A Birthday Pie

When we celebrated E's birthday early two weeks ago, we did so because her little brother was in town and we figured we wouldn't see him again until M's graduation in May. And here we are with K at home and no parties for birthdays or graduation on the agenda. No parties, at least, with guests beyond our little clan. Two weeks ago, I might have come up with a dozen accounts of how we were planning to spend E's actual birthday and none of them would have ended like this.

Happy 24th Birthday to E.

M and I made an apple pie today since we had already had cake. Not that two cakes would have been a bad thing. But we did have plenty of apples and E is a fan, so that is what we did. We were missing ice cream, but it was still delicious. The birthday meal was make-your-own-nachos bar. Mine ended up looking more like a taco salad.

It feels like our family members are starting to get into a rhythm - doing their thing for most of the day. For M & K today that included the start of online college classes. Each evening we've been coming together to eat, taking turns being the person in charge of preparing the meal. Perhaps it is our unschool roots showing. This part is feeling a lot like home to me. I'm treasuring this evening coming-together time at the kitchen table, listening to my children laugh and talk and tease each other. I remember my mother sitting like this, quietly at the kitchen table when all of her grown children were home. She'd have such a big smile on her face. I understand now what she was thinking, and I wonder what she'd make of the state of our world today. But especially, I wonder what she'd make of me, her baby, having a 24-year-old. E was the only one of my babies that my mother ever knew.

Some members of our writing group tried a Skype meeting tonight as Monday evenings are the usual gathering time for us (and we missed last Monday's formal meeting, one of the early casualties of the calendar when we were all attempting to make adjustments and deciding how many were too many and if we should get together at all). It's funny that I am one who often misses meetings for need of some alone time, yet I was really looking forward to seeing their faces. And though we had some technical difficulties, see most of their faces I did. I expect it will happen again. And perhaps we will even all get good at it before this is all over.

__________________________
NYTimes has us at 82 cases as of 8:11pm, 3/23/2020. Lyon County remains at 2. 

Found: Note from Mom

I wanted to make veggie and wild rice soup with the duck that was left from our anniversary dinner. I pulled out mom's old food chopper (because I probably didn't do the best job cooking the duck -- it was a bit tough and I was trying to think of an easy way to chop it up small) and was telling my son about how my mom used this handy kitchen tool all the time. I used think it was just her way of processing leftovers. We often had a "sandwich spread" of some kind after a roast, a chicken, a turkey, etc., but today I wondered if maybe she used it often because it was a good way to soften up those tough old birds (either as a result of poor cooking or the fact that they were literally old birds that had gone from egg producers to food on the table stage of life). Anyway, Kaman expressed surprise that the chopper belonged to my mom, and then as I was cleaning and putting it away, I found this in the bottom of the box. 

Mom was always labeling and dating every gift she ever got. I used to think it was a strange practice when I was a kid, but one I grew to appreciate. Today, it was as if she joined our conversation. Not only was it my mom's meat chopper, she got it for Christmas in 1962 from my grandparents (dad's parents). I love that she tucked the gift card inside the box. Maybe I have seen it before, but it didn't strike me as familiar. Her handwriting though, that I knew. And that 56 year old meat chopper still works like a charm!

Reality Doesn't Much Matter When We Believe Otherwise

I was thrilled when I got up this morning and saw on my phone that it was 35 degrees out. I've not been walking outside much in the mornings. There was that long stretch of single digit morning temps, followed by a long stretch of morning temps in the teens and twenties. Too cold. I bought a gym membership for the month of January (my hopes set on an early spring).

But this morning, it was above freezing by three degrees! I couldn't make excuses. I got dressed, layered myself appropriately, and then grabbed my coat (the one I use as a top layer on the coldest of days) just in case...

The dogs were thrilled, of course. I think they've missed the walks even more than I have. We took off in the pitch black of morning and I was looking forward to seeing the sun rise, thinking it would come quite a bit earlier than the last time I took a morning walk.

I was sure glad I'd grabbed that top layer, though. There was a pretty stiff breeze. It felt colder than I felt like thirty-five degrees should feel. But it had been a while. And the answer to feeling cold is just to move faster. So I did. And the dogs were eager and pulling me, so that helped!

When I turned north on Commercial, that stiff breeze took my breath away. And within a block I was getting that intense headache I usually get when it's freezing out and the nose pieces on my glasses carry the cold directly into my brain. What a cold thirty-five degrees, I told myself and pulled my scarf up (luckily, I had grabbed that too). I had to pull my fingers up inside my coat sleeves, the gloves I'd put on were my above the thirty-two mark gloves. With that morning breeze, it sure was feeling more like ski glove weather. None-the-less, I was happy to be outside and my core was really starting to warm up.

I was steps away when I looked up to see what the sign on the building at the corner of Commercial and 6th had to say about the temperature. 16 degrees!

