk first and then return him to the safety of the recliner before I meandered further.
We walked down the decline. He wanted to do it himself. Without help. He didn’t want to take my hand lest he fall and pull me down. I showed him how to use his walking stick with one hand and place his other hand on my shoulder. We walked down to the pond with ease and stood contemplating on the tuffets of grass at the bank. The grass was the color of golden wheat, not yet greening for the spring; the buds on the weeping willow trees and cottonwoods so chartreuse they look neon yellow against the pine trees; the bare stems of the infant willow switches a brilliant red. The day was chilly and frosty like an old-fashioned root beer mug placed in the freezer overnight.
We turned and headed our laborious trudge back up the hill, always moving forward – sometimes at an imperceptible pace. Scattered about our feet were ostrich egg sized pinecones – newly fallen and still red brown. I spied a perfect one. Stooping, I picked it up for closer examination but fumbled it off my cold fingers. Dad snatched it out of the air, cradling it securely to him like a mini football.
“Well look there,” he said proudly with delight. Once again, it’s Dad for the win!
Living the life, he writes from a 230-square-foot studio cabin while penning a yearly update to family. Panoramic views stretch expansively into public lands from the windows liberally flanking three sides of the studio. In the center stands a pot-bellied wood stove. Water reaches toward a boiling point for tea. Hardbound classics stand upright on knotty pine shelves. A vintage microscope, typewriter and various state of the art wireless word-processing devices conveniently litter a sweeping 24-foot, built-in desk space. It can be assumed he is clothed in wool that is very smart – in more ways than one – and featherweight down.
This is the life, she says. And she is eternally grateful. For over 60 years she has longed for the time and solitude to write. And now she is living the life; living in a well-equipped authentic Victorian row house; rising before dawn and writing for a couple hours; bathing in a vintage claw-foot tub with hot running water that she doesn’t have to fetch or heat; hiking for two hours a day, every day at whatever time of day suits her fancy; keeping fit, keeping well-read, indulging in virtual choirs and virtual bass workshops and adding to her piano repertoire and strumming her pain with her fingers on a handsome acoustic guitar she never had time to caress until this year. Most of the time, she is vastly content. She has done what she said she would do 13 years ago – write. In the space of eleven months, she brought two novels to print, novels begun in the 80s and now historic. She resurrected a children’s book first published in her initial crusade to become a writer.
But they are tired, these siblings, tired of not being able to meet in a cozy coffee shop, tired of not being able to travel by train or plane to exotic places to expand their intellectual horizons. Tired of restraint from family reunions where laughter is shared by people who overlap with common inherencies.
Sometimes she grows tired of living the life; tired of not being able to go to a ballroom just every once in a while and find herself in the arms of a man who can really lead and who can dance to boot – or dance in boots if the situation is western; tired of singing virtually without the felt energy of leaning in to match the blend; tired of hawking and signing her books electronically – missing the smiles uncovered and the handshakes hearty and the spontaneity of laughter that does not mute the audio of everyone else.
And as for him? He is living the life – in the lap of all that he loves and has earned, but he is tired of talking to colleagues, about bears and nutes and biodiversity and the human genome, via Zoom. He longs to go global once again – lecture and discuss in Zumbian zoos and the Tanzanian tropics and rustic Denalian lodges.
And so they coexist, these two siblings, closely related by blood yet often differing in opinion, a few hundred miles apart, in virtual solitude and partial isolation.
Yes, they are living the life in so many ways and they acknowledge it with heartfelt gratitude.
But in some subtle way, they are tired of living the life. Something needs to change.
It’s the book she never intended to write. You know, the Christian Women’s fiction one. And the audience for this book is probably well over 50 and likes best to read comforting feel-good books by Jan Karon about Father Tim and all the residents of Mitford.
It’s the book that disappointed her favorite cousin “why doesn’t the main character DO something?” said the cousin when prevailed upon to do a final read through.
It’s the manuscript the author read aloud to her best friend while on a long road trip, so the best friend is not obligated to read the book again – but that friend did volunteer that she loves the cover! The art is mesmerizing.
It’s the book the author’s 32-year-old daughter will probably never read since it’s not Rowling or Tolkien or Austen or Brönte or Frank Herbert. But her daughter, none-the-less, has an eye for style and an opinion about the cover. And that is how the cover came to be washed in shades of brown and looking like a southern gothic adventure set in the 80s.
Artist Courtney Harris did a fabulous job of interpreting the author’s ideas of a cemetery in Texas in 1989. The author is happy with the cover. The author’s daughter is happy with the cover. The artist’s mother is happy with the cover. The author’s best friend is happy with the cover. So please, go ahead and judge the book by its cover!
Because the back cover says “Caution: contains Bible quotes and seminary speak and a very unconventional love story.”
Unconventional. Yes. In the latest film version of Little Women, Mr. Dashwood (the publisher) tells Jo March, “and if the main character is a woman, make sure she is married by the end of the book – or dead!” The ending would satisfy Mr. Dashwood – and all those who share his point of view. Someone is dead and someone is married.
Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!