Clearly, I had not given my phone time to update when I flipped it over this morning to look at how cold it was outside.

I was warmed up and tempted to keep going, but waiting for the light to turn, I saw my little dogs (still eager, still happy to be out) shivering. We turned left and made our way quickly back home.

There have been winters when I have managed to walk every morning, regardless of the weather. This has not been one of those seasons. It's funny, how warm that sixteen degrees felt, when I believed it to be thirty-five.

Rory and Sherlock, happy to be home after a cold morning walk.

Impromptu Writing Retreat

My Munchkin Boy had a state 4-H meeting that kind of snuck up on us. It was far enough away that making two round trips for drop-off/pick-up seemed unreasonable, so I checked the points on my Choice Hotels rewards card and got myself a "free" room with a desk. Bought myself some fancy coffee drinks and healthy snacks and shut myself in for a writing marathon. Hit the ten-hour mark before crashing sometime this morning. Let myself wake up naturally rather than by alarm and am pleased to have another couple of hours to devote to writing before I need to be anywhere.

Wrapping up:

• WaterSigns -- new poetry book by Ronda Miller
• A Life in Progress -- short story collection by moi!

Work-in-progress:

• Essays about vendors and my time at the market. I am calling this a market memoir. I believe it is going to end up being a fairly comprehensive history of the 35 + year history of the Emporia Farmers Market!

What a satisfying way to start a week!

A Belated, but Thankful Post

I am looking at my list of projects… it includes things that were on last year’s list of projects and, sadly, many of those items that have made the list two years in a row remain incomplete. If my son’s theory holds correct, a year is 1/46^th of what it used to be. [his theory regarding our perception of time passing = when you are ten years old, a year is only representative of a tenth of your life, and therefore, it feels like it takes longer than when you are 40 years old and a year is only representative of a fortieth of your life] Anyway, it certainly feels true. I look at the calendar and am befuddled to find we are so near the end of 2016.

Of course, a full life is also to be blamed. I downsized this year. I shed a job, though admittedly put more of my efforts into another one… or two. And any time I catch all of my family members in one room, which is less often that I would like, I have done my best to drop everything and fill my time with them. Mostly listening, sometimes brainstorming, often laughing, lately reminiscing… these moments, though they may feel familiar, each one only comes once.

I will not grow old and full of regrets. This has been my mantra for most of my adult life and I am sticking to it.

As the month of November ends, I am thankful for my writing friends who have kept me honest and on-task through NaNoWriMo. I am a few hundred words short of target, but have faith that I will get there. I am thankful for my friends and family, those who share their lives and their stories with me. I am thankful for the space heater at my feet, the roof over my head, and the abundance that fills my refrigerator, as well as my heart.

I am thankful for my list of projects. There may never be enough time to complete them all, but as long as I am filled with enough desire to keep the list going, I will be satisfied.

Thanksgiving 2016 - purple sweet potato pie and true pumpkin pie - I am thankful for pie, as well.

An Evening With David Sedaris; October 30, Stiefel Theater, Salina, KS

The next time David Sedaris comes to Kansas, I think I will invite him to dinner. I’ll have to clean my house, of course, give it that extra little sparkle befitting a celebrity. It may actually require that I follow through on a few of those upgrades. Not that I think Sedaris would feel himself too good to come to dinner in my built-circa 1902 abode/not in the quaint vintage, historical site-worthy sense. I just wouldn’t want any soft spots in the kitchen floor where a petite author like Sedaris might actually disappear!

Though I didn’t exactly mind sharing Sedaris with an audience of 1,000, and I rather enjoyed sharing him with my dear hubby and a few of my closest friends, it was hard to stop thinking of him as just another person in my life whose stories I collect. Perhaps because he is an author who records his own work, and I heavily favor Sedaris when I am looking for audio book material, I forget, I suppose, that he has not actually been my co-pilot on dozens of road trips across Kansas and beyond.

I had to remind myself that Sedaris has legions of fans who devour every word he has written, though I half-imagined myself special enough that he might look up and say, “Hey, Tracy, how have you been?” While we were waiting, the lady in line behind me informed me that David Sedaris had saved her life. I had to admit that my connection wasn’t quite that deep.

I wore my “I love Emporia” shirt to the event, and Sedaris did ask what Emporia was, so maybe he would welcome an invite to a fresh and local market meal at my house. I explained that Emporia was the center of the universe, of course, though I don't think he really got it. I wanted to tell him so much more, but it was time for him to address his audience.

When I invite David Sedaris to dinner, the next time he comes to Kansas, I’ll make sure there is time to show him a few of the cool things about my town and more. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an urge to write some irreverent stories about my family. 

My daughter, Evie, who is also a Sedaris fan, should have been my partner in crime at this event. Alas, she is off gallivanting in Ireland as a study-abroad student, but Sedaris was kind enough to sign a book for my daughter, too. 

A Palooza, A 44th Birthday, Two Graduations, A Wedding, and a Camping Trip

It's true... this entry has taken me eleven days to write. 11? How is that possible? How can a person, especially one who considers herself a writer by nature, take 11 days to write a simple entry about something so trivial as a 44th birthday?

Let me take you on a photo tour:

The line for "my birthday" dinner! I started celebrating on May 30 with the Dirty Kanza Palooza, a fundraiser for the farmers market I manage. Or... as I prefer telling everyone... look at all these folks who came to dinner on my birthday!

And here I am, cooking for all those people! No worries... I had lots of help. The Dirty Kanza is an annual event in Emporia that has grown quite a lot in recent years. (If you don't know what the Dirty Kanza is, check out some of the photos here. It is awesome!)

On the 31st the family drove west (4 and a half hours west) for a wedding. John (left of me) was my neighbor-across-the-field when I was growing up. He is one of my dearest and oldest friends. His daughter, Samantha, was a beautiful bride. 

It was a brief visit, but I also  managed to grab lunch with my momma's siblings, Aunt Gerry and Uncle Riley, before heading back home.

The kids and I were home for exactly one day before heading west (two and a half hours northwest this time) for a camping trip with friends. We explored the wonderful town of Lucas, KS. Lucas is well worth the visit, if only for a visit to the public toilet (pictured above). If you make it to Lucas, give yourself at least a day for the visit. There is a lot to see in this little town.

Moms hanging out in Lucas, Kansas. No, we didn't empty all of those wine bottles.

I took plenty of books for reading and writing on our trip, but actually ended up spending the abundance of my time sitting in a camp chair and watching the clouds in this amazing sky go by. I let the near-gale force winds (two days of them) blow the cobwebs out of my brain. We had one perfect day for visiting Lucas (The Grassroots Arts Capital of Kansas) and a rather stormy day coming and going. It was incredibly relaxing. I could have managed a few more days off!

Saturday was a farmers market day, a preparation for company day, and--in the evening-- my daughter and I travelled to Kansas City for the homeschool graduation ceremony of one of her good friends. I can't tell you how much I love these kids. They make me feel good about the world we live in. Through their eyes, anything seems possible.

Then came Sunday... perhaps the most amazing day of all... when we were joined by family and friends for our own little unschool ceremony for my daughter, Evie. I was overwhelmed by the show of love and support. It's such a rare occasion to have all of your friends from different walks of life in one location. I only regret that I did not have hours and hours to talk and spend with each of them.
(Photo courtesy of Dave Leiker - Thank you, Dave!) 

4-H Friends and Cousins, Old Friends and New Friends

Lots and lots of hugs. (Photo courtesy of Dave Leiker.)


(Photo courtesy of Dave Leiker.)

And finally, on Monday, we spent the day preparing for 4-H Day Camp, which consumed most all of our Tuesday. It was an event my son Kaman chaired this year. Unfortunately, Kaman ended up with a bad ear and eye infection (from the lake water?), but his sisters stepped in and filled his shoes for the event. I got to go this year, too, in my new role as a 4-H Ambassador leader. 

Again, my world was brightened by the energy of so many young people.

Maybe I have been subconsciously testing my endurance... making sure that I still hold up under the pressure of a full calendar at age 44. So far, so good, though I am looking forward to a lighter schedule (and maybe a couple of naps) in the weeks to come.  

Wind

Storm clouds were rolling in this weekend as we prepared to leave Dodge City. The rumble of thunder sounds different on the plains. I have so many memories of stepping outside as a child to watch and listen to the storms as they passed over. I miss it the way the rain announced itself on the winds in advance. Sometimes the sound of thunder made it seem as if the storm clouds were marching forward, darkening our big sky with their presence.

I spent the weekend with the winds of western Kansas and I embraced every minute of it, even though the dust and severe drought made me a little sad. I was able to sleep with the windows open, the winds were strong enough and cool enough to pass right into the house and create the perfect climate for sleeping in the upstairs bedroom of the farmhouse I was raised in.

My dad told me a story about going to Germany when he was in the army in 1954. "It was hot in Germany," he said. "We spent every day sweating and I was so homesick. Then one day the wind came up and the sweat dried. I didn't have any problem being homesick after that. You never realize how much you miss the wind until you don't have it."

A Personal Work In Progress, Deadline Extended

Sometimes I am good at keeping my own deadlines. Sometimes I am really, really bad at it. With my current project, it's not so much that I'm having trouble getting the work done. The project just keeps growing. The more I work on it, the more ideas I have.

My Mother's Journals ~ early 1950s.

When my oldest niece, Ashley, graduated from high school, I put together a book of my mother's stories and excerpts from her letters. It was a wonderful (and emotionally exhausting -- my mom passed away in 1997) project. Several years ago I got the idea that I would do another version of the book when my second niece, Kayleen, and my daughter, Evie, graduated. They are my mother's grandkids #2 and #3. Several months ago, I talked with my nieces, siblings and sisters-in-law about adding to Mom's book. They were all for it, and so began the collection of new stories to add to what my mother had written herself, and the bits and pieces I had compiled from letters and journals she had kept.

My father even brought me journals I had not seen before, Mom's very own stories from 1950, 1951 and 1953. I've been immersed in transcribing them, and have enjoyed getting to know my mother in her teen years. (I had no idea she was so boy crazy, and I never imagined how quickly she fell head over heels in love with my father.)

Now I'm going through her photo albums again, as having the stories that line up with the images makes the album all that much more meaningful. I'm trying to decide how much to include and how many photos to print. Will everyone in the family be as delighted by this peek into my mother's teenaged mind as I am?

Since my deadline for having a hard copy in the hands of the next two girls to graduate in our family has passed, I've decided that they will get a "proof in progress" copy of my mother's book. There is more story collecting to be done here.

If I'm going to print a book, it might as well be a big one.

My Mom, Evelyn Reaujean Skaggs.

Age Three

Olivia, Age 3

Twice this month I have had the pleasure of hanging out with people in their third year of life. First it was the granddaughter of one of a friend (our friendship dates back to the second grade). Then I got to spend a long weekend with my niece and her brothers (ages 5, 9, and 12). I have to say that it is hard to be around a three-year-old and not ache – just a little bit – for all the wonder that is wrapped up in life as it is experienced at that age. It was such a brief moment (like all moments) in the lives of my own children, and as the former mother of three-year-olds (three times!) I remember that it could be as exhausting as it was wonderful. When you are three, every moment is full of potential.

At three, it is so easy to experience joy, frustration, exhilaration, impatience, love, anger, awe, and confusion deeply. It is so easy that one might feel all of these, and more, within a matter of minutes. Without the filter that comes with additional years and experience, three is still able to hug freely and with all its might. Three still has the energy to run every step that others walk, and when three is tired of running, it gets carried or takes a nap. Three can cry and laugh with equal vigor. Three is still delighted by the pictures in a book, yet also beginning to appreciate the story.

I love three. I feel profoundly fortunate to have caught these special moments with these two young ladies who will likely be months or possibly even years older the next time I see them.

If I could save time, I’d keep a spare bottle for every three-year-old I’ve encountered. 

 

Household Predictions

Prediction: Our kitchen will be remodeled soon.

I know this because I got out the duct tape today to fix the temporary flooring that's been in place for about two years.

When you get out the duct tape, you know things are about to get serious.

What we didn't name the cat that wasn't ours.

How about Buttercup?

Buttercup is my name.

Okay, so we'll name her after you.

How about Butterball?

Butterball is a turkey, not a cat.

It's a yellow tabby, it needs a yellow name.

Amaranth?

It doesn't have to be a yellow name.

How about Butterbeer? That would be a good name.

Butter is not the only thing that is yellow, you know.

The cat that is probably not named Buttercup did not come home with us this morning. She met us at the half-way mark our second time around and Not-Buttercup and our old dog, Naisey, enjoyed walking together for a while. They behaved like old friends. Happy to see each other and enjoying the cool morning breeze. It's still chilly at 5:30 in the morning, but spring is definitely in the air.

When our big (younger) dog, Nancy, approached, I was very curious about how the very friendly Not-Buttercup would welcome her. Cats must have a sense about these things. She pulled herself into Halloween cat pose and when Nancy gave her the nose, the cat exploded into a little yellow fury ball of spits and nose swats. Nancy backed down immediately, as any good dog faced with a good cat should.

We also saw a fox this morning. It first crossed my path on the first quarter of track (also Naisey's, but I don't think Naisey sees well enough to spy a sly fox these days). Needless to say, I was more excited by the near-encounter than the dog. The fox is a beautiful animal. We would see them occasionally in western Kansas when I was a kid and it always felt like a really special encounter. They seem like such sophisticated animals.

Near the end of our walk, I was excited in telling the rest of the family about the fox encounter, as well as warning little Not-Buttercup that she should keep an eye out. About that time, the fox made its second appearance, running in the opposite direction. Everyone saw it this time. Except Naisey, she's definitely not seeing as clearly as she did when she was younger.

Snow Day

This winter weather is proving to be hard even on me. Yes, the one who returned to Kansas, in part, because I needed four complete seasons. How can one appreciate summer without the deep cold of winter to catch up on snuggling-beneath-the-covers time?

Last winter we opted to save the dollars we usually spent on winter gym time and kept up the three mornings a week walk/run/whatever even through the cold and snow season. I felt pretty hard core, as spring arrived. With morning temperatures routinely in the teens and single digits, however, it has not been nearly so easy this year. I don't want to get out of bed, never mind bundling up enough to move about outdoors. I still haven't broken down for a gym membership, but have pulled my 75 cents for one day from the change basket on the fridge enough to have paid for a membership perhaps several times by now.

As a family, we spent three and a half hours shoveling snow after last week's episode, which honestly, is easier for me to take than bitter cold without the moisture. At least I can appreciate the snow will stay and take its sweet time seeping into the ground. We are still in a drought here in Kansas, after all. My greener, eastern half of the state is reminding me, far too often these days, of the golden shades of greenish brown from my childhood home of western Kansas. My arms still ache a little. The constant scarf around my neck and winter coat over my shoulders is starting to feel like extra weight I long to be free of but can not shake. I am tired of my bulky sweaters and extra layers. I open my t-shirt drawer with longing.

But the real bonus of cold weather plus snow (this round) was the unexpected days at home. I mean, when you work for yourself, as the hubby and I mostly do, any day can be a day off in theory, but the reality is that I often find myself more mired in the rut of working hours than I was when I was punching someone else's time clock. I've learned to schedule vacation days for sanity's sake.

Last Tuesday, however, to wake up to real snow falling from the sky and then listen to the list of cancellations and closures on the radio began to awake memories of snow days from long ago. Staying home, though not necessary, at least in the early hours of the day, was an entirely real possibility. And so I made the decision to do so, and the result--a day free of the routine, unexpectedly--was refreshing and good for the creative soul. 

My writing projects list has grown by leaps and bounds. 

I find myself studying the weather forecast. If there is no promise of warmer temperatures, can't we at least have more show-stopping snow? I find myself thinking. I could use a good excuse to stay here at home for a few more days. Just me and my keyboard and a couple of my favorite notebooks. If enough snow were to fall, I might even write one of those projects all the way to completion. 

Some People Leave a Mark

I got word (via Facebook) this weekend that a childhood friend passed away. It's been at least 20 years since I last saw him, yet the news has settled on me like a big, dark cloud. I've spent the last several evenings pouring through old photo albums and jotting down memories about Dave Evans and his family, which has pulled up a lot of memories of others from the community where I grew up, as well. It's impossible to think about the Evans family without also thinking about the Robbs, the Houdeshells, the Woydziaks, the Dirks. There was a golden age of my youth when big neighborhood get togethers were rather frequent. Building hayloft forts, exploring old barns and granaries, taking long walks down dark and dusty roads with gangs of neighbor kids... I remember begging my mother to host one more party where we could invite everyone.

Dave was Bill's big brother. One of three big brothers, actually. There was Butch, who was pretty much grown up from the beginning, as far as my memory serves. Then came Jim who I remember fondly as my brother Mike's best friend. Dave was a few grades ahead of Bill and I in school, but close enough in age that he was part of our group at those neighborhood gatherings. The Evans family lived a mile and three-quarters east and then a half-mile north in a tidy green house always struck me as new and very different than the old farm houses that most of the neighbors lived in.

Early-day memories of spending time with Dave were simply a side effect of spending so much time with Bill who was my good friend and schoolmate. I was also from a family of four, but with a larger gap of years between me and my siblings. So Dave was something of a big brother by extension. I learned a lot from Bill and Dave about what it was like to have a sibling as a near-constant companion, someone who could be both a great playmate and a thorn in the side. Dave could be both, from my point of view. Sometimes he was great fun to have around; sometimes he was an endless source of irritation.

One moment of Dave's big brotherly best stands out. My mom and I were out on horseback one day. We'd been riding the ornery pony, and when we would ride, we'd often stop and visit neighbors and sometimes give their kids rides, as well. I was leading the horse while Bill rode. Dave met us out near the ditch and it was decided that he would ride, too, only when Dave went to step in the stirrup to pull himself up on the horse, the entire saddle slid sideways and Bill ended up on the ground... covered in stickers from head to toe. It was awful. I felt so bad, mostly because I was absolutely no help in pulling those vicious burrs out. They were the bristley kind that grabbed and held on from every angle. Dave, however, went right to work at plucking until every sticker was removed. Perhaps, he felt guilty for putting his brother on the ground in the first place, but I remember distinctly when the look on his face changed from considering it a situation he could easily make fun of to helping his brother out of sticky and painful situation.

When I was a kid, it was good to know Dave as he was one of the "safe" big kids that rode the bus to school each day. Dave entered high school as I entered junior high. The neighborhood gatherings were fewer and farther between, but since our families were friends, our paths still crossed frequently.

I remember driving through Boot Hill parking lot in high school and seeing Dave in his sporty green muscle car. He was the kind of guy who would simply open the door as you slowed down and get in if there were seats available in the car. We'd cruise Wyatt Earp and talk about just anything. Dave was a smart guy whose topics could range from quantum physics, to the supposed last thoughts of a bug in flight just before it met its demise on the windshield of your car. It was Dave Evans who taught me the meaning of the word, erudite. I always thought it was a word that aptly described his family.

One time I remember my car was already full. Dave knocked on the door and instructed me to turn off my engine and give him the keys. That I did so, without question, I suppose shows the amount of faith I had in the guy. Dave went to the back of my small station wagon (I always drove whatever car my dad made available, I was never concerned about looking cool) and opened the hatch. He folded his knees up to his chin and got in. He passed the keys forward and we proceeded to cruise all evening with Dave entertaining us from the way back.

The last time I saw Dave was around 1994 or 95. I was living in Houston and visiting my folks in Dodge City. Dave just happened to be passing through town, his family had left Kansas by that time. His older brother, Jim, had recently passed away. Dave was still processing the loss, still grieving. We spent the afternoon visiting and catching up. Dave helped my husband clean some catfish we had caught at the neighbor's tailwater pit. It was a pleasant surprise, seeing Dave, and I guess I've always assumed we would catch up again one day, in precisely the same way. Our paths would just happen to cross. We'd share a meal and a beer. We'd share a few stories. We'd laugh. We'd remember those we've lost.

And then I got the news of Dave's passing, and that opportunity to catch up one last time is gone now. Well perhaps not gone completely, as thinking about Dave has stirred many memories. I've even visited with several of the folks from my growing-up-days in my dreams these past few nights. I've enjoyed catching up with others on Facebook, and reading Dave stories I never knew, as well. It reminds me of all the many ways we are connected, which is a topic I could imagine discussing with Dave on a late-night cruise up and down Wyatt Earp Boulevard.

Dave Evans, Dodge City, 1989
R.I.P.
1967-2014

Happy 23rd Anniversary to My One and Only

So the truth is, I never meant to fall in love. Not in happily-ever-after-till-death-do-us-part love, anyway. I had this idea, at the ripe old age of 18, that a woman didn’t need marriage… didn’t need a man… didn’t need any relationship that might stand in the way of a career and an exciting, fun-filled live of travel and accomplishment. It’s funny how I still believe that, yet I’m glad I found mine. Whatever the hurdles, the trial and error, the ups and downs, I would spend the last 23 years the very same way if given the chance.

I didn’t think of him as “the one” for several years. Certainly not the summer we met. He was fun. He was new and exciting. With him, I had a voice I was not accustomed to using, except perhaps at the tail end of parties, when I was past drunk and still upright and the mood of adolescent debauchery had turned philosophical. We talked about things; ideas that were deep and wide and it was nice that it didn’t require an abundance of alcohol to get myself to speak my thoughts out loud as words.

I liked that about him.

Being with him was a little bit like doing drugs… all of the buzz, none of the day-after hangover.

I didn’t think of him as “the one” those first few years… weekend drives between two colleges, countless letters written on spiral notebook paper, our first apartment together in Lawrence… somewhere along the line we decided to get married. I loved him. At least per my limited understanding of love at the time. It seemed the practical thing to do, get married. It assured our future together in some very real and tangible ways and that somehow frightened me less than the idea of us growing in different directions and eventually apart. We were moving forward, most definitely, as a couple, rather than as two individuals who just happened to enjoy spending time together.

I’m not even sure I thought of him as “the one” when we got married on December 29, 1990. It was the coldest day in Dodge City, Kansas in something like 50 years. I don’t remember much about the cold. Only that it is the first thing people talked about for many years when they talked about our wedding. Several family members did not make it to the event. It was that kind of cold; the kind of where cars wouldn’t start and people were afraid of being stranded, even for short road trips, because of the deepness of the chill.

The sky is blue in our wedding photographs. The ground is white, but not freshly so. The oreos were stuck to the windshield of our car so solidly that they required multiple blasts from a carwash hose on the way to Wichita to clear the window enough that we could see. We added ice, but at least we had visibility.

The whole experience of meeting him and falling in love and getting married a short two and a half years later still feels like something of an out-of-body experience for me. The wedding, especially; I was never a center-stage kind of girl. I never dreamed of tiaras and princess gowns and spotlights. I was still operating under the assumption that I should do what was expected of me. I grew past that, eventually. We both did. And I have to give him at least half the credit for what we’ve become.

Authentic. Real. Both perfect and imperfect in our made-for-each-other ways. Yin and yang in some respects; oil and water in others.

Ultimately, we have both grown stronger in our visions of ourselves, both individually and together, and after 23 years the fact that we are still speaking—still each other’s first choice for company and entertainment— would seem to be a good sign.

Sometimes, looking back on my life with him, it feels more like we blundered into a relationship and were just lucky it turned out to be a good thing. We grew up together, in many ways. We had disagreements. We made some mistakes. Hell, we are likely still making new ones.

More often I think of it in terms of what we deserve, because we worked for it. Some days it came easy; some days it felt like a never-ending chore, this act of living together in happiness and harmony.

Somewhere along the line—likely years after marrying him, believe it or not—I decided he was “the one” and I guess he must have made that decision, too. Perhaps earlier than me. I really couldn’t say for sure. But the commitment that feels real and binding was made long after the out-of-body-experience of the early years of our dating and eventual marriage had taken place. My memories of us as a couple at some point grow more solid. The fairy tale divisions that made up my understanding of a modern woman versus my mother’s generation had blurred by then and I understood that we were building our own life to be what we wanted it to be.

I was never one to dwell on doubts, but was always well aware that I had choices. And the fact was that I kept choosing him, over and over again. One might think that after 23 years it’s simply habit. But I think it is not. It remains a choice. And I pick him again, to be “the one”… and only.

Let’s see where the next 23 years takes us, Bubs.

The Project Table

The table in our dining room is more often called the project table than the dining room table. This is because we aren't often a family of diners. Rarely all together, anyway. At the moment, the project table is covered with four laptops, two cell phones, a 3-hole punch, 2 kindles, a notebook with a story-in-progress of mine in it, a 4-H notebook, a shoebox filled with 5 crocheted octopi, a jar of honey, an almost new package of toilet paper, two travel journals from my daughters' trip to Chicago, and my calendar/organizer thing.

It may look like a mess, and I think there is a good chance it will be cleared and emptied before the day is over, but we've spent a rather pleasant morning and afternoon, the kids and I, working on our various projects individually, but together, at the table.

My day has included backing up and cleaning off my hard drive. I've gotten two loads of dishes washed and at least as many loads of laundry. I've reviewed, proofread, advised, and helped to brainstorm on projects that the kids are working on. I've spent the entire day functioning without a checklist, and yet feel entirely satisfied about all that has been accomplished. Mostly, It's been nice to sit here at the project table, sharing creative, work-filled space with my favorite people in the world.

This seems to be the way my year has gone...

I look up and see that another page on the calendar has turned. There have been moments, this past year, when I have scolded myself for being too busy. But at the moment I'm quite content with the pace of things. I'm following my bliss, moment by moment. Putting the to-do lists aside for long stretches at a time and going whereever my mind takes me. Sometimes writing, lots of reading, photo albums are caught up through July (that's the closest to current I've been in years), more time in the kitchen (cooler weather always makes me want meals that are way more involved)...

Spent a leisurely 5+ days in western Kansas for Thanksgiving. Enjoyed the time with my dad and sister and brothers. My lovely nieces and my nephew are all so grown up. Today the kids put up our tree. Sadly, old Saint Nick has developed a bit of a lean, and so he had been replaced...

The blue box on top of the tree. Ah, the many ways these kids have expanded my horizons.

Broken Hearts in Kansas

A 5-year-old was killed in a Kansas farm accident yesterday and I keep asking myself what right I have to grieve, to take this loss on as my own.

I did not know Brooklyn Debenham. I have never met her.

But only a couple of days ago I was thinking about a story involving my little cousin, Chantell, and I was wondering how it was that I could still begin stories with that description when my cousin is now a married woman with three children of her own. On my vast mental list of things to do now that I live in this part of Kansas (going on 10+ years now) is to get together with Chantell, reaquaint my children with her oldest daughter (whom we babysat for a semester when they were all near-babies) and get to know her babies, who barely qualify as babies any longer.

Thanks to Facebook I have images of all of them and I can thumbs up their accomplishments on the volleyball court and laugh that the little one apparently isn't a big fan of birds and smile at the photos of them all dressed up for somebody's wedding. I know that Brooklyn loves spending time with her daddy on the combine. This is a fact that makes me smile, even though I have never met Brooklyn. I claim her momma. I admire her daddy. I ask about her by name when I visit my aunt, my own momma's sister and little Brooklyn's great-grandmother.

I claim Brooklyn as I claim my own heartbeat. That's the only way I can explain the ache I feel today, the tears that keep springing to my eyes, the inability to concentrate on anything except the moments when I grab my children and hug them to me. I claim Brooklyn just as I claim her sisters, her mother and her brother, her grandparents. Cousins don't always get enough credit, but they are woven into the very fabric of our being just as deeply as our siblings and our parents.

A year ago so many of us cousins attended a funeral (Brooklyn's great-grandad) and lamented together that these would be the events that would bring us together more frequently in the future, and then made promises to each other that we would get together for happy times, as well. "We'll call you when we are ready to take that field trip to Abilene," I told Chantell.

We were thinking of the older generation, of course. Those who are more frail than they used to be and have full lives behind them. We weren't thinking of Brooklyn's Uncle Miah whose life was cut short only a few weeks ago. We certainly weren't thinking of little Brooklyn.

Change of Season

The neighborhood was pulsing with activity this evening. Hubby and I took a walk with Miss Nancy (our German Shepherd). The family on the corner was playing a multi-generational game of kickball in the yard. A few doors further down, music was blasting and a couple was dancing in their garage. Folks were visiting from their porches and as they leaned against their cars. A couple of yippy little dogs did their best to climb their fences and deter us. A few larger, more laid-back dogs simply barked in greeting. There was an unusual amount of traffic.

I was trying to decide if I could capture the color of the darkening sky on my bedroom walls. The bedroom is about three rooms (maybe four) down on the to-do list of home improvements. I figure by the time I get to it I will have settled on a plan, but a ceiling of deep, dark blue that gradually grows lighter/brighter on the way down appeals to me right now. Why shouldn't a sleeping room always remind you of the beauty of a clear September night?

We have pulled out the jackets for early morning wear but are content, most days, with short sleeves once the sun awakens. It is that time of year when sweater weather and t-shirt days are a mere coin toss. The kids helped me run Saturday's farmers market. I woke to a low-rumbling thunder at about 5 o'clock in the morning. The rain was still steady, but not heavy, when we left for the parking lot a few hours later. We were joined by eight brave vendors and probably four or five times that many customers. We came home loaded with tomatoes, onions, amazingly crisp Jonathan apples, local honey and a gorgeous orange pumpkin that is demanding to be a table center-piece, as soon as I manage to clear the table... Hubby made a store-run for hot chocolate, it was just that kind of day.

In perfect fall contrast, today we met our 4-H friends in the park for a pot-luck. It was perfection in the sun; almost needing long sleeves in the shade.

I love this time of year; the change of season.

Me and J.K. Rowling... or Why You Should Always Take Photos of the Writers Who Lurk in Your Coffee House

Cool Elephant Chair at The Elephant House in Edinburgh, Scotland

This past Tuesday, approximately... well, okay, more like precisely nine months after our first international travel experience, my daughter and I finally finished our souvenir photo album. It is 109 pages detailing a ten day trip and I plan to read and relive every page of it at least a dozen times in the next several months.

Now that that's done, perhaps I can move forward on that travel memoir I had in mind...

Or maybe not, but I did want to share a story about our trip. Honestly, it's a bit shocking to me that I have not shared this story already.

On the list of things to see and do in Edinburgh, Scotland was The Elephant House. If that name does not ring a bell with you, let me elaborate. The Elephant House is the coffee house where J.K.Rowling allegedly wrote the first draft of the first Harry Potter novel.

It's a hard spot to miss if you are in Edinburgh. It's a bright orange building in a city where most everything is dark and gray. In fact, if I took away anything from Edinburgh, it was that Hogwarts and Hogsmeade seemed a lot less fanciful after walking the streets of such a dark and damp, made-all-of-stone city. It's got a huge black castle in the middle of it, after all. There was no need to remind myself. I certainly wasn't in Kansas, after all. (Though we did see Dorothy, the Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion and the Scarecrow wandering the streets of Edinburgh. Go figure.)

Anyway, in the window of The Elephant House, there is a painting of J.K. Rowling sitting at a large round table right in the center of the room. I have to admit I was disappointed. I stared at the image for a bit before shaking my head. Nope. No way. You can't tell me that a want-to-be-writer sat right there in the middle of the room, at the biggest table, no less, drafting the first pages of what would become Harry Potter.

We went in and inspected the options for seating. It didn't take me long to select the far corner of the room, pretty much as far as one could get from the main entry. "This is where a writer would sit," I told my daughter. "Probably with her back to the door, so as not to be distracted."

I think this painting at The Elephant House should serve as a lesson to coffee houses the world over. Take a photo of every writer who frequents your tables. You have no idea when you might be serving the next J.K. Rowling, and it would be really nice for you to have an historically accurate picture on record for when they do get famous.

"Birthplace of Harry Potter" complete with historically inaccurate recreation by an artist.

Evie's Earl Grey Tea from The Elephant House.

I drank Ginger Beer at every opportunity. If we had Ginger Beer in the US, I would almost become a soda drinker.

Our wonderful breakfast of Portabello Mushroom and Goat Cheese on Toast. This is almost a regular dish in our house now.

The women's restroom at The Elephant House.

When I am a famous author one day, my fans will write beautiful tributes to me on the bathroom walls. I'm being serious here. This was the nicest graffeti I have ever read. Some of it even made me a little teary eyed.

**I'm tagging this as "today's stories" even though it took place nearly a year ago. Wonderful trip. So many stories that I can't believe I haven't told yet!